 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
MARGARET NEVILLE.
His heart is barred with her lily-white hand,
And can let no new love enter there;
He is bound to the past by a glittering band,
Made of her locks of golden hair.
He looks at the scene from the open door;
He bows his form and droops his head,
And murmurs, “All this I own, and more—
What does it matter with Margaret dead?”
And can let no new love enter there;
He is bound to the past by a glittering band,
Made of her locks of golden hair.
He looks at the scene from the open door;
He bows his form and droops his head,
And murmurs, “All this I own, and more—
What does it matter with Margaret dead?”
331
For fifteen years he had toiled for her;
For fifteen years she waited for him;
He never knew in the noisy whirr
Of his busy life how her hope grew dim;
How, tired with waiting, her hope gave way,
And a weary life at last was sped,
Till they sent him the news that summer day
That Margaret Neville was lying dead.
For fifteen years she waited for him;
He never knew in the noisy whirr
Of his busy life how her hope grew dim;
How, tired with waiting, her hope gave way,
And a weary life at last was sped,
Till they sent him the news that summer day
That Margaret Neville was lying dead.
He had toiled for years, that lonely man,
Had felled the forest and ploughed the soil;
One purpose alone through his efforts ran;
One hope had sweetened his ceaseless toil.
He could see the smiles on the face well known,
A halo of light on the dear one's head;
But the vision had flown and he was alone,
And Margaret Neville was lying dead.
Had felled the forest and ploughed the soil;
One purpose alone through his efforts ran;
One hope had sweetened his ceaseless toil.
He could see the smiles on the face well known,
A halo of light on the dear one's head;
But the vision had flown and he was alone,
And Margaret Neville was lying dead.
She saw as she faded from earth, the boy—
For what had he been when he strolled away?
With a springy step, and a face of joy,
And dimples where laughter loved to play.
And she died in the arms of memory there,
Nor knew him a wrinkled man instead,
With a frowning brow, and a peevish air,
Whose hopes, like the woman he loved, lay dead.
For what had he been when he strolled away?
With a springy step, and a face of joy,
And dimples where laughter loved to play.
And she died in the arms of memory there,
Nor knew him a wrinkled man instead,
With a frowning brow, and a peevish air,
Whose hopes, like the woman he loved, lay dead.
He saw as he sat at the open door,
A girlish form and a girlish face,
Less perfect if nature had given her more,
A being of beauty and love and grace.
He did not see that her golden hair
Was streaked with silver, her bloom had fled,
Her face was pallid, and dull her air—
Not so to him was his Margaret dead.
A girlish form and a girlish face,
Less perfect if nature had given her more,
A being of beauty and love and grace.
He did not see that her golden hair
Was streaked with silver, her bloom had fled,
Her face was pallid, and dull her air—
Not so to him was his Margaret dead.
332
There are damsels around who'd sell for his land
And his flocks and herds their beauty fair;
But they cannot pass her lily-white hand,
Nor break those fetters of golden hair.
For there he sits at the open door,
Hours after the day to the dark has fled,
And murmurs, “I live no more, no more,
Now Margaret Neville is dead—is dead!”
And his flocks and herds their beauty fair;
But they cannot pass her lily-white hand,
Nor break those fetters of golden hair.
For there he sits at the open door,
Hours after the day to the dark has fled,
And murmurs, “I live no more, no more,
Now Margaret Neville is dead—is dead!”
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |