 | Rhapsodies |  |
24
POOR POLLY, THE MAD GIRL.
Poor Polly was mad, and she sigh'd all alone,
Her bed the damp turf, and her pillow a stone,
A poor tatter'd blanket envelop'd her form,
But her bosom was bar'd to the pitiless storm:
For, alas! in that breast reign'd love's ardent desire,
And she thought the bleak winds might perhaps cool the fire.
Her bed the damp turf, and her pillow a stone,
A poor tatter'd blanket envelop'd her form,
But her bosom was bar'd to the pitiless storm:
For, alas! in that breast reign'd love's ardent desire,
And she thought the bleak winds might perhaps cool the fire.
Her hair was dishevell'd, and straw bound her head,
And lovely her face, though its roses were fled;
Her notes, though untutor'd by musical art,
Were plaintively wild, and sunk deep in the heart:
And the strain that unceasingly flow'd from her breast,
Was, “the vulture has plunder'd the nightingale's nest.”
And lovely her face, though its roses were fled;
Her notes, though untutor'd by musical art,
Were plaintively wild, and sunk deep in the heart:
And the strain that unceasingly flow'd from her breast,
Was, “the vulture has plunder'd the nightingale's nest.”
Quite frantic I saw her, and pitied her fate;
I wept, and my bosom was swelling with hate;
My curses, perfidious despoiler! were thine;
My sorrow was offer'd at sympathy's shrine;
For remorseless thou fledst her, and scoff'd at her pain;
Thou alone art the vulture that prey'st on her brain.
I wept, and my bosom was swelling with hate;
My curses, perfidious despoiler! were thine;
My sorrow was offer'd at sympathy's shrine;
For remorseless thou fledst her, and scoff'd at her pain;
Thou alone art the vulture that prey'st on her brain.
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