Second Milk-maid. As we trip o'er the meadows we make the vales ring Chorus of Milk-maids.' Oh! the merry milk-maids, The merry merry milk-maids, First Milk-maid. See the foe, see the foe, where in ambush they lie! Second Milk-maid. Softly now! not a gesture our fears must betray! Chorus of Milk-maids. Oh! the merry milk-maids, The merry merry Milk-maids of Dort! his grounds, to furnish the city with butter and milk. His milk-maids, at this time, coming to the meadows to milk their cows, saw under the green hedges soldiers lying in ambush, but seemed (though frightened) to take no notice; and having milked their cows, they went away singing merrily. On coming to their master's house, they told him what they had seen; the honest farmer, alarmed at the relation, took one of the milk-maids (the most intelligent of the little band) with him to a Burgomaster at Dort, who immediately sent off a spy to ascertain the truth of the story. Finding the milk-maid's report to be correct, the Burgomaster began to prepare for safety, and instantly sent to the States, who ordered soldiers into the city, and commanded the river to be let in by a certain sluice, which would instantly lay that part of the country under water where the besiegers lay in ambush. This was forthwith done, and a vast number of the Spanish troops were drowned; the rest, being disappointed in their design, escaped, and the city was thus providentially saved. The States, to commemorate the memory of the merry milk-maids' good service to the country, ordered the farmer a large revenue for ever to recompense him for the loss of his house, land, and cattle; and caused the coin of the city to have a milk-maid milking a cow engraven thereon, which is to be seen at this day upon the Dort dollars, stivers, and doights; and similar figures were set up on the water-gate of the Dort; and, to complete their munificence, the chief milk-maid was allowed for her own life and her heirs for ever, a very handsome annuity. Which struck the tree and smote the flowers, A shelter in life's noon-day hours, But this, my last, my only one, I cannot say, 'Thy will be done;' But, Lord, from desolation save So young, so blest, so lov'd, thou wilt On whom my heart's last hopes are built, So young, so fair, he must not die! O Father, leave him still Awhile to soothe my agony, And do on earth thy will!" Hush'd were the sufferer's restless moans, Silence was on the air As died away the murmuring tones Of incoherent prayer; But soon a voice of melody Breath'd sweetly in her ear, "Thy prayer by Heaven is granted thee, Death claims no victim here!" As sunshine on the ocean, As the sky by morning flush'd Is the tide of glad emotion Which hath o'er her bosom rush'd. There is brightness o'er her spirit, Such joy as few inherit On this earth surrounds her now. And over days, and months, and years The object of her wildest tears Is now, in manhood's pride, The flower of England's chivalry, Life's sky is o'er her dark'ning, Like the tempest's voice at midnight, That charge-his friend is found beneath That he hath wrought that deed of death, One will, till death, maintain. The loveliest and gentlest Are met to look on strife, Which, ere that sun shall sink to rest, Must cost a champion's life; Yet brilliant eyes are beaming Upon the lists below, And few that sight are deeming A spectacle of woe. From a lattic'd casement gazing, The child of many hopes and fears, They meet. Alas! she cannot weep, Yet would all sense had sunk to sleep On earth, by his accuser hurl'd, He lies, in whom her love Found all which chain'd unto this world The thoughts she owed above. She sees him lowly kneel amid She hears him tell the crimes long hid Earth claims the life so darkly stain'd, How shall the soul by sin enchain'd |