ELLEN MORE.
“Sweet Ellen More,” said I, “come forth
Beneath the sunny sky;
Why stand you musing all alone,
With such an anxious eye?
What is it, child, that aileth you?”
And thus she made reply:
“The fields are green, the skies are bright,
The leaves are on the tree,
And ’mong the sweet flowers of the thyme
Far flies the honey-bee;
And the lark hath sung since morning prime,
And merrily singeth he.
“Yet not for this shall I go forth
On the open hills to play,
There’s not a bird that singeth now,
Would tempt me hence to stray;—
I would not leave our cottage door
For a thousand flowers to-day!”
“And why?” said I, “what is there here
Beside your cottage door,
To make a merry girl like you
Thus idly stand to pore?
There is a mystery in this thing,—
Now tell me, Ellen More!”
The fair girl looked into my face,
With her dark and serious eye;
Silently awhile she looked,
Then heaved a quiet sigh;
And, with a half-reluctant will,
Again she made reply.
“Three years ago, unknown to us,
When nuts were on the tree,
Even in the pleasant harvest-time,
My brother went to sea—
Unknown to us, to sea he went,
And a woful house were we.
“That winter was a weary time,
A long, dark time of woe;
For we knew not in what ship he sailed
And vainly sought to know;
And day and night the loud, wild winds
Seemed evermore to blow.
“My mother lay upon her bed,
Her spirit sorely tossed
With dismal thoughts of storm and wreck
Upon some savage coast,
But morn and eve we prayed to Heaven
That he might not be lost.
“And when the pleasant spring came on,
And fields again were green,
He sent a letter full of news,
Of the wonders he had seen;
Praying us to think him dutiful
As he afore had been.
“The tidings that came next were from
A sailor old and gray,
Who saw his ship at anchor lie
In the harbor at Bombay;
But he said my brother pined for home,
And wished he were away.
“Again he wrote a letter long,
Without a word of gloom;
And soon, and very soon he said,
He should again come home;
I watched, as now, beside the door,
And yet he did not come.
“I watched and watched, but I knew not then
It would be all in vain;
For very sick he lay the while,
In a hospital in Spain.—
Ah, me! I fear my brother dear
Will ne’er come home again!
“And now I watch—for we have heard
That he is on his way,
And the letter said, in very truth,
He would be here to-day.
Oh! there’s no bird that singeth now
Could tempt me hence away!”
—That self-same eve I wandered down
Unto the busy strand,
Just as a little boat came in
With people to the land;
And ’mongst them was a sailor-boy
Who leaped upon the sand.
I knew him by his dark blue eyes,
And by his features fair;
And as he leaped ashore he sang
A simple Scottish air,—
“There’s nae place like our ain dear hame
To be met wi’ onywhere!”