The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Volume Ii Part 6

How oft when she was sleeping by her side, That mother waked, and kissed her cheek, with tears 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! 60 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 70 She sat, and oft would turn, a tear to hide.

Where winds the brook, by yonder bordering wood, 72 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, 80 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, 90 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 100 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, 104 A painted shelf above the chimney graced: Grown like its mistress old, with half-shut eyes, Save when, at times, awaked by wandering flies, Tib[52] in the sunshine of the cas.e.m.e.nt lies.

'Twas spring time now, with birds the garden rung, And Mary's linnet at the window sung. 110 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, 120 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; 130 And Mary, ere one year had pa.s.sed--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-- 134 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 pa.s.sed!

I cannot say if this were so, but late, 140 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 b.u.t.terfly 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 150 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 la.s.ses 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:--

And we were up as soon as day,[58] 160 To fetch the summer home, The summer and the radiant May, 162 For summer now is come.

In Madern vale the bell-flowers bloom,[59]

And wave to Zephyr's breath: The cuckoo sings in Morval Coombe, Where nods the purple heath.[60]

Come, dance around Glen-Aston tree-- We bring a garland gay, And Mary of Guynear shall be 170 Our Lady of the May.

But where is William? Did he not declare, He would be first the blossomed bough to bear!

She will not join the train! and see! the flower She gathered now is fading! Hour by hour She watched the sunshine on the thatch; again Her mother turns the hour-gla.s.s; now, the pane The westering sun has left--the long May-day So Mary wore in hopes and fears away.

Slow twilight steals. By the small garden gate 180 She stands: Oh! William never came so late!

Her mother's voice is heard: Good child, come in; Dream not of bliss on earth--it is a sin: Come, take the Bible down, my child, and read; In sickness, and in sorrow, and in need, By friends forsaken, and by fears oppressed, _There_ only can the weary heart find rest.

Her thin hands, marked by many a wandering vein, Her mother turned the silent gla.s.s again; The rushlight now is lit, the Bible read, 190 Yet, ere sad Mary can retire to bed, She listens!--Hark! no voice, no step she hears,-- Oh! seek thy bed to hide those bursting tears!

When the slow morning came, the tale was told, (Need it have been?) that William's love was cold.

But hope yet whispers, dry the accusing tear,-- When Sunday comes, he will again be here!

And Sunday came, and struggling from a cloud.

The sun shone bright--the bells were chiming loud-- And lads and la.s.ses, in their best attire, 200 Were tripping past--the youth, the child, the sire; But William came not. With a boding heart Poor Mary saw the Sunday crowd depart: And when her mother came, with kerchief clean, The last who tottered homeward o'er the green, Mary, to hear no more of peace on earth, Retired in silence to the lonely hearth.

Next day the tidings to the cottage came, That William's heart confessed another flame: That, with the bailiff's daughter he was seen, 210 At the new tabernacle on the green; That cold and wayward falsehood made him prove Alike a traitor to his faith and love.

The bells are ringing, it is Whitsuntide,-- And there goes faithless William with his bride.

Turn from the sight, poor Mary! Day by day, The dread remembrance wore her heart away: Untimely sorrow sat upon her cheek, And her too trusting heart was left to break.

Six melancholy months have slowly pa.s.sed, 220 And dark is heard November's hollow blast.

Sometimes, with tearful moodiness she smiled, 222 Then, still and placid looked, as when a child, Or raised her eyes disconsolate and wild.

Oft, as she strayed the brook's green marge along, She there would sing one sad and broken song:--

Lay me where the willows wave,[61]

In the cold moonlight; Shine upon my lowly grave, Sadly, stars of night! 230

I to you would fly for rest, But a stone, a stone, Lies like lead upon my breast, And every hope is flown.

Lay me where the willows wave, In the cold moonlight; Shine upon my lowly grave, Sadly, stars of night!

Her mother said, Thou shalt not be confined, Poor maid, for thou art harmless, and thy mind 240 The air may soothe, as fitfully it blows, Whispering forgetfulness, if not repose.

So Mary wandered to the northern sh.o.r.e;[62]

There oft she heard the gaunt Tregagel roar Among the rocks; and when the tempest blew, And, like the shivered foam, her long hair flew, And all the billowy s.p.a.ce was tossing wide, Rock on! thou melancholy main, she cried, I love thy voice, oh, ever-sounding sea, 249 Nor heed this sad world while I look on thee!

Then on the surge she gazed, with vacant stare, Or tripping with wild fennel in her hair,[63]

Sang merrily: Oh! we must dry the tear, For Mab, the queen of fairies, will be here,-- William, she shall know all!--and then again Her ditty died into its first sad strain:--

Lay me where the willows wave, In the cold moonlight; Shine upon my lowly grave, Sadly, stars of night! 260

When home returned, the tears ran down apace; She looked in silence in her mother's face; Then, starting up, with wilder aspect cried, How happy shall we be at Whitsuntide, Then, mother, I shall be a bride--a bride!

Ah! some dire thought seems in her breast to rise, Stern with terrific joy she rolls her eyes: Her mother heeded not; nor when she took, With more impatient haste, her Sunday book, She heeded not--for age had dimmed her sight. 270 Her mother now is left alone: 'tis night.

Mary! poor Mary! her sad mother cried, Mary! my Mary!--but no voice replied.

Next morn, light-hearted William pa.s.sed along, And careless hummed a desultory song, Bound to St Ives' revel.[64] Not a ray Yet streaked the pale dawn of the dubious day; The sun is yet below the hills: but, look! 278 There is the tower--the mill--the stile--the brook,-- And there is Mary's cottage! All is still!

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-gla.s.s, in the window, tells the hours: Where is poor Mary, where her book, her flowers?

Ah! was it fancy?--as he pa.s.sed along, He thought he heard a spirit's feeble song.[65]

Struck by the thrilling sound, he turned his look. 290 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: 300 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 306 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, 320 Fixed with accusing ghastliness on him!

Merciful G.o.d! 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, 330 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?