Poems By William Bell Scott |
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III.Age—Seventeen.
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III.Age—Seventeen.
“Your mother tells me, simple girl,You are to be a semstress now;
I like to see a blush: take off
Your shapeless cap. Do you read and write?—
And dance and sing, perhaps, as well?
The freshness of new hay is on your hair,
And the withdrawing innocence of home
Within your eyes, indeed
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If your new world shall wed you as the old
Seems to have wooed, you're fortunate:
You have a throng of comrades here,”
Said a well-bedizened dame,
While timid Maryanne
She led to a long chamber, where
Her thimbled girls with needles and shears
Were trimming silks with gimp and lace.
Anon the dragon leaves the cell,
And about the stranger girl they press!
“Sit here, young rose,”—“Nay, Catherine;
How to turn her smiles to use,
And braid fair locks unbound before,
I know the best: her looks refresh
Like oranges in a theatre.”
But timid Maryanne—
Both no and yes she feared to say;
She knew not what they meant;
And aye she cast a wondering glance
At every one that spoke;
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And leaning o'er her, whispered, “Sweet,
None may hear us; tell me true,
Have you left a lover-lad
Behind you, by the plough?”
“I never thought of such a thing,”
Said timid Maryanne—
As amidst their smothered laughter
A glorious crimson spread
Over her forehead, over her cheeks,
And brightened round her neck.
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