The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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MARY OF MARLEY. |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
MARY OF MARLEY.
At Marley stood the rural cot,
In Bingley's sweet sequestered dale,
The spreading oaks enclosed the spot
Where dwelt the beauty of the vale.
In Bingley's sweet sequestered dale,
The spreading oaks enclosed the spot
Where dwelt the beauty of the vale.
Blessed with a small, but fruitful farm,
Beneath the high majestic hill,
Where Nature spread her every charm
That can the mind with pleasure fill.
Beneath the high majestic hill,
Where Nature spread her every charm
That can the mind with pleasure fill.
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Here bloomed the maid nor vain nor proud,
But like an unapproached flower,
Hid from the flattery of the crowd,
Unconcious of her beauty's power.
But like an unapproached flower,
Hid from the flattery of the crowd,
Unconcious of her beauty's power.
Her ebon locks were richer far
Than is the raven's glossy plume;
Her eyes outshone the ev'ning star;
Her lovely cheeks the rose's bloom.
Than is the raven's glossy plume;
Her eyes outshone the ev'ning star;
Her lovely cheeks the rose's bloom.
The mountain snow, that falls by night,
By which the bending heath is pressed,
Did never shine in purer white
Than was upon her virgin breast.
By which the bending heath is pressed,
Did never shine in purer white
Than was upon her virgin breast.
The blushes of her innocence
Great Nature's hand had pencilled o'er;
And Modesty the veil had wrought
Which Mary, lovely virgin, wore.
Great Nature's hand had pencilled o'er;
And Modesty the veil had wrought
Which Mary, lovely virgin, wore.
At early morn each fav'rite cow
The tuneful voice of Mary knew;
Their answers hummed,—then wand'ring slow,
From daisies dashed the pearly dew.
The tuneful voice of Mary knew;
Their answers hummed,—then wand'ring slow,
From daisies dashed the pearly dew.
When lovely on the green she stood,
And to her poultry threw the grain,
Ring-doves and pheasants from the wood
Flew forth, and glittered in her train.
And to her poultry threw the grain,
Ring-doves and pheasants from the wood
Flew forth, and glittered in her train.
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The thrush upon the rosy bow'r
Would sit and sing while Mary stayed;
Her lambs their pasture gamboll'd o'er,
And on the new-sprung clover fed.
Would sit and sing while Mary stayed;
Her lambs their pasture gamboll'd o'er,
And on the new-sprung clover fed.
She milked beneath the beech-tree's shade,
And there the turf was worn away,
Where cattle had for cent'ries laid,
To shun the summer's sultry ray.
And there the turf was worn away,
Where cattle had for cent'ries laid,
To shun the summer's sultry ray.
Lysander, from the neighbouring vale,
Where Wharf's deceitful currents move,
To Mary told a fervent tale,
And Mary could not help but love.
Where Wharf's deceitful currents move,
To Mary told a fervent tale,
And Mary could not help but love.
The richest might have come and sighed;
Lysander had her favour won,—
Her breast was constant as the tide,
And true as light is to the sun.
Lysander had her favour won,—
Her breast was constant as the tide,
And true as light is to the sun.
When winter, wrapped in gloomy storm,
Each dubious path had drifted o'er,
And whirled the snow in ev'ry form,
To Mary oft he crossed the moor.
Each dubious path had drifted o'er,
And whirled the snow in ev'ry form,
To Mary oft he crossed the moor.
When western winds and pelting rain
Did mountain snows to rivers turn,
These swelled, and roared, and foamed in vain,
Affection helped him o'er the bourne.
Did mountain snows to rivers turn,
These swelled, and roared, and foamed in vain,
Affection helped him o'er the bourne.
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Until the last, the fatal night,
His footsteps slipped—the cruel tide
Danced and exulted with its freight,
Then lifeless cast him on its side!
His footsteps slipped—the cruel tide
Danced and exulted with its freight,
Then lifeless cast him on its side!
How changed is lovely Mary now!
How pale and frantic she appears!
Description fails to paint her woe,
And numbers to recount her tears.
How pale and frantic she appears!
Description fails to paint her woe,
And numbers to recount her tears.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |