On rising ground the farmer’s dwelling stood ;
Its foliaged walls and purple vines looked down
On fields which sloped to meet the peaceful wood ;
Around the house its garden flowers were shown ;
Laburnums gaily held their golden crown,
The scented woodbine breathed its fragrance there,
The pasture land spread out its verdant gown,
A little stream close by its course did bear,
The cornfields laughed and sang, and joy was in the air.
Amid such scenes, to match that pleasant place,
Lived Ellen Dale, a maid of seventeen;
An only child ; with merry, winning grace,
With dimpled face, and locks of golden sheen ;
Ne’er yet her like had young George Romney seen.
With artist’s eyes he came to paint the fields,
With lover’s eye he came again, I ween ;
And day by day her heart she thinks she shields,
And daily evermore her heart to him she yields.
They used to wander in the pleasant grove,
And hear the warbling songsters tell their joy,
And hand in hand beside the stream would rove,
And radiant hope would all their thoughts employ,
And all the golden hours had no alloy ;
For Farmer Dale, when Romney made request
For Ellen’s hand, had smiled upon the boy,
Who saw the tears succeed, but never guessed
His heart was moved by thought of her he once possessed.
If Ellen went away, or came to harm,
His joys would end ; but they could wedded be,
And live within a cottage on the farm ;
And cheerfully the farmer’s thought could see
The branchlets growing from the parent tree ;
He pictured Ellen’s childhood hours again,
Then saw her children romping in their glee ;
His heart was gladdened after fleeting pain ;
And sang, as birds sing forth in sunshine after rain.
Then soon the day came round – the looked-for day –
When Romney took the maid to be his bride ;
That morn the farmers left their half-made hay,
And children came, and strangers turned aside,
To join the village folk and share their pride,
And crowd the church to hear the mutual vow,
(And ever in her breast the words abide :
“Till death us part”); then while they humbly bow,
The priest declares them man and wife together, now.
The village children strewed her way with flowers,
To tell of innocence, and grace, and light ;
And as the fragrant petals fell in showers,
The people smiled to see the happy sight,
And all her way was gold, and red, and white ;
Her flower-strewn path in emblem seemed to show,
For those who read its pleasant sign aright,
That on this earth, where’er good women go,
Like flowers in lilied place, there grace shall live and grow.
Within her simple home what sweetness breathed !
How merrily her happy heart would sing !
Like columns garlanded, her days were wreathed
With fragrant acts the passing hours would bring,
And home and field with melody would ring,
While George would think, and paint, the whole day long,
Or study scenes, and watch the birds on wing,
And life to Farmer Dale was one glad song –
Would God his joy might last, nor Ellen suffer wrong !
Poor lonely wife ! when many years had passed,
And all the fountains of her grief were dry,
One evening hour would still in memory last,
An hour she ne’er lived o’er without a sigh :
She walked beside the ripening field of rye
Between her home and that of childhood’s days ;
She saw the farming men pass homeward by,
And watched the western sun come back in golden rays,
And flood with mellow light the homes, and fields, and ways ;
And George was by her side, and took her hand,
And, voiceless, walked with slowly-moving pace –
And when the gradual shade came o’er the land,
She heard the words which years could not efface :
” Soon must I leave you, dearest, for a space,
To perfect what is lacking in my art ;
The time will quickly pass, and we must brace
Ourselves to live a little year apart,
And every day my love will burn within my heart.”
When George had gone away she left her home
To live within her father’s walls again,
And by the stream and in the woods would roam,
And hear the birds sing low, in mournful strain :
But every well-loved scene would bring her pain,
Until her grief was more than she could bear,
And all her smiles to hide her fears were vain.
The farmer felt her daily weight of care ;
He saw the roses fade, the lilies languish there.
But Ellen seemed to have new life and powers
When sickness came to lay her father low.
Although her sorrows came in chilling showers,
Her filial love burned clear with living glow,
Until she had no griefs, or none to show.
But not for long had she to stay their tide ;
The farmer died, and grief’s full stream must flow :
Alas ! the heavy hour her father died !
Alas, for vanished days when George was by her side !
No longer could she stay where every scene
Would tell of former light and present shade ;
And though the well-known fields were clad in green,
And trees and hedges all their charms displayed,
She left the homes she knew as wife and maid,
And to the neighbouring village came to dwell ;
Within its church full often had she prayed,
Although she lived beyond th’ inviting bell,
And there had asked for grace to serve the Saviour well.
And there unselfishly she lived her days,
Fulfilling all her flower-strewn path had said ;
From her, on saddened lives, there fell the rays
Which she was wont, where’er she went, to shed :
She knew to comfort, for her heart had bled.
So seasons came and went, and life went on,
Till forty years had gone since she was wed.
Of him she heard not, till all hope was gone,
And yet a radiant hope o’er all her pathway shone.
Less shame had Romney’s been if he had died
When first his faithful wife began to mourn.
He lived – but never spoke about his bride ;
He never said a wedding-ring was worn
By one whose heart for him was wrenched and torn.
He lived in London : there as years went by,
His name was made – his painter’s fame was born ;
His house was honoured by the great and high,
And yet no joy was his, with life a daily lie.
Alas ! that days of fame should end in gloom –
A tree of genius fall, and fruit no more !
The days when Romney’s powers might live and bloom
Were gone ! Men found him senseless on the floor ;
And when he spoke, ’twas ” Ellen ” o’er and o’er.
They sought for her and found her where he said,
Then journeyed with her to her husband’s door.
She gave him no reproach, she lost her dread –
For every thought, but grief and pitying love, had fled.
Was ever woman’s love more sorely tried ?
Was ever woman’s heart more nobly shown ?
Not hers to say, ” Too late ” ; not hers to chide :
Hers only to forgive – his grief her own –
And spend the hours with God and him alone.
So Ellen stayed with him until the end ;
And o’er his form she uttered moan on moan ;
Then in her village lived – to all a friend –
Ah me ! how great His love who such a love can send !
(Gerard Addington D Arcy Irvine)
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