Ellen Gray or, The dead maiden's curse. A poem, by the late Dr. Archibald Macleod [i.e. W. L. Bowles] |
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 | Ellen Gray |  |
Her, I remember, by her mother's chair,
Lisping, with folded hands, her first imperfect pray'r:
For Ellen grew, as beautiful in youth,
As lesson'd in the early lore of truth.
What diff'rent passions in her bosom strove,
When first she heard the tale of village love!
The youth whose voice then won her partial ear,
A yeoman's son, had pass'd his twentieth year;
She scarce eighteen: her mother, with the care
Of boding age, oft whisper'd, “Oh! beware!”
For Hubert was a thoughtless youth, and wild,
And like a colt, unbroken from a child:
But he had vow'd, and plighted her his troth,
“Never to part;” and Heaven had heard the oath.
Lisping, with folded hands, her first imperfect pray'r:
For Ellen grew, as beautiful in youth,
As lesson'd in the early lore of truth.
What diff'rent passions in her bosom strove,
When first she heard the tale of village love!
The youth whose voice then won her partial ear,
A yeoman's son, had pass'd his twentieth year;
She scarce eighteen: her mother, with the care
Of boding age, oft whisper'd, “Oh! beware!”
For Hubert was a thoughtless youth, and wild,
And like a colt, unbroken from a child:
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“Never to part;” and Heaven had heard the oath.
| Ellen Gray | |