Alas! he’s gone: the door is clos’d, and fate
Had made the Prews the most disconsolate
Of creatures. Yes, that morn, that wretched morn,
The lady cried; the squire, he felt forlorn;
And poor Miss Prew, she doubly sad as they,
Could not refrain from weeping bitterly.
As Arnold cross’d the park, he ’spied the smoke
Uprising through the branches of the oak,—
A noble tree, whose sturdy limbs had kept
The little cottage shelter’d on the left,—