A piteous calendar, her cheeks
Grew paler with the passing weeks.
Her father marked the absent mood,
The tears, the pensive attitude;
And with affection's swift surmise
He guessed the reason of her sighs,
And tried to lock the stable door
(As parents oft had done before).
"A husband," to himself he said,
"Will drive this nonsense from her head."
But which fond suitor should he bless?
'Twas an embarras de richesse
'Twixt Van de Merwe, Jacques Theron,
The Captain of the Garrison,
Petrus de Witt, or Van Breda,
Or Cloete of Constantia.
And then the Fiscal—fat and old—
What matter? he had power and gold,
A farmstead bowered in oak and vine,
The fairest in the Drakenstein;
Coffers of dollars and doubloons,
Gold mohurs, pagodas, ducatoons;
And in his cupboards, stored away,
The priceless treasures of Cathay.
Straight to the Fiscal's house he went,
Nor paused to ask the girl's consent;
Arranged the match without delay,
Drew up the deeds and named the day.
In vain the tears that fell like rain—
The prayers, the protests all in vain.
The Fiscal forced a loathed caress
