 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
MARY'S LAMENT.
“The queen ceased not to direct her looks to the shore of France, until the darkness interrupted her wishful eyes. At the dawn of day the coast of France was still in sight, the galleys having made but little progress during the night. While it remained in view she often repeated, ‘Farewell, France! farewell! I I shall never see you more.’”—
Chalmers' Life of the Scottish Queen.
Farewell, dear France, my sad heart's chosen home,
Land of my earliest joys, a last farewell.
Still o'er thy shores mine eyes delighted roam,
But O! the cruel winds the white sails swell,
And when to-morrow dawns my look shall dwell
Only upon the rushing waves that bear
My bark too swiftly on to reach its port of care.
Land of my earliest joys, a last farewell.
Still o'er thy shores mine eyes delighted roam,
But O! the cruel winds the white sails swell,
And when to-morrow dawns my look shall dwell
Only upon the rushing waves that bear
My bark too swiftly on to reach its port of care.
Alas! alas! till now I never knew
How sharp might be the thorns that line a crown;
O! woe is mine that thus am doomed to view
At once the smile of fortune and her frown,
And find my spirit in the dust cast down,
When pride would bid me think on queenly state,
And spurn mid glory's dreams the humbler ills of fate.
How sharp might be the thorns that line a crown;
O! woe is mine that thus am doomed to view
At once the smile of fortune and her frown,
And find my spirit in the dust cast down,
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And spurn mid glory's dreams the humbler ills of fate.
Yet ah! how can the mournful widow's heart
Turn to the thoughts ambition might awake!
Doomed from the husband of my youth to part,
What pleasure now in glory can I take!
When most I prized it, 'twas for his dear sake;
My loftiest aim was but to share his throne—
How can my weak hand bear the sceptre's weight alone!
Turn to the thoughts ambition might awake!
Doomed from the husband of my youth to part,
What pleasure now in glory can I take!
When most I prized it, 'twas for his dear sake;
My loftiest aim was but to share his throne—
How can my weak hand bear the sceptre's weight alone!
Like you, pale moon, must be my dreary way.
Lonely she shines, although so pure and bright,
And as she blends not with the sun's rich ray,
But waits his absence to diffuse her light,
So only since my day has turned to night
Has so much splendor gathered round my name;
Alas! how happier far had I but shared his fame!
Lonely she shines, although so pure and bright,
And as she blends not with the sun's rich ray,
But waits his absence to diffuse her light,
So only since my day has turned to night
Has so much splendor gathered round my name;
Alas! how happier far had I but shared his fame!
But he is gone, and I his heavy loss
Through many a lonely year am doomed to weep;
Yet oft my thoughts the dark blue sea will cross
To seek the spot where all I love doth sleep;
For in my husband's grave is buried deep
The all of joy that I could ever taste,
And glory but illumes my lone heart's blighted waste.
Through many a lonely year am doomed to weep;
Yet oft my thoughts the dark blue sea will cross
To seek the spot where all I love doth sleep;
For in my husband's grave is buried deep
The all of joy that I could ever taste,
And glory but illumes my lone heart's blighted waste.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |