Is it fancy, or is it fact?

No more will I love, for my Mother is fled,
My Brother is gone to the seas for his bread,
And O, my poor Father by whom I am fed,
How cold is his hand when I take it.
He has cares, he has sorrows, and wild is his smile
When I strive all his harrowing thoughts to beguile;
I gaze on his anguish, and fancy the while
That his heart wants but little to break it.

No more will I love —for my lover is gone,
At noonday the grasshopper sits by the stone,
And at twilight the whip-poor-will utters his moan
Where deep in the wood he is buried.
'T was there that he wished to be laid, for 't was there
That truth told its tale, and that love breathed its prayer,
And the heart taught the tongue a sad promise to swear
That he and his love should be married.

He's wedded to dust, and I'm wedded to woe,
My Father's distracted, and where shall I go—
Should I follow my mother — O misery — no,
I am not, I am not her daughter.
One hope I can cherish— one form I can seek,
On one breast I can sigh, to one heart I can speak,
And the tear I next shed shall fall full on his cheek—
The brother that ventured the water.