 | Miscellaneous Poetry (1806) |  |
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WILLIAM LAMBERT:
A TALE.
1799.
One April morn, when violets blow
And warbling songsters pair,
The Lady Margaret sat in bow'r
Braiding her yellow hair.
And warbling songsters pair,
The Lady Margaret sat in bow'r
Braiding her yellow hair.
Lovely she was beyond compare;
For on her blushing face,
On her sweet lip, and joyful eye,
Beam'd every gentle grace;
For on her blushing face,
On her sweet lip, and joyful eye,
Beam'd every gentle grace;
And in her heart, which ay inclined
At pity's touch to melt,
The sunshine pure of chaste delight,
The tender virtues dwelt.
At pity's touch to melt,
The sunshine pure of chaste delight,
The tender virtues dwelt.
81
Her pleasant bower was raised beneath
An elm's delightful shade;
Beyond a verdant river wound
Along the sunny glade.
An elm's delightful shade;
Beyond a verdant river wound
Along the sunny glade.
A little boy with wistful gaze
Stood by the water side;
And, witless what he did, with stones
Disturb'd the shining tide.
Stood by the water side;
And, witless what he did, with stones
Disturb'd the shining tide.
His naked legs with flints were cut,
And all with blood besmear'd;
And on his melancholy cheeks
Pale silent grief appear'd.
And all with blood besmear'd;
And on his melancholy cheeks
Pale silent grief appear'd.
Fair Margaret gazed, and sigh'd, and gazed,
For pity touch'd her soul:
And from her eyes, the seat of love,
A still drop gently stole.
For pity touch'd her soul:
And from her eyes, the seat of love,
A still drop gently stole.
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“Why weep'st, my pretty boy? (she cried)
O tell me why so sad!
And why in rags so rude and torn
Those bleeding limbs are clad?”
O tell me why so sad!
And why in rags so rude and torn
Those bleeding limbs are clad?”
The little boy he nought replied;
His lips were numb'd with woe;
But sobs convuls'd his famish'd frame,
And tears gan fast to flow.
His lips were numb'd with woe;
But sobs convuls'd his famish'd frame,
And tears gan fast to flow.
“Nay, weep not thus, though cruel wants
Thy little heart assail;
But tell thy friends, those wants shall cease,
If aught my power avail.”—
Thy little heart assail;
But tell thy friends, those wants shall cease,
If aught my power avail.”—
“No friend have I in all the world,
Lady, no friend have I;
But here unpitied and alone
Must Willy bide and die.
Lady, no friend have I;
But here unpitied and alone
Must Willy bide and die.
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My father was a goodly wight
Of famous Birmingham;
A wife and children four had he,
And Lambert was his name.
Of famous Birmingham;
A wife and children four had he,
And Lambert was his name.
To sea he went, and far aloof
Sleeps in his watery tomb;
Nor e'er return'd, with pious care
To soothe my mother's doom.
Sleeps in his watery tomb;
Nor e'er return'd, with pious care
To soothe my mother's doom.
'Twas night: the wet and wintery blast
Came whistling through the shed,
Where faint with want and sad disease
Her feeble limbs were laid.
Came whistling through the shed,
Where faint with want and sad disease
Her feeble limbs were laid.
I saw her faded cheek grow pale,
And pale her rosy mouth;
And dim those eyes, which lately shone
With the sweet smile of youth.
And pale her rosy mouth;
And dim those eyes, which lately shone
With the sweet smile of youth.
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Then low she sunk her feeble head;
Her pulse forgot to play;
The faultering heart-strings throbb'd no more;
The spirit pass'd away.
Her pulse forgot to play;
The faultering heart-strings throbb'd no more;
The spirit pass'd away.
My sister too, a lovely maid,
The eldest of us four,
Clung to her neck with fainting arms,
And never spoke she more.
The eldest of us four,
Clung to her neck with fainting arms,
And never spoke she more.
Nor long my brothers two survived
To mourn their mother's grave;
While yet they were, we fondly shared
The bread, which pity gave.
To mourn their mother's grave;
While yet they were, we fondly shared
The bread, which pity gave.
Ah me! their little lives are gone!
Woe worth the cruel day!
For grief and hunger wrung their hearts,
And soon they pined away.
Woe worth the cruel day!
For grief and hunger wrung their hearts,
And soon they pined away.
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But I, the youngest of them all,
Remain to weep alone;
The chilling earth my nightly bed,
My pillow a cold stone.”—
Remain to weep alone;
The chilling earth my nightly bed,
My pillow a cold stone.”—
“Nay, weep not thus, but hie ye in,
And busk ye in my hall!
For I will clothe thy trembling limbs,
And give thee food withal.
And busk ye in my hall!
For I will clothe thy trembling limbs,
And give thee food withal.
For I will rear thee, pretty page,
To be thy country's pride;
And thou shalt fight fair England's foes,
E'en as thy father did.”
To be thy country's pride;
And thou shalt fight fair England's foes,
E'en as thy father did.”
The little boy he hied him in,
And busk'd him in the hall;
And soon he was all trimly dight,
And waxed stout withal.
And busk'd him in the hall;
And soon he was all trimly dight,
And waxed stout withal.
86
“A boon, (he cried) fair Lady mine!
O send me not to sea!
For thou must be mine only friend,
And I must bide with thee.
O send me not to sea!
For thou must be mine only friend,
And I must bide with thee.
O let me here thy garden tend,
Hard by this pleasant bow'r;
Here deck the lawn with careful hand,
And rear each scented flow'r;
Hard by this pleasant bow'r;
Here deck the lawn with careful hand,
And rear each scented flow'r;
The soft primrose, the violet blue,
The glowing celandine;
And cuckoo-buds, and sorrel pale,
And luscious sweet woodbine.”
The glowing celandine;
And cuckoo-buds, and sorrel pale,
And luscious sweet woodbine.”
Fair Margaret smiled; the youth remain'd
Hard by her pleasant bow'r,
With grateful heart and careful hand
Rearing each scented flow'r.
Hard by her pleasant bow'r,
With grateful heart and careful hand
Rearing each scented flow'r.
87
To call a blessing on her head
His daily prayer shall rise;
The prayer of innocence forlorn
Snatch'd from the brink of vice.
His daily prayer shall rise;
The prayer of innocence forlorn
Snatch'd from the brink of vice.
For plants, that bloom to-day, may fade,
And sweeter bloom again;
But innocence, that once is stain'd,
Shall ne'er its bloom regain.
And sweeter bloom again;
But innocence, that once is stain'd,
Shall ne'er its bloom regain.
| Miscellaneous Poetry (1806) | |