Again to stray where once he stray’d,
Those woods with verdure richer;
Half hoping to espy the maid
Come tripping with her pitcher.
No light step comes, but, evil-starr’d,
He finds a mournful token,—
There lies a Russet Pitcher marr’d,
The damsel’s pitcher broken!
Profoundly moved, that muser cried:
The spoiler hath been hither;
O! would the maiden first had died,—
The fairest rose must wither!
The tender flow’ret blooms apace,
But chilling winds blow o’er;
It fades unheeded, and its place
Shall never know it more.
He turn’d 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 child,” he said,
“Or let us weep together.
Thy world, I ween, my child, is green,
As garden undefil’d,
Thy thoughts should run on mirth and fun,—
Where dost thou dwell, my child?”
’Twas then the tiny urchin spoke,—
“My daddy’s Giles the ditcher;
I water fetch, and, oh! I’ve broke
My mammy’s Russet Pitcher!”
THE ENCHANTED ROSE
“O where dost thou trip it,” the patriarch said,
“A Rose in thy bosom so daintily laid?
A pilgrim, whose shadow extends to the tomb,
Would gaze on its beauty, would breathe its perfume!”