The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Vol. 2. Bowles William Lisle

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      Praying for blessings on her future years, —

      When she, her mother, earthly trials o'er,

      Should rest in the cold grave, to grieve no more!

      But Mary to love's dream her heart resigned,

      And gave to fancy all her youthful mind.

      Shall I describe her! Didst thou never mark

      A soft blue light, beneath eye-lashes dark?

      Such was her eye's soft light; – her chestnut hair,

      Light as she tripped, waved lighter to the air;

      And, with her prayer-book, when on Sunday dressed,

      Her looks a sweet but lowly grace expressed,

      As modest as the violet at her breast.

      Sometimes all day by her lone mother's side

      She sat, and oft would turn, a tear to hide.

      Where winds the brook, by yonder bordering wood,

      Her mother's solitary cottage stood:

      A few white pales in front, fenced from the road

      The garden-plot, and poor but neat abode.

      Before the window, 'mid the flowers of spring

      A bee-hive hummed, whose bees were murmuring;

      Beneath an ivied bank, abrupt and high,

      A small clear well reflected bank and sky,

      In whose translucent mirror, smooth and still,

      From time to time, a small bird dipped its bill.

      Here the first bluebell, and, of livelier hue,

      The daffodil and polyanthus grew.

      'Twas Mary's care a jessamine to train.

      With small white blossoms, round the window-pane:

      A rustic wicket opened to the meads,

      Where a scant pathway to the hamlet leads:

      And near, a water-wheel toiled round and round,

      Dashing the o'ershot stream, with long continuous sound.

      Beyond, when the brief shower had sailed away,

      The tapering spire shone out in sunlight gray;

      And o'er that mountain's northern point, to sight

      Stretching far on, the main-sea rolled in light.

      Enter: within, see everything how neat!

      One book lies open on the window-seat,

      The spectacles are on a leaf of Job:

      There, mark, a map of the terrestrial globe;

      And opposite, with its prolific stem,

      The Christian's tree, and New Jerusalem;50

      Here, see a printed paper, to record

      A veritable letter from our Lord:51

      Two books are on the window-ledge beneath, —

      The Book of Prayer, and Drelincourt on Death:

      Some cowslips, in a cup of china placed,

      A painted shelf above the chimney graced:

      Grown like its mistress old, with half-shut eyes,

      Save when, at times, awaked by wandering flies,

      Tib52 in the sunshine of the casement lies.

      'Twas spring time now, with birds the garden rung,

      And Mary's linnet at the window sung.

      Whilst in the air the vernal music floats,

      The cuckoo only joins his two sweet notes:53

      But those – oh! listen, for he sings more near —

      So musical, so mellow, and so clear!

      Not sweeter, where thy mighty waters sweep,

      Missouri, through the night of forests deep,

      Resounds, from glade to glade, from rock to hill,

      While fervent harmonies the wild wood fill,

      The solitary note of "whip-poor-will;"54

      Mary's old mother stops her wheel to say,

      The cuckoo! hark! how sweet he sings to-day!

      It is not long, not long to Whitsuntide,

      And Mary then shall be a happy bride.

      On Sunday morn, when a slant light was flung

      Upon the tower, and the first peal was rung,

      William and Mary smiling would repair,

      Arm linked in arm, to the same house of prayer.

      The bells will sound more merrily, he cried,

      And gently pressed her hand, at Whitsuntide:

      She checked the rising thoughts, and hung her head;

      And Mary, ere one year had passed – was dead!

      'Twas said, and many would the tale believe,

      Her shrouded form was seen upon that eve,55

      When, gliding through the churchyard, they appear —

      They who shall die within the coming year.

      All pale, and strangely piteous, was her look,

      Her right hand was stretched out, and held a book;

      O'er it her wet hair dripped, while the moon cast

      A cold wan light, as in her shroud she passed!

      I cannot say if this were so, but late,

      She went to Madern-stone,56 to learn her fate,

      What there she heard ne'er came to human ears —

      But from that hour she oft was seen in tears.

      Mild zephyr breathes, the butterfly more bright

      Strays, wavering, o'er the pales, in rainbow light;

      The lamb, the colt, the blackbird in the brake,

      Seem all the vernal feeling to partake;

      The lark sings high in air, itself unseen,

      The hasty swallow skims the village-green;

      And all things seem, to the full heart, to bring

      The blissful breathings of the world's first spring.

      How lovely is the sunshine of May-morn!

      The garden bee has wound his earliest horn,

      Busied from flower to flower, as he would say,

      Up! Mary! up this merry morn of May!

      Now lads and lasses of the hamlet bore

      Branches of blossomed thorn or sycamore;57

      And at her mother's porch a garland hung,

      While thus their rural roundelay they sung: —