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A village girl; they told us she had borne
An eighteen months' strange illness; pined away
With such slow wasting as had made the hour
Of death most welcome—to the house of mirth
We held our way, and, with that idle talk
That passes o'er the mind and is forgot,
We wore away the hour. But it was eve
When homewardly I went, and in the air
Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade
That makes the eye turn inwards. Then I heard
Over the vale the heavy toll of death
Sound slow, and questioned of the dead again.
It was a very plain and simple tale.
She bore unhusbanded a mother's name,
And he who should have cherished her, far off
Sail'd on the seas, self-exiled from his home;
For he was poor. Left thus, a wretched on?,
Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues
Were busy with her name. She had one ill
Heavier—neglect, forgetfulness from him
Whom she had loved so dearly. Once he wrote,
But only once that drop of comfort came,
To mingle with her cup of wretchedness;
And when his parents had some tidings from him,
There was no mention of poor Hannah there;
Or 'twas the cold inquiry, bitterer
Than silence. So she pin'd and pin'd away,
And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd,
Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother
Omitted no kind office, and she work'd
An eighteen months' strange illness; pined away
With such slow wasting as had made the hour
Of death most welcome—to the house of mirth
We held our way, and, with that idle talk
That passes o'er the mind and is forgot,
We wore away the hour. But it was eve
When homewardly I went, and in the air
Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade
That makes the eye turn inwards. Then I heard
Over the vale the heavy toll of death
Sound slow, and questioned of the dead again.
It was a very plain and simple tale.
She bore unhusbanded a mother's name,
And he who should have cherished her, far off
Sail'd on the seas, self-exiled from his home;
For he was poor. Left thus, a wretched on?,
Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues
Were busy with her name. She had one ill
Heavier—neglect, forgetfulness from him
Whom she had loved so dearly. Once he wrote,
But only once that drop of comfort came,
To mingle with her cup of wretchedness;
And when his parents had some tidings from him,
There was no mention of poor Hannah there;
Or 'twas the cold inquiry, bitterer
Than silence. So she pin'd and pin'd away,
And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd,
Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother
Omitted no kind office, and she work'd
