Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The following Tale is founded on a circumstance, that really occurred in the vale of Leadnoch, during the great plague in Scotland in 1666, and which is very elegantly related in the Honorable Mrs. Murray's “Guide to the Highlands.” It is probable that an ancient Scotch ballad on this subject still exists, though the Song which bears the same name in Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany, is (excepting the first four lines, which evidently belonged to the original poem) nothing more than a common love-song. The fate of Bessy Bell, and Mary Gray, has recently been the subject of a beautiful Episode in Mrs. Rowden's Pleasures of Friendship.

237

How beautiful is Leadnoch's vale,
And Almond's pastoral stream!
Gurgling through rush and lily flower,
Or sparkling in the beam.

'Tis beautiful; though rude neglect
Has choak'd the path with briar;
And lawns, which once like velvet spread,
The struggling footstep tire.

238

Yet oft the traveller lingers here,
To pluck the desert flower:
And hoards the wither'd rose and says,
It grew in Leadnoch Bower.

But many a Scottish bower is fair
As Leadnoch's lonely vale;—
Ye who would know what spell is there,
Come listen to my tale!

O, Bessy Bell and Mary Gray,
They were two lovely maids!
As ever roam'd in noon-day sun,
Or tripp'd in evening's shades.

Young Bessy had a merry glance,
And a sweet sunny smile;
And noble youths, that smile to catch,
Would ride for many a mile.

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She dream'd not she, of gallant gay,
But blythe as matin lark,
Lov'd nought like her own Mary Gray,
And sang from morn till dark.

As fair, as fond, was Mary too,
But, in her soft blue eye
And pensive mien, the look of love
Might searching glance espy.

Yet still could Bessy's lively spirit,
Chace Mary's thoughtful gloom;
So hangs the red rose o'er the lily,
And sheds its radiant bloom.

But now'twas gloomy through the land,
The red plague hovered there:
All still as wind before a storm;
All silent as despair.

240

The red plague stalk'd o'er all the land,
And swept off half the nation;
Happy the dead! 'twas death to live,
And feel the desolation.

Then every tie was snapp'd in twain,
That link'd man to his brother;
From the clos'd door the guest was turn'd,
Aye—though it were his Mother!

That Mother fear'd her babe to nourish,
Lest she should taint its blood;
And wretches who with famine perish'd,
Found death within their food.

Then Sons their dying Fathers fled;
The Bridegroom left his Bride;
None knew what friends remain'd to him;
None knew how many died.

241

Ev'n next door neighbours strangers seem'd;
None pass'd the sullen gate;
The cart alone, that came at night,
Gave tidings of their fate.

There were they thrown, the dead, the dying;
Nor grave nor priest was there;
In one vast pit together lying,
The wise, the brave, the fair!

O Pestilence, o'er all the land,
Thy fell contagion spread!
Yet seem'dst thou yon sweet maids to spare;—
Flowers blooming 'midst the dead!

Fair Bessy wore hope's airy form,
Unchang'd her peerless beauty;
And still she watch'd her Mary's cheek;
'Twas Friendship's pleasant duty!

242

That cheek by pity only blanch'd,
Still own'd its blushing charms;
And struggling Love itself was lost,
Entomb'd in Friendship's arms.

“My Mary, raise thy drooping head,
And listen to my reid!
Death revels here; in every breath
We draw destruction's seed:

“Soon shall we die, if here we stay,
My Mary, we will fly:
Together shun this death-fraught plague,
Or else together die.”

Oh, it fell sweet on Friendship's ear,
To live or die together!
“Yes, Bessy, I will fly with thee,
Live, die, I care not whether.”

243

They wrapt them in their silken plaids,
And left the silent town;
And past along like angel forms,
By Hermit's prayer call'd down.

They pass'd o'er many a vale and hill,
And over moor and mountain;
And sate them down in Leadnoch vale,
By Almond's pleasant fountain.

There, with rich branches of the Oak,
They built their simple bower;
Cover'd it with the water rush;
Deck'd it with wild rose flower.

No care had they; like birds that flew
And caroll'd o'er their head,
On berries of the woods they liv'd,
And sought at eve their bed;

244

There, folded in each other's arms,
Like infant twins, they lay;
And mild as cherub's breath their dreams;
As pure their blameless day.

The world forgotten; save that oft
For all who liv'd they pray'd;
And sometimes Mary's roving thought
To faithful Henry stray'd.

One morn she started from her sleep,
And scream'd in glad surprise;
And strove to frown, but almost smil'd,—
He stood before her eyes!

“And is the red plague spent” she cries,
And comest thou for me?”
“It rages still—but thou wert gone;
I could but follow thee.”

245

She could not chide him, thence they liv'd,
Like Sisters with their Brother;
And three calm, tranquil, happy days,
Had follow'd one another,

When, on the fourth revolving morn,
Young Henry felt the fire,
Quick-raging in his burning veins,
And every pulse throb higher.

“O fly me, fly,” The lover cried,
“My Mary, I must die;”
Too late the generous warning came,
Death sate in Mary's eye.

She saw her Henry's alter'd form,
She heard his dying groan;
She laid her head in Bessy's lap,
And breath'd her plaintive moan.

246

Still Bessy's cheek no paleness show'd,
Contagion fled her charms!
But life was woe without her friend;
She woo'd him to her arms.

She liv'd to close her Mary's eyes,
To shield her from the weather;
Then laid her down, and dying cried,
“Mary, we die together.”—

And there, by Almond's lovely stream,
Their simple graves are seen;
Twin graves, with Henry at their feet,
Among the rushes green.

Their names that rustic tablet bears,
With mosses overgrown;
And village maidens flowerets strow
On friendship's hallow'd stone.

247

And hence the Traveller wanders here,
To weep upon the tomb
Of Bessy Bell and Mary Gray,
And mourn their hapless doom!