Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Sweet is the earliest breath of spring, the unexpected ray,
That peeping out throws warmth upon a February day;
We hail the lengthen'd hours of light, the softness of the breeze,
And almost wonder why we see no leaves upon the trees.
And here and there upon the earth the crocuses are seen,
The golden buds that nestle in their cradles of light green,
And snowdrops delicate and pale, that droop, as if in fear
Of coming from their warm repose so early in the year.

And there's a path at Granby Grove, where the earliest spring day
Shines forth, as if March meant to steal the livery of May;
The first of birds assembled there rehearse their summer song.
And a rivulet flows murmuring melodiously along.

Oh! rivulets, bright rivulets, ye are the gentle friends
Of him upon whose lonely walk no human form attends;
And as he sits beside ye, with a soft and soothing tone,
Your voices seem to speak to him of joys for ever gone.
Ye call up other voices too, unheard for many years,
And ye give to him who mourns the dead—the luxury of tears.
How often have we heard it said, that in December days
The lonely being loves his hearth's companionable blaze!
But rivulets, bright rivulets, when social hearths are dim,
The mourner seeks your mossy banks, ye are the friends for him.
Upon the path that I have nam'd, two youthful lovers stood
And seem'd to watch the rivulet in meditative mood.
But I must pause to sketch them both: the girl was seventeen;
A form and face so beautiful but seldom has been seen.
Her name was Mary, and there was a something when she smil'd
About her lips, that told you she was Lady Rose's child.
A lurking laughter-loving look; but in her nobler face
A high expression dwelt, of which her mother had no trace,
A touch of sentiment and thought: you read as in a book
Whatever mischief might betide that laughter-loving look,
That still, within her secret soul lay principles so pure,
That in temptation Mary Rose could ne'er be insecure.
Her lips were red, her eyes were blue, her skin extremely fair,
In ringlets o'er her snowy brow she wore her light brown hair;
In ringlets, art's most pleasing style, for ringlets oft run wild
Round nature's sweetest dwelling place, the features of a child,
Not coiffée'd by a cruel hand—not strain'd into a load
Of hard and heavy looking bows, perhaps the latest mode,
Invented surely by some fiend, who fain would thus displace
(No very practicable task) the charm of woman's face.
Slight was her fairy figure, as her mother's might have been,
When first she knew Sir Hampton Rose, a bride at scarce sixteen.
And Mary by her lover stands, and seems as if in dread
That she had hurt his feelings by some rash word she had said.
This lover was her cousin—a distant one of course,
But cousin is a weighty word—few people know its force.
A first, perhaps a second cousin, Ladies need not dread—
But if you have one more remov'd—remember what I've said.
He'll talk of his relationship—but 'tis a ship he'll sink,
The moment it occurs to him love forms a better link.

Each day he'll walk, each day he'll talk, and every day you'll see
A hundred little things that prove how pleasant he can be;
When trifles try to win a smile, he'll step before a dozen,
And whisper, while you laugh and say: “He only is my cousin;”
And at a pic-nic party, when prudent parents seek
To keep all gay adventurers and younger sons in check,
They always have this ready mode of ending the quandary:
“Oh let us send for cousin Edward, he'll take care of Mary.”

And Mary's cousin Edward was a cousin of this kind;
Unlimited companionship their hearts had closely twin'd.
In all the sorrows of her youth—ten minutes would suffice
To take her to the Rectory for comfort and advice.
In all her little charities, the same judicious voice
Would name to her the pensioners most worthy of her choice.
Her chamber too at Granby Grove was chosen for its view,
Though other chambers had a more extensive one, 'tis true;
But as she sat there, she could see the tower of the church
With the gable of the Rectory, and its ivy-mantled porch.
But Edward was no Rector; the reader must be told
That he was left an orphan boy, at only six years old.
His father was a younger son, his mother poor as fair,
To virtue and good looks in fact their only child was heir,
And heir, alas! to little else. But in our early years
A kind hand seldom tries in vain to wipe away our tears,
And poverty is then unfelt; we cannot have been taught
How many worldly smiles by worldly riches must be bought.
At Granby Edward found a home, and Mary and her brother
In striving to amuse him seem'd to rival one another.
Mary was then three years of age, and little Edward tried
To teach her how to run about, protecting her with pride;
And as they older grew, their task, their sports were still the same,
For Mary left her governess, and to the boys she came
To help her brother wend his kite, or look at Edward's boat
Which down the little rivulet in gallant trim would float.
And when the lads to college went, Miss Mary used to think
That writing to her brother John was wicked waste of ink;
He was a correspondent so abominably dull.
But Edward always answered her, and his letters were so full

Of kind remarks and pleasant news, no trifle was forgotten,
She read them over every night, and put them by in cotton.

Oh what a beauteous thing is love! how happy and how pure,
Thus springing up in two young hearts, from present ills secure,
Assuming Friendship's name, it quite forgets that friends must sever,
As if young cousins thro' the world walk'd hand in hand for ever.
A fountain in a lonely vale resembles such a dream:
Now nothing but the clear blue sky is mirror'd in the stream,
Beside the valley's loveliest path its infancy is led,
Its bank is lined with violets, with softest moss its bed.
But the stream must leave the lonely vale, the violets and the moss,
And struggle on into the world, where restless billows toss.
Its purity reflects no more the bright expanse above,
And the calmness of its course is lost.—Oh! is't not so with Love?

By the Curate's side stood Mary Rose, unwilling to discuss
Some painful subject—suddenly he broke the silence thus:—
“Forgive me, Mary, oh! forgive the selfishness of heart
That would detain you longer here, 'tis time that we should part.
I might have known it could not last, I might have known that bliss
So pure, so perfect, n'er was meant for such a world as this.
And Mary, I will own to thee, that in some pensive mood
The thought of being torn from thee unbidden would intrude;
But I have hush'd the warning voice, I drove the thought away,
I knew that we must part, but still put off the evil day;
And in thy presence soon forgot that such a day must come.
But why do I distress thee thus? my anguish should be dumb;
It shall be so; yes—though I break my heart by the endeavour,
Henceforth I'll utter no complaint. Farewell! farewell for ever!”

“For ever! Edward, 'tis unkind. For ever!” Mary said,
“Oh think when first you went from home, what bitter tears I shed;

But I never breathed such cruel words: I plac'd implicit trust
Upon a friend's fidelity—shall Edward be less just?
You said you would remember me, and did I not believe?
I promised I would write to you, and did I then deceive?
No, Edward, no, we met again as happy as before,
And, dearest cousin, even now we've happy days in store.”

“Say, Cousin, yes, that word they will not bid thee to forget—
Say Cousin, but we never more shall meet as we have met.
Ay, call me Cousin in the world, it surely will be hard
If thou mayst not bestow on me a cousin's cold regard.
But I renounce the chilling word.”

“Oh, Edward, say not so;
Thou'rt angry, Edward; let me hear kind words before I go.”

“Kind words! I know not what I say; but novice as thou art
In worldly ways, consider, is it thus that cousins part?
Were I thy cousin only, at the altar I could stand
And calmly breathe a blessing while a husband press'd thy hand.
But is it so? no, Mary, no—thou canst not be my wife,
And the loneliness of blighted hope is Edward's lot for life.
Alas! I never loved thee with the common love of earth,
The love that vaunts its proud success in revelry and mirth.
My love was nurs'd in secret, like a blossom that has furl'd
All its sweet leaves from the notice and the sunshine of the world.”

Mary was weeping while he spoke; at length she rais'd her head,
And looking in his face, almost inaudibly she said:

“Edward, you never spoke of this—and have we not been wrong?
Yes, both of us, to close our eyes against the truth so long.
And now that you address me thus, perhaps I should rely
On some more tranquil prompter than my heart for a reply;
But no, if you have been to blame, at least that blame I share,
And I cannot listen calmly to those accents of despair.

If you are wretched, I am so; hereafter be more kind,
And think that Mary shares the grief of him she leaves behind.”
There was a pause—a blissful pause; but the poet drops his pen;
There are no words that can describe the lover's rapture then;
And the painter would be fortunate who faithfully could trace
The beautiful expression of his fair though manly face,
As his arms supported her who had been lov'd so many years,
Who with her head upon his heart, was smiling thro' her tears.

Who is there that cannot remember moments when he cast
From his bosom every feeling for the future and the past,
And in the present wholly lost, beholding all most dear,
Forgot to hope—forgetting there was such a thing as fear.

But Mary's sweet lips broke the spell: “Oh, hasten,” she exclaim'd,
“To my parents—to my parents, love, this meeting must be named.”

“It has been named,” said Edward, and his cheek grew pale and cold,
“It has been named; to both of them my passion has been told,
By both that passion has been spurn'd, and this brief meeting o'er,
My Mary will be torn from me: we part to meet no more!”

But we must leave the lovers now—too long we have intruded,
And prying eyes from parting scenes should always be excluded.