No Sailor came; the months in terror fled!
Then news arrived: he fought, and he was DEAD!
At the lone cottage Lucy lives, and still
Walks for her weekly pittance to the mill;
A mean seraglio there her father keeps,
Whose mirth insults her, as she stands and weeps,
And sees the plenty, while compell'd to stay,
390
Her father's pride become his harlot's prey.
Throughout the lanes she glides, at evening's close,