The Pastor's Daughter

An ivy-mantled cottage smiled,
Deep-wooded near a streamlet's side,
Where dwelt the village pastor's child,
In all her maiden bloom and pride.
Proud suitors paid their court and duty
To this romantic sylvan beauty:
Yet none of all the swains who sought her,
Was worthy of the pastor's daughter.
The town-gallants cross'd hill and plain,
To seek the groves of her retreat,
And many follow'd in her train,
To lay their riches at her feet.
But still, for all their arts so wary,
From home they could not lure the fairy.
A maid without a heart, they thought her,
And so they left the pastor's daughter.
One balmy eve in dewy spring
A bard became her father's guest;
He struck his harp, and every string
To love vibrated in her breast.
With that true faith which cannot falter,
Her hand was given at the altar,
And faithful was the heart he brought her
To wedlock and the pastor's daughter.
How seldom learn the worldly gay,
With all their sophistry and art,
The sweet and gentle primrose-way
To woman's fond, devoted heart:
They seek, but never find the treasure,
Although reveal'd in jet and azure.
To them, like truth in wells of water,
A fable is the pastor's daughter.