The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson ::

Swift o'er the wild and dreary waste
A nut-brown girl was seen to haste;
Wide waving was her unbound hair,
And sun-scorch'd was her bosom bare;
For summer's noon had shed its beams
While she lay wrapp'd in fev'rish dreams;
While, on the wither'd hedge-row's side,
By turns she slept, by turns she cried,
“Ah! where lies hid the balsam sweet,
“To heal the wounds of Marguerite?”

Dark was her large and sunken eye,
Which wildly gaz'd upon the sky;
And swiftly down her freckled face
The chilling dews began to pace:
For she was lorn, and many a day
Had, all alone, been doom'd to stray,
And many a night her bosom warm
Had throbb'd beneath the pelting storm;
And still she cried, “the rain falls sweet,
“It bathes the wounds of Marguerite.”

161

Her garments were by briars torn,
And on them hung full many a thorn;
A thistle crown she mutt'ring twin'd,
Now darted on,—now look'd behind—
And here and there her arm was seen
Bleeding the tatter'd folds between;
Yet on her breast she oft display'd
A faded branch, that breast to shade:
For though her senses were astray,
She felt the burning beams of day;
She felt the wintry blast of night,
And smil'd to see the morning light;
For then she cried, “I soon shall meet
“The plighted love of Marguerite.”

Across the waste of printless snow
All day the nut-brown girl would go;
And when the winter moon had shed
Its pale beams on the mountain's head,
She on a broomy pillow lay,
Singing the lonely hours away;
While the cold breath of dawn-light flew
Across the fields of glitt'ring dew:—
Swift o'er the frozen lake she past,
Unmindful of the driving blast,
And then she cried, “the air is sweet—
“It fans the breast of Marguerite.”

162

The weedy lane she lov'd to tread
When stars their twinkling lustre shed;
While from the lone and silent cot
The watchful cur assail'd her not,
Though at the beggar he would fly,
And fright the trav'ller passing by:
But she, so kind and gentle seem'd,
Such sorrow in her dark eyes beam'd,
That savage fierceness could not greet
With less than love,—poor Marguerite!

Oft by the splashy brook she stood,
And sung her song to the waving wood;
The waving wood, in murmurs low,
Fill'd up the pause of weary woe;
Oft to the forest tripp'd along,
And inly humm'd her frantic song;
Oft danc'd mid shadows ev'ning spread
Along the whisp'ring willow-bed.
And wild was her groan,
When she climb'd, alone,
The rough rock's side,
While the foaming tide
Dash'd rudely against the sandy shore,
And lightning flash'd amid the thunder's roar.

And many a time she chac'd the fly,
And mock'd the beetle humming by;

163

And then, with loud fantastic tone,
She sang her wild strain, sad—alone.
And if a stranger wander'd near,
Or paus'd the frantic song to hear,
The burthen she would soft repeat,
“Who comes to sooth poor Marguerite?”

And why did she with sun-burnt breast,
So wander, and so scorn to rest?
Why did the nut-brown maiden go
O'er burning plains and wastes of snow?
What bade her fev'rish bosom sigh,
And dimm'd her large and hazel eye?
What taught her o'er the hills to stray,
Fearless by night, and wild by day?
What stole the hour of slumber sweet,
From the scorch'd brain of Marguerite!”

Soon shalt thou know; for see how lorn
She climbs the steep of shaggy thorn—
Now on the jutting cliff she stands,
And clasps her cold and trembling hands;—
And now aloud she chaunts her strain,
While fiercely roars the troublous main.
Now the white breakers curling shew
The dread abyss that yawns below,
And still she sighs, “the sound is sweet,
“It seems to say, poor Marguerite!”

164

“Here will I build a rocky shed,
“And here I'll make my sea-weed bed;
“Here gather, with unwearied hands,
“The orient shells that deck the sands.
“And here will I skim o'er the billows so high,
“And laugh at the moon and the dark frowning sky;
“And the sea-birds, that hover across the wide main,
“Shall sweep with their pinions the white bounding plain;
“And the shivering sail shall the fierce tempest meet,
“Like the storm in the bosom of poor Marguerite!

“The setting sun, with golden ray,
“Shall warm my breast, and make me gay.
“The clamours of the roaring sea
“My midnight serenade shall be!
“The cliff, that like a tyrant stands
“Exulting o'er the wave-lash'd sands,
“With its weedy crown, and its flinty crest,
“Shall, on its hard bosom, rock me to rest;
“And I'll watch for the eagle's unfledg'd brood,
“And I'll scatter their nest, and I'll drink their blood;
“And under the crag I will kneel and pray,
“And silver my robe with the moony ray:
“And who shall scorn the lone retreat
“Which heav'n has mark'd for Marguerite!

165

“Here did the exil'd Henry stray,
“Forc'd from his native land away;
“Here, here upon a foreign shore,
“His parents, lost, awhile deplore;
“Here find, that pity's holy tear
“Could not an alien wand'rer cheer:
“And now, in fancy, he would view,
“Shouting aloud, the rabble crew—
“The rabble crew, whose impious hands
“Tore asunder nature's bands!
“I see him still,—he waves me on!
“And now to the dark abyss he's gone—
“He calls—I hear his voice so sweet,—
“It seems to say—poor Marguerite!”

Thus wild she sung! when on the sand
She saw her long-lost Henry stand:
Pale was his cheek, and on his breast
His icy hand he, silent, prest;
And now the twilight shadows spread
Around the tall cliff's weedy head:
Far o'er the main the moon shone bright,
She mark'd the quiv'ring stream of light—
It danc'd upon the murm'ring wave,
It danc'd upon her Henry's grave!
It mark'd his visage, deathly pale,—
His white shroud floating in the gale;

166

His speaking eyes, his smile so sweet,
That won the love—of Marguerite!

And now he beckon'd her along
The curling moonlight waves among;
No footsteps mark'd the slanting sand
Where she had seen her Henry stand!
She saw him o'er the billows go—
She heard the rising breezes blow;
She shriek'd aloud! The echoing steep
Frown'd darkness on the troubled deep;
The moon in cloudy veil was seen,
And louder howl'd the night blast keen!—
And when the morn in splendour dress'd,
Blush'd radiance on the eagle's nest,
That radiant blush was doom'd to greet—
The lifeless form—of Marguerite!

University of Virginia Library

POOR MARGUERITE.