The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott :: :: University of Virginia Library

He left me sad, and cross'd the deep,
A home for me to seek;
He never will come back again;
My heart, my heart will break!
To see me toil for scanty food,
He could not bear, he said,
But promised to come back again,
His faithful Ann to wed.

Bad men had turn'd into a hell
The country of his birth;
And he is gone who should have stay'd
To make it heaven on earth:
A heaven to me it would have been
Had he remain'd with me;
O bring my William back again,
Thou wild heart-breaking sea!

He should have stay'd to overthrow
The men who do us wrong;
When such as he fly far away,
They make oppressors strong:

127

But, oh, though worlds of cruel waves
Between our torn hearts rise,
My William, thou art present still
Before my weeping eyes.

Why hast thou sought a foreign land,
And left me here to weep?
Man! man! thou should'st have sent our foes
Beyond that dismal deep!
For when I die, who then will toil,
My mother's life to save?
What hope will then remain for her?
A trampled workhouse grave!

HE WROTE.

He did not come, but letters came,
And money came in one;
But he would quickly come, they said—
“When I,” she sigh'd, “am gone!”
Thenceforth she almost welcomed death,
With feelings high and brave;
Because she knew that her true love
Would weep upon her grave.

128

“No parish hirelings,” oft she said,
“My wasted corpse shall bear;
The honest labour of my hands
Hath purchased earth and prayer:
Nor childless will my mother be;”
The dying sufferer smiled;
“Thou wilt not want, for William's heart
Is wedded to thy child!”

But Death seem'd loath to strike a form
So beautiful and young;
And o'er her long, with lifted dart,
The pensive tyrant hung;
And life in her seem'd like a sleep,
As she drew nearer home;
But when she waked, more eagerly
She ask'd, “Is William come?”

“Is William come?” she wildly ask'd;
The answer still was, “No!”—
She's dead!—but through her closing lids
The tears were trickling slow;
And like the fragrance of a rose,
Whose snowy life is o'er,
Pale beauty linger'd on the lips
Which he will kiss no more.

129

HE CAME.

At length he came. None welcomed him;
The decent door was closed;
But near it stood a matron meek,
With pensive looks, composed:
She knew his face, though it was changed,
And gloom came o'er her brow;
“They're gone,” she said, “but you're in time;
They're in the churchyard now.”

He reach'd the grave, and sternly bade
The impatient shovel wait:
“Ann Spencer, agèd twenty-five,”
He read upon the plate.
“Why did'st thou seek a foreign land,
And leave me here to die?”
The sad inscriptions seem'd to say—
But he made no reply.

Her mother saw him through her tears,
But not a word she said—
Nor could he know that days had pass'd
Since last she tasted bread.

130

She stood in comely mourning there,
Self-stay'd in her distress;
The dead maid's toil bought earth and prayer;
Sleep on, proud Britoness!

But thou, meet parent of the dead!
Where now wilt thou abide?
With William in a foreign land;
Or by thy daughter's side?
Oh! William's broken heart is sworn
To cross no more the foam!
Full soon will men cry—“Hark! again!
Three now! they're all at home!”