Ellen Gray or, The dead maiden's curse. A poem, by the late Dr. Archibald Macleod [i.e. W. L. Bowles] |
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 | Ellen Gray |  |
The widow'd Ruth in early life had known
Domestic griefs and losses of her own.
She—patient, mild, compassionate, and kind—
Waken'd to human sympathies his mind.
The first that won his notice, was her child,
Who fed his bird, and took his hand, and smil'd.
Ruth and her little boy, to most unknown,
Liv'd in a cottage that adjoin'd his own;
Oft, when the winds arose, by one small light
They read the Bible, on a Sabbath night.
The cottage look'd upon the circling bay;
Penzance, a streak of light, to southward lay;
Eastward the Lizard's hazy point was seen,
Now vanish'd in “a momentary spleen ;”
Nearer, the lone, romantic rock uprears
Its tower'd brow, which like a crown appears,
And seems the shadow of its state to throw
Along the restless waves that break below.
Who has not sigh'd for the lone fisher's life,
So fraught with terror to an anxious wife?
Night after night, expos'd upon the main;
Returning tir'd with toil, or drench'd in rain;
His gains uncertain as his life,—he knows
No stated hours of labour and repose.
On land, when busy scenes of life retire,
And his wife looks upon the evening fire,
He, afar off, 'mid the tempestuous night,
Haply, is thinking of that social light.
Domestic griefs and losses of her own.
She—patient, mild, compassionate, and kind—
Waken'd to human sympathies his mind.
The first that won his notice, was her child,
Who fed his bird, and took his hand, and smil'd.
Ruth and her little boy, to most unknown,
Liv'd in a cottage that adjoin'd his own;
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They read the Bible, on a Sabbath night.
The cottage look'd upon the circling bay;
Penzance, a streak of light, to southward lay;
Eastward the Lizard's hazy point was seen,
Now vanish'd in “a momentary spleen ;”
Nearer, the lone, romantic rock uprears
Its tower'd brow, which like a crown appears,
And seems the shadow of its state to throw
Along the restless waves that break below.
Who has not sigh'd for the lone fisher's life,
So fraught with terror to an anxious wife?
Night after night, expos'd upon the main;
Returning tir'd with toil, or drench'd in rain;
His gains uncertain as his life,—he knows
No stated hours of labour and repose.
On land, when busy scenes of life retire,
And his wife looks upon the evening fire,
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Haply, is thinking of that social light.
| Ellen Gray | |