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

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      Listen! no sound is heard but of the mill.

      'Tis true, the toils of day are not begun,

      But Mary always rose before the sun.

      Still at the door, a leafless relic now,

      Appeared a remnant of the May-day bough;

      No hour-glass, in the window, tells the hours:

      Where is poor Mary, where her book, her flowers?

      Ah! was it fancy? – as he passed along,

      He thought he heard a spirit's feeble song.65

      Struck by the thrilling sound, he turned his look.

      Upon the ground there lay an open book;

      One page was folded down: – Spirit of grace!

      See! there are soils, like tear-blots, on the place!

      It is a prayer-book! Soon these words he read;

      Let him be desolate, and beg his bread!66

      Let there be none, not one, on earth to bless, —

      Be his days few, – his children fatherless, —

      His wife a widow! – let there be no friend

      In his last moments mercy to extend!

      It was a prayer-book he before had seen:

      Where? when? Once more, wild terror on his mien,

      He read the page: – An outcast let him lie,

      And unlamented and forsaken die!

      When he has children, may they pine away

      Before his sight, – his wife to grief a prey.

      Ah! 'tis poor Mary's book! – the very same

      He read with her at church; and, lo! her name: —

      The book of Mary Banks; – when this you see,

      And I am dead and gone, remember me!

      He trembles: mark! – the dew is on his brow:

      The curse is hers! he cried – I feel it now!

      I see already, even at my right hand,

      Dead Mary, thy accusing spirit stand!

      I feel thy deep, last curse! Then, with a cry,

      He sunk upon the earth in agony.

      Feebly he rose, – when, on the matted hair

      Of a drowned maid, and on her bosom bare,

      The sun shone out; how horrid, the first glance

      Of sunlight, on that altered countenance!

      The eyes were open, but though cold and dim,

      Fixed with accusing ghastliness on him!

      Merciful God! with faltering voice he cries,

      Hide me! oh, hide me from the sight! Those eyes —

      They glare on me! oh, hide me with the dead!

      The curse, the deep curse rests upon my head!

      Alas, poor maid! 'twas frenzy fired thy breast,

      Which prompted horrors not to be expressed:

      Whilst ever at thy side the foul fiend stood,

      And, laughing, pointed to the oblivious flood.

      William, heart-stricken, to despair a prey,

      Soon left the village, journeying far away.

      For, as if Mary's ghost in judgment cried,

      His wife, in the first pains of child-birth, died.

      Who has not heard, St Cuthbert, of thy well?

      Perhaps the spirit may his fortunes tell.67

      He dropped a pebble – mark! no bubble bright

      Comes from the bottom – turn away thy sight!

      He looks again: O God! those eye-balls glare

      How terribly! Ah, smooth that matted hair!

      Mary! dear Mary! thy cold corse I see

      Rise from the fountain! Look not thus at me!

      I cannot bear the sight, that form, that look!

      Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!

      Meantime, poor Mary in the grave was laid; —

      Her lone and gray-haired mother wept and prayed:

      Soon to the dust she followed; and, unknown,

      There they both rest without a name or stone.

      The village maids, who pass in summer by,

      Still stop and say one prayer, for charity!

      But what of William? Hide me in the mine!

      He cried, the beams of day insulting shine!

      Earth's very shadows are too gay, too bright, —

      Hide me for ever in forgetful night!

      In vain – that form, the cause of all his woes,

      More sternly terrible in darkness rose!

      Nearer he saw, with its pale waving hand,

      The phantom in appalling stillness stand;

      The letters of the book shone through the night,

      More blasting! Hide, oh hide me from the sight!

      Ocean, to thee and to thy storms I bring

      A heart, that not the music of the spring,

      Nor summer piping on the rural plain,

      Shall ever wake to happiness again!

      Ocean, be mine, – wild as thy wastes, to roam

      From clime to clime! – Ocean, be thou my home!

      Some say he died: here he was seen no more;

      He went to sea; and oft, amid the roar

      Of the wild waters, starting from his sleep,

      He gazed upon the wild tempestuous deep;

      When, slowly rising from the vessel's lee,

      A shape appeared, which none besides could see;

      Then would he shriek, like one whom Heaven forsook,

      Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!

      In foreign lands, in darkness or in light,

      The same dread spectre stood before his sight;

      If slumber came his aching lids to close,

      Funereal forms in long procession rose.

      Sometimes he dreamed that every grief was past

      Mary, long lost on earth, is found at last;

      And now she smiled as when, in early life,

      She lived in hope that she should be his wife;

      The maids are dressed in white, and all are gay,

      For this (he dreamed) is Mary's wedding-day!

      Then wherefore sad? a chill comes o'er his soul, —

      The sounds of mirth are hushed; and, hark! a toll! —

      A slow, deep toll; and lo! a sable train

      Of mourners, moving to the village fane.

      A coffin now is laid in holy ground,

      That, heavily, returns a hollow sound,

      When the first earth upon its lid is thrown:

      That hollow sound now changes to a groan:

      While, rising with wan cheek, and dripping hair,

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