She laughed outright, she scorned him quite,
She deftly filled her pitcher;
For that dear sight an anchorite
Might deem himself the richer.
Ill-fated damsel! go thy ways,
Thy lover's vows are lither;
The brightest dream of youth decays,
The fairest roses wither.
* * * * *
These days were soon the days of yore;
Six summers pass, and then
That musing man would see once more
The fountain in the glen.
Again to stray where once he strayed,
Through copse and quiet dell,
Half hoping to espy the maid
Pass tripping to the well.
No light step comes, but, evil-starred,
He finds a mournful token,—
There lies a russet pitcher marred,—
The damsel's pitcher broken!
Profoundly moved, that muser cried,
"The spoiler has been hither;
O would the maiden first had died,—
The fairest rose must wither!"
He turned from that accursèd ground,
His world-worn bosom throbbing;
A bow-shot thence a child he found,
The little man was sobbing.
He gently stroked that curly head,—
"My child, what brings thee hither?
Weep not, my simple one," he said,
"Or let us weep together.
"Thy world, I ween, is gay and green
As Eden undefiled;
Thy thoughts should run on mirth and fun,—
Where dwellest thou, my child?"