Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh Mary! I was thinking, now,
How time hath past away, since we
First owned our love beneath the bough
Of that wide-spreading old oak-tree.
Come, fill my glass; why should we grieve?
Let care, my dear, float on the wind;
The memory of that happy eve
Alone hath often soothed my mind.

II

Remember you the rushing Weir,
That threw its foam-bells at our feet?
Making a holy murmur there—
A mournful sound—yet oh! how sweet!
Your hand, dear Mary, was in mine—
We saw the water-lilies move;
And when our fingers dared to twine,
We felt the thrill of youthful love.

III

Have you forgot the village-chime
That sounded through the listening wood,
Ringing o'er beds of fragrant thyme,
Which rose, like incense, where we stood;
And saw the bending wild-flowers close
Their sleepy eyes upon the dew,
Sinking, unhushed, in soft repose,
Beneath a sky of cloudless blue?

IV

Remember you, how twilight grey
Stole o'er us ere we were aware?
You hearkening to that blackbird's lay,
While I stood watching your long hair
With which the wanton night-breeze played,
Baring your neck of veinèd snow,
And waving wide both curl and braid,
Like silken banners to and fro.

V

Have you forgot how deep you sighed?—
Mary! that night I marked you well—
My own within my breast had died,
Like sighs heaved in some soundless cell;
I wished them not to reach your ear,
But, when your own white bosom raised,
Mine swelled above the rushing Weir,
And then—upon your face I gazed.

VI

Your deep blue eyes, my girl, met mine,
A moment they but deigned to rest,
Then turned to where the stars did shine,
Then sank abashed upon your breast.
Our hands closed of their own accord,
The waters sang along the shore,
We stood, but neither spake a word;
We ne'er were mute so long before.

VII

I threw my arm around your waist,—
Mary! 'twas starlight when you blushed—
But still that arm was not displaced,
For then the very air seemed hushed.
Our fluttering hearts alone were heard,
Moving like gently-lifted leaves
Before the plumage of a bird,
Just as its throbbing bosom heaves.

VIII

Although I long confessed thy charms,
I had not pressed those lips of thine;
But when I clasped thee in my arms,
And knew that thou wert only mine,
And felt thee on my bosom lean,
And saw thy cheeks with tears were wet,
And we alone in that still scene,
No wonder, love, our lips then met.

IX

And then, my dear, we smiled for joy,
The waters singing all the while;
I was but then a wayward boy,
But never, Mary, did thy smile
Make brighter sunshine round my heart,
Than when we stood amid those flowers,
And felt as though we could not part,
Too happy, love, to think of hours.

X

Your mother at the garden-gate
Stood, wondering why we staid so long;
She murmured not, although 'twas late,
But left us there, and stept among
The windings of the lilac-shade—
We to her distant footsteps hearkened,
As to the door she slowly strayed;
And then her chamber-window darkened.

XI

We heard the clock at midnight sound—
We stood amid the moonlight pale,
For then our tongues a theme had found;
We gazed upon the outstretched vale;
Our fancies built a cottage there,
The spot I yet remember well,
'Twas in a glen beside the Weir,
And we had called it “Primrose Dell.”

XII

But Mary! it hath not proved so!
Fate marked me for the child of song,
And she hath tossed us to and fro,
Like flowers, which wild streams rush among.
I little deemed that night, my love,
Standing beneath the old oak-tree,
While the bright stars streamed out above,
That I should sing to aught but thee.

XIII

How different now! the world's my bride;
A fickle spouse is she, I deem;
But I must all her censure bide—
How different now! to when that stream
Murmured between my untaught lays;
We seated on a cowslip bed;
When thou didst give me love and praise,
For all I sung, and all I said.

XIV

Well! well! though we were doomed to part,
And though thou art another's now,
I know the heart is still the heart;—
Come, chase that sadness from thy brow
And fill my glass; why should we grieve?
Let care, my dear, float on the wind.
To meet thee, on this lovely eve,
Is still some solace to my mind.