Forth they set at early morn,
⁠Happy in their hope,
Adown the path and through the corn,
⁠And by a grassy slope;

Then o'er a stretch of clean sea-sand,
⁠And reached a slippery pier;
And there the brother raised his hand,
⁠And said, "We'll cast lines here."

And, oh, the tremor of her heart
⁠As tackle straight he set!
She deemed her brother had more art
⁠Than any angler yet.

And at each bite she felt a glow
⁠Of pride, that made her speak
In louder tones; there came a flow
⁠Of blood to either cheek.

At last a catch! the silvery sides
⁠Came twinkling o'er the pier —
She shrieked with joy; but soon the tides
⁠Of joy were changed to fear

As full she looked upon the thing
⁠That writhed before her eyes,
The heart felt for its suffering,
⁠She burst in tears and sighs!

And all her day was clouded dim
⁠With thoughts she could not speak;
The voice was low; she stood by him,
⁠But pale was now her cheek.

Her first glimpse of the ill and pain
⁠That haunts the world, that day
Disturbed her heart, and ne'er again
⁠Will she so gladly play.

Ah, little maid, that mystery
⁠O'ershadows all our work,
And unto many, as to thee,
⁠Has turned the bright to dark.

A briery lane, where wild birds sing
⁠All through the summer day;
A beech-tree old, whose branches fling
⁠Long shadows o'er the way.

A nest, built up in the rustling boughs,
⁠Lined soft with moss, so green,
A tiny dwelling — a woodland house,
⁠With leaves for a sheltering screen.

Three delicate eggs, that pearl-like lie
⁠Beneath two brooding wings,
A mate that hovers all watchful by,
⁠Or sits beside, and sings.

A careless boy, with a pitiless heart,
⁠That cares not for lovely things;
A bird, that rises with timid start,
⁠On scared and fluttering wings.

A sorrowful note of plaint and woe
⁠Rings out on the quiet air,
And the pearl-like eggs lie crushed below,
⁠On the beech-roots, old and bare.

And still, in the boughs of the old beech-tree,
⁠'Mid its rustling sprays of green,
The deserted nest, you still may see
⁠Peep out from its verdant screen.

But the bird on its gay and gladsome wing
⁠Returns to the nest no more;
And the mate that would sit on the boughs and sing,
⁠His summer songs are o'er.

And nought can bring from the happy past
⁠When light and love have fled
(Though the walls of the dear old home may last),
⁠But memories of the dead.

We sat by the fisherman's cottage,
⁠And we looked out over the fiord;
The evening mists spread round us,
⁠And upwards and upwards soared.

All at once the lights in the lighthouse
⁠Were lit up, and flashed out wide,
And far away in the offing
⁠A ship might still be descried.

We talked of tempest and shipwreck;
⁠Of the sailor, and how he fares —
How he vibrates 'twixt wind and water,
⁠'Twixt pleasure and toilsome cares.

We talked of far-away regions,
⁠Both in north and in south that were;
Of all the singular peoples,
⁠And singular customs there.

There are giant woods on the Ganges,
⁠And sunshine and fragrant bowers,
And stately, serene men kneel there
⁠Before the lotus flowers.

In Lapland, the natives are filthy,
⁠Flat headed, broad-mouthed, and small;
They cower round their fires, and bake there
⁠Their fish, and jobber and squall.

The girls they listened intently,
⁠And at last no one spoke any more;
The ship could be sighted no longer,
⁠The night had sunk down on the shore.