He lifted her up in his grasp of steel, And he mounted and spurred with furious heel; But her cry drew forth her hoary sire, Who snatched his bow from above the fire.
Swift from the valley the warrior fled, Swifter the bolt of the crossbow sped; And the weight that pressed on the fleet-foot horse Was the living man, and the woman's corse.
That morning the rose was bright of hue; That morning the maiden was fair to view; But the evening sun its beauty shed On the withered leaves, and the maiden dead.
Grief hath been known to turn the young head gray,-- To silver over in a single day The bright locks of the beautiful, their prime Scarcely o'erpast; as in the fearful time Of Gallia's madness, that discrownèd head Serene, that on the accursèd altar bled Miscalled of Liberty. O martyred Queen! What must the sufferings of that night have been-- _That one_--that sprinkled thy fair tresses o'er With time's untimely snow! But now no more, Lovely, august, unhappy one! of thee-- I have to tell a humbler history; A village tale, whose only charm, in sooth (If any), will be sad and simple truth.
"Mother," quoth Ambrose to his thrifty dame,-- So oft our peasant's use his wife to name, "Father" and "Master" to himself applied, As life's grave duties matronize the bride,-- "Mother," quoth Ambrose, as he faced the north With hard-set teeth, before he issued forth To his day labor, from the cottage door,-- "I'm thinking that, to-night, if not before, There 'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton[1] roar? It's brewing up, down westward; and look there, One of those sea-gulls! ay, there goes a pair; And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on, As threats, the waters will be out anon. That path by the ford 's a nasty bit of way,-- Best let the young ones bide from school to-day."
"Do, mother, do!" the quick-eared urchins cried; Two little lasses to the father's side Close clinging, as they looked from him, to spy The answering language of the mother's eye. _There_ was denial, and she shook her head: "Nay, nay,--no harm will come to them," she said, "The mistress lets them off these short dark days An hour the earlier; and our Liz, she says, May quite be trusted--and I know 't is true-- To take care of herself and Jenny too. And so she ought,--she's seven come first of May,-- Two years the oldest; and they give away The Christmas bounty at the school to-day."