She turned,—a reddening rose in bud,
Its calyx half withdrawn,—
Her cheek on fire with damasked blood
Of girlhood's glowing dawn!
He searched her features through and through,
As royal lovers look
On lowly maidens, when they woo
Without the ring and book.
"Come hither, Fair one! Here, my Sweet!
Nay, prithee, look not down!
Take this to shoe those little feet,"—
He tossed a silver crown.
A sudden paleness struck her brow,—
A swifter blush succeeds;
It burns her cheek; it kindles now
Beneath her golden beads.
She flitted, but the glittering eye
Still sought the lovely face.
Who was she? What, and whence? and why
Doomed to such menial place?
A skipper's daughter,—so they said,—
Left orphan by the gale
That cost the fleet of Marblehead
And Gloucester thirty sail.
Ah! many a lonely home is found
Along the Essex shore,
That cheered its goodman outward bound,
And sees his face no more!
"Not so," the matron whispered,—"sure
No orphan girl is she,—
The Surriage folk are deadly poor
Since Edward left the sea,
"And Mary, with her growing brood,
Has work enough to do
To find the children clothes and food
With Thomas, John, and Hugh.
"This girl of Mary's, growing tall,—
(Just turned her sixteenth year,)—
To earn her bread and help them all,
Would work as housemaid here."