 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
27
MORNA.
Alas! 'tis many a weary day
Since, on a pleasant eve of May,
I first beheld her; slight and fair
With simple violets in her hair,
And a pale brow of thought beneath,
That never wore a prouder wreath;
And roses hanging on her arm,
Fresh gathered from the mountain side;
And wherefore, by her mien and form
She is not mother, wife, nor bride?
Surely the hopes of childish years
Still freshly on her girlhood rise;
But no, her cheek is wet with tears—
What do they in those heavenly eyes?
The mournful truth they well belie;
The roses, and the child-like form,
I know thee, by that look and sigh,
A pale, sweet blossom of the storm.
And see! she pauses now, and stands
Where step save hers has scarcely trod,
And softly, with her milk-white hands,
Lays down her blossoms in the sod.
There is no marble slab to tell
Who lies so peacefully asleep;
'T is written on the heart as well,
Of her who lingers there to weep.
Since, on a pleasant eve of May,
I first beheld her; slight and fair
With simple violets in her hair,
And a pale brow of thought beneath,
That never wore a prouder wreath;
And roses hanging on her arm,
Fresh gathered from the mountain side;
And wherefore, by her mien and form
She is not mother, wife, nor bride?
Surely the hopes of childish years
Still freshly on her girlhood rise;
But no, her cheek is wet with tears—
What do they in those heavenly eyes?
The mournful truth they well belie;
The roses, and the child-like form,
I know thee, by that look and sigh,
A pale, sweet blossom of the storm.
And see! she pauses now, and stands
Where step save hers has scarcely trod,
And softly, with her milk-white hands,
Lays down her blossoms in the sod.
There is no marble slab to tell
Who lies so peacefully asleep;
'T is written on the heart as well,
Of her who lingers there to weep.
One evening in the accustomed vale
I missed the blossoms from the turf,
For Morna's lovely brow was pale,
And cold as ocean's beaten surf.
That night I learned, beside her bier,
The story of her grief in part.—
For much, that mortal might not hear,
Lay hidden in her broken heart.
She was the child of poverty,
And knew from birth its friendless ills;
But never blossom fair as she
Grew up among her native hills.
Sweet child! she early learned to sigh;
The roses on her cheek grew pale;
It matters not to tell thee why—
Who is there will not guess the tale?
He was the haughty child of pride—
The angel of delusive dreams;
And therefore was she not a bride
Who slumbers by her native streams.
The weeds of desolate years o'erspread
The pathway where so oft she trod;
No mourner lingers o'er her bed,
Or bears fresh blossoms to the sod.
I missed the blossoms from the turf,
For Morna's lovely brow was pale,
And cold as ocean's beaten surf.
That night I learned, beside her bier,
The story of her grief in part.—
For much, that mortal might not hear,
Lay hidden in her broken heart.
She was the child of poverty,
And knew from birth its friendless ills;
But never blossom fair as she
Grew up among her native hills.
Sweet child! she early learned to sigh;
The roses on her cheek grew pale;
28
Who is there will not guess the tale?
He was the haughty child of pride—
The angel of delusive dreams;
And therefore was she not a bride
Who slumbers by her native streams.
The weeds of desolate years o'erspread
The pathway where so oft she trod;
No mourner lingers o'er her bed,
Or bears fresh blossoms to the sod.
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |