 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
ROSEMARY HILL.
'T was the night he had promised to meet me,
To meet me on Rosemary Hill,
And I said, at the rise of the eve-star,
The tryst he will haste to fulfil.
To meet me on Rosemary Hill,
And I said, at the rise of the eve-star,
The tryst he will haste to fulfil.
Then I looked to the elm-bordered valley,
Where the undulous mist whitely lay,
But I saw not the steps of my lover
Dividing its beauty away.
Where the undulous mist whitely lay,
But I saw not the steps of my lover
Dividing its beauty away.
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The eve-star rose red o'er the tree-tops,
The night-dews fell heavy and chill,
And wings ceased to beat through the shadows—
The shadows of Rosemary Hill.
The night-dews fell heavy and chill,
And wings ceased to beat through the shadows—
The shadows of Rosemary Hill.
I heard not, through hoping and fearing,
The whippoorwill's musical cry,
Nor saw I the pale constellations
That lit the blue reach of the sky.
The whippoorwill's musical cry,
Nor saw I the pale constellations
That lit the blue reach of the sky.
But fronting despair like a martyr,
I pled with my heart to be still,
As round me fell, deeper and darker,
The shadows of Rosemary Hill.
I pled with my heart to be still,
As round me fell, deeper and darker,
The shadows of Rosemary Hill.
On a bough that was withered and dying,
I leaned as the midnight grew dumb,
And told my heart over and over,
How often he said he would come.
I leaned as the midnight grew dumb,
And told my heart over and over,
How often he said he would come.
He is hunting, I said, in dim Arnau—
He was there with his dogs all day long—
And is weary with winging the plover,
Or stayed by the throstle's sweet song.
He was there with his dogs all day long—
And is weary with winging the plover,
Or stayed by the throstle's sweet song.
Then heard I the whining of Eldrich,
Of Eldrich so blind and so old,
With sleek hide embrowned like the lion's,
And brindled and freckled with gold.
Of Eldrich so blind and so old,
With sleek hide embrowned like the lion's,
And brindled and freckled with gold.
How the pulse of despair in my bosom
Leapt back to a joyous thrill,
As I went down to meet my dear lover,
Down fleetly from Rosemary Hill.
Leapt back to a joyous thrill,
As I went down to meet my dear lover,
Down fleetly from Rosemary Hill.
More near seemed the whining of Eldrich,
More loudly my glad bosom beat;
When lo! I beheld by the moonlight,
A newly made grave at my feet.
More loudly my glad bosom beat;
When lo! I beheld by the moonlight,
A newly made grave at my feet.
And when with the passion-vine lovely,
That grew by the stone at the head,
The length of the grave I had measured,
I knew that my lover was dead.
That grew by the stone at the head,
The length of the grave I had measured,
I knew that my lover was dead.
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |