 | The Lonely Isle |  |
MARY M'NAUGHT.
Lovely is Mary, with native grace beaming,
Fair as the Goddess who sprung from the wave;
Her beauty surpasses the beauty of women;
But yet that alane never made me her slave,
Her worth made me captive,—all beauty excelling,
Her soul with each heavenly virtue is fraught;
For truth, love, and honour, have form'd their fair dwelling
In the innocent bosom of Mary M'Naught.
Fair as the Goddess who sprung from the wave;
Her beauty surpasses the beauty of women;
But yet that alane never made me her slave,
Her worth made me captive,—all beauty excelling,
Her soul with each heavenly virtue is fraught;
For truth, love, and honour, have form'd their fair dwelling
In the innocent bosom of Mary M'Naught.
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Could I but glide on the moon-beam of heaven,
I would silently steal on the dreams of her rest;
O! sweetly I'd pourtray the visions of even,
And tinge, with soft rapture, the thoughts of her breast;
Sweetly I'd whisper, e're chas'd by the morrow,
In the language of love, all despair ever taught;
And if she would name me in accents of sorrow,
How dear to my soul would be Mary M'Naught.
I would silently steal on the dreams of her rest;
O! sweetly I'd pourtray the visions of even,
And tinge, with soft rapture, the thoughts of her breast;
Sweetly I'd whisper, e're chas'd by the morrow,
In the language of love, all despair ever taught;
And if she would name me in accents of sorrow,
How dear to my soul would be Mary M'Naught.
Oft, lonely and sad, at the calm hour of gloaming,
On the banks of the Clyde I mournfully rove,
Unmov'd by its beauties, and heedlessly roaming,
I think but of Mary, and sigh for her love.
Were I but advanc'd to the summit of grandeur,
The envy of Princes, could it avail aught?
I could not be blythe, tho' surrounded with splendour,
Unless I could share it with Mary M'Naught.
On the banks of the Clyde I mournfully rove,
Unmov'd by its beauties, and heedlessly roaming,
I think but of Mary, and sigh for her love.
Were I but advanc'd to the summit of grandeur,
The envy of Princes, could it avail aught?
I could not be blythe, tho' surrounded with splendour,
Unless I could share it with Mary M'Naught.
| The Lonely Isle | |