 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
46
Mary Lee.
1824.
[_]
[I was personally acquainted with all the parties mentioned in this Tale. The heroine was a reaper with me in the fields of Roddam. One word requires explanation. When a young man completes his apprenticeship, the merry-making with which he celebrates it is, in Northumberland, termed a Foy.]
Yes! the red earth, the pebbles washed with rain,
Which marked the spot where Sorrow wept in vain,
Are hidden now. The turf, once piled so high
That recent death was obvious to the eye,
So much hath sunk into the bordering green,
You scarce can tell that here a grave has been.
The stranger's foot might spurn it, nor could know
The relics of a Sister sleep below!
Which marked the spot where Sorrow wept in vain,
Are hidden now. The turf, once piled so high
That recent death was obvious to the eye,
So much hath sunk into the bordering green,
You scarce can tell that here a grave has been.
The stranger's foot might spurn it, nor could know
The relics of a Sister sleep below!
See! the bright butterfly, on gorgeous wing,
Holds its gay revel 'mid the beams of Spring;
The wild bee, to his daily task addressed,
From blade to floweret flits, and will not rest.
And these are now the blithest sounds that come,
That thoughtless flutter, and that busy hum—
And these are now the blithest sights we see
About the dwelling-place of Mary Lee!
Holds its gay revel 'mid the beams of Spring;
The wild bee, to his daily task addressed,
From blade to floweret flits, and will not rest.
And these are now the blithest sounds that come,
That thoughtless flutter, and that busy hum—
And these are now the blithest sights we see
About the dwelling-place of Mary Lee!
Poor Mary Lee! I knew her when the light
Of sixteen summers in her eye laughed bright;
And then, no fairer face than hers was seen,
No lighter footstep on the village green.
Favourite of all, whate'er she did was best,
Hers was the sweetest song, the merriest jest.
Whether they rescued, while the cold winds blow,
(For such things are!) the turnip from the snow;
Or turned the hay-swathe; or, in jovial band,
Reaped the full harvest from the waving land;
The foremost still in labour, as in glee,
The soul of all their mirth was Mary Lee!
Of sixteen summers in her eye laughed bright;
And then, no fairer face than hers was seen,
No lighter footstep on the village green.
47
Hers was the sweetest song, the merriest jest.
Whether they rescued, while the cold winds blow,
(For such things are!) the turnip from the snow;
Or turned the hay-swathe; or, in jovial band,
Reaped the full harvest from the waving land;
The foremost still in labour, as in glee,
The soul of all their mirth was Mary Lee!
Soon as the hawthorn whitens into flower,
There wheels the blackbird, and there finds a bower;
Soon as the girl to woman-beauty springs,
There hovers Love, and there he rests his wings!
And Mary's heart, with kindliest feelings fraught,
Was early sued for, and was early caught.
Love made her not less happy, and it bore
No charm away by others prized before;
Nay, she had sweetness which, before, amid
The foliage of wild recklessness was hid;
But, at Love's touch, 'twas scattered round her now
On all she spoke with—as that hawthorn bough,
Shook by the songster, sheds upon the gale
Its hoarded breath in perfume o'er the vale!
There wheels the blackbird, and there finds a bower;
Soon as the girl to woman-beauty springs,
There hovers Love, and there he rests his wings!
And Mary's heart, with kindliest feelings fraught,
Was early sued for, and was early caught.
Love made her not less happy, and it bore
No charm away by others prized before;
Nay, she had sweetness which, before, amid
The foliage of wild recklessness was hid;
But, at Love's touch, 'twas scattered round her now
On all she spoke with—as that hawthorn bough,
Shook by the songster, sheds upon the gale
Its hoarded breath in perfume o'er the vale!
Apprenticed when a boy, the favoured Youth
Who proffered love for love, and truth for truth,
Had yet three years to serve, ere he with pride
Could make, in prudence, Mary Lee his bride.
But these departed—need I tell you how?
Why, still the tale was told, and vowed the vow,
Th' embrace repeated, and the long, long kiss
Which made them friends when aught had passed amiss.
The Moon had never, from her pathway blue,
Smiled on a purer pair!—But why pursue
The common tale, or why their bliss proclaim,
Whose love is holy, and deserves the name?
Who proffered love for love, and truth for truth,
Had yet three years to serve, ere he with pride
Could make, in prudence, Mary Lee his bride.
But these departed—need I tell you how?
Why, still the tale was told, and vowed the vow,
Th' embrace repeated, and the long, long kiss
Which made them friends when aught had passed amiss.
The Moon had never, from her pathway blue,
Smiled on a purer pair!—But why pursue
The common tale, or why their bliss proclaim,
Whose love is holy, and deserves the name?
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These years departed, and his Freedom Foy
Bade the wide vale participate his joy;
And all who saw but deemed it prelude gay
To fairer pageant, and a happier day.
When, from some cause or none—some trifle—grew
A coldness 'twixt the lovers erst so true;
And ere the flame which still possessed each heart
Could bid the chill, surrounding damp depart,
And seek again its fellow—light to light—
Making the glow of passion doubly bright,
Fate, like a cloud, its searchless volume bore
Between them—and the meteors met no more!
Bade the wide vale participate his joy;
And all who saw but deemed it prelude gay
To fairer pageant, and a happier day.
When, from some cause or none—some trifle—grew
A coldness 'twixt the lovers erst so true;
And ere the flame which still possessed each heart
Could bid the chill, surrounding damp depart,
And seek again its fellow—light to light—
Making the glow of passion doubly bright,
Fate, like a cloud, its searchless volume bore
Between them—and the meteors met no more!
With him a moment stays my artless tale:
He left his Mary, left his native vale;
And joined bad men, from whom he learned to prove
The wildering mazes of illicit love.
He prospered like all others in that course—
Had momentary joy, and long remorse,
And wished at times to burst th' inglorious chain
For Mary's smile and innocence again.
Ah! this was but a transitory gleam
Where all was darkening!—A delirious dream
Of fancied wrong and fancied scorn from her
Whom in his heart he could not but prefer,
Inspired the thought that vengeance were a draught
Well worth the quaffing—and he madly quaffed!
A giddy girl, th' acquaintance of a night,
Received the troth which Haste should never plight:
But scarce the vow was said, the pageant o'er,
When the spell broke, and he must dream no more!
He raised his mental eye, and far above
The rock's high summit walked his early love,
The old love-smile yet brightening o'er her brow—
Thence he had fall'n, and all was misery now!
He left his Mary, left his native vale;
And joined bad men, from whom he learned to prove
The wildering mazes of illicit love.
He prospered like all others in that course—
Had momentary joy, and long remorse,
And wished at times to burst th' inglorious chain
For Mary's smile and innocence again.
Ah! this was but a transitory gleam
Where all was darkening!—A delirious dream
Of fancied wrong and fancied scorn from her
Whom in his heart he could not but prefer,
Inspired the thought that vengeance were a draught
Well worth the quaffing—and he madly quaffed!
A giddy girl, th' acquaintance of a night,
Received the troth which Haste should never plight:
But scarce the vow was said, the pageant o'er,
When the spell broke, and he must dream no more!
He raised his mental eye, and far above
The rock's high summit walked his early love,
The old love-smile yet brightening o'er her brow—
Thence he had fall'n, and all was misery now!
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Meanwhile, in various guise, the tidings passed,
Nor did they reach poor Mary's ear the last.
The common eye observed not that they brought
An added pang to those his absence wrought;
But they who viewed her nearer, saw with pain
The strife which Love and wounded Pride maintain.
They marked the secret tear, the smothered moan,
Th' unwonted musings which she held alone,—
The all, in brief, that strikes observant eyes,
When life's best charm with Hope, the Angel, flics!
Nor did they reach poor Mary's ear the last.
The common eye observed not that they brought
An added pang to those his absence wrought;
But they who viewed her nearer, saw with pain
The strife which Love and wounded Pride maintain.
They marked the secret tear, the smothered moan,
Th' unwonted musings which she held alone,—
The all, in brief, that strikes observant eyes,
When life's best charm with Hope, the Angel, flics!
'Twas a sweet night. The summer breeze, abroad,
Just waved the Old Oak's shadow on the road;
For the fair Moon in glory rolled above—
O! 'twas a night for love, and hearts that love!
Poor Mary sat—her 'customed labours o'er—
And eyed the moonshine stream athwart the floor;
While Memory a heightening radiance cast
On the too brilliant picture of the past.
“How oft,” she thought, “at such a time have I
Been blessed—beyond all bliss beneath the sky!
At such a time the tap that spoke him here,
Has come like sweetest music to my ear;
And I have turned, and seen his manly form
Distinctly stand in moonshine or in storm!”
She raised her eyes, wet with the sick heart's dew—
Her lover at the casement stood in view!
Just waved the Old Oak's shadow on the road;
For the fair Moon in glory rolled above—
O! 'twas a night for love, and hearts that love!
Poor Mary sat—her 'customed labours o'er—
And eyed the moonshine stream athwart the floor;
While Memory a heightening radiance cast
On the too brilliant picture of the past.
“How oft,” she thought, “at such a time have I
Been blessed—beyond all bliss beneath the sky!
At such a time the tap that spoke him here,
Has come like sweetest music to my ear;
And I have turned, and seen his manly form
Distinctly stand in moonshine or in storm!”
She raised her eyes, wet with the sick heart's dew—
Her lover at the casement stood in view!
With step delirious from her seat she sprung,
And the next moment round his neck she clung,
And “O my love!” the Maid began to say,
“How long from me hath been thy weary stay!
The rest have had their lovers—I alone
Had none to speak with at the fold or loan.
O! I have watched for thee—along the path,
Thy usual foot-way through the lonely strath,
Till tree and bush, in twilight vapours seen,
Have ta'en thy figure—e'en thy step and mien!
Nay, I have met thee, when it darker frowned,
Thine arms extended as to clasp me round;
Twas but a phantom of the heated brain!
I shuddering turned, and, hurrying home again,
There stretched me on my couch—O not to sleep!
But till the stars grew dim, to wake and weep;
And then to dream of horrors—rivals gay
And bridal splendours—till the blush of day!
For it was whispered to me—but I knew
The dreadful rumour never could be true—
That thou wert now a guilty thing, and lost
To every virtue once thy noble boast;
That thou hadst”—“O my Mary, name it not!
Be what is said, and what is done, forgot.
The world has other climes, where thou mayst be
Blest in thy Charles, and I in Mary Lee.”
“There spoke my love, as he was wont to do
Ere envious tongues described his heart untrue!
The bells shall ring, and bid the joyous gale
Waft the blithe tidings round and round the vale—
While I, in robes of shining whiteness dressed,
An emblem of the bright love in my breast,
Joining thy proud step proudly, by thy side
Shall move along, thy day-acknowledged bride!
How will they look to see it, they who spread
The baseless falsehood that my Charles was wed!
But what of other climes, love? Didst thou speak
Of other climes, as things that we must seek?
Never, as yet, have opened to my view
The secrets hid behind yon mountains blue;
But the most distant and most desert spot
Shall be my choice, if there is cast thy lot!
One thing premised—our Village Church has heard
My parents' prayers and mine to heaven preferred;
Its spire's rough tones, to mountain and to dell,
Have rung their bridal peal, and funeral knell;
And their poor Orphan must not leave the place
With dubious stigma, or with sure disgrace!
But still my senses dream! My love, my life,
Asks not my company but as his—Wife?”
And the next moment round his neck she clung,
And “O my love!” the Maid began to say,
“How long from me hath been thy weary stay!
The rest have had their lovers—I alone
Had none to speak with at the fold or loan.
O! I have watched for thee—along the path,
Thy usual foot-way through the lonely strath,
50
Have ta'en thy figure—e'en thy step and mien!
Nay, I have met thee, when it darker frowned,
Thine arms extended as to clasp me round;
Twas but a phantom of the heated brain!
I shuddering turned, and, hurrying home again,
There stretched me on my couch—O not to sleep!
But till the stars grew dim, to wake and weep;
And then to dream of horrors—rivals gay
And bridal splendours—till the blush of day!
For it was whispered to me—but I knew
The dreadful rumour never could be true—
That thou wert now a guilty thing, and lost
To every virtue once thy noble boast;
That thou hadst”—“O my Mary, name it not!
Be what is said, and what is done, forgot.
The world has other climes, where thou mayst be
Blest in thy Charles, and I in Mary Lee.”
“There spoke my love, as he was wont to do
Ere envious tongues described his heart untrue!
The bells shall ring, and bid the joyous gale
Waft the blithe tidings round and round the vale—
While I, in robes of shining whiteness dressed,
An emblem of the bright love in my breast,
Joining thy proud step proudly, by thy side
Shall move along, thy day-acknowledged bride!
How will they look to see it, they who spread
The baseless falsehood that my Charles was wed!
But what of other climes, love? Didst thou speak
Of other climes, as things that we must seek?
Never, as yet, have opened to my view
The secrets hid behind yon mountains blue;
But the most distant and most desert spot
Shall be my choice, if there is cast thy lot!
One thing premised—our Village Church has heard
51
Its spire's rough tones, to mountain and to dell,
Have rung their bridal peal, and funeral knell;
And their poor Orphan must not leave the place
With dubious stigma, or with sure disgrace!
But still my senses dream! My love, my life,
Asks not my company but as his—Wife?”
She raised her face, as if from his to seek
Th' assurance which his lip forbore to speak;
But he had turned his head, and gazed on high
Where thousand brilliants gemmed the azure sky,
And Mary felt that, agonised with grief,
His whole frame quivered like the aspen leaf.
Abrupt he spoke: “The truth must be avowed,
Though Heaven's red ire should flash without a cloud!
He paused, as if to see the lightning glare,
But all was calm, and still, and lambent there.
“'Tis vain! it flashed not o'er my impious vow—
It slumbered then—and will not waken now.
Then, though thy curse should blast me where I stand,
I am another's—not in heart—but hand!”
Not sooner, had the fate-winged lightning broke,
Of whose quick agency he wildly spoke,
Could the poor Maid have sunk before him—pale
As the white rose-leaf that bestrews the gale!
Her lover's cry of sudden horror brought
The startled inmates of the peaceful cot,
Who found him bent above the seeming dead,
To which he mutely pointed them—and fled.
Th' assurance which his lip forbore to speak;
But he had turned his head, and gazed on high
Where thousand brilliants gemmed the azure sky,
And Mary felt that, agonised with grief,
His whole frame quivered like the aspen leaf.
Abrupt he spoke: “The truth must be avowed,
Though Heaven's red ire should flash without a cloud!
He paused, as if to see the lightning glare,
But all was calm, and still, and lambent there.
“'Tis vain! it flashed not o'er my impious vow—
It slumbered then—and will not waken now.
Then, though thy curse should blast me where I stand,
I am another's—not in heart—but hand!”
Not sooner, had the fate-winged lightning broke,
Of whose quick agency he wildly spoke,
Could the poor Maid have sunk before him—pale
As the white rose-leaf that bestrews the gale!
Her lover's cry of sudden horror brought
The startled inmates of the peaceful cot,
Who found him bent above the seeming dead,
To which he mutely pointed them—and fled.
The Youth is gone—but whither, none can say.
On sick-bed long the hapless Mary lay.
Her health returned, such health as lent her frame
A languid strength; but never more there came
To her that buoyancy of heart and soul,
Those playful moods that wont to spurn control.
True, she at times would laugh, at times would smile,
At times would sing the songs she loved erewhile;
But all was done, as if the mind no part
Took in the general business of the heart!
She smiled, but none knew why; she laughed aloud,
But the loud laugh, mistimed, alarmed the crowd;
And when she sung, however blithe the strain,
A sense of horror thrilled the listening train!
She stood, the victim of an inward strife
Destructive of her reason or her life.
On sick-bed long the hapless Mary lay.
Her health returned, such health as lent her frame
A languid strength; but never more there came
To her that buoyancy of heart and soul,
52
True, she at times would laugh, at times would smile,
At times would sing the songs she loved erewhile;
But all was done, as if the mind no part
Took in the general business of the heart!
She smiled, but none knew why; she laughed aloud,
But the loud laugh, mistimed, alarmed the crowd;
And when she sung, however blithe the strain,
A sense of horror thrilled the listening train!
She stood, the victim of an inward strife
Destructive of her reason or her life.
Weeks glided on. At length a billet—planned
By a sick heart, and in a trembling hand—
Was laid before her. Thus its tenor ran:
“My Mary! I am now a dying man,
Whom the green turf will wrap, before this sheet,
Charged with my love, thy virtuous eye can meet.
We meet no more on earth; but—were it given
To Guilt thus much to hope—we shall in heaven.
The stroke which frees me from each mortal chain,
Leaves thee to deem me all thine own again;
Again thy mind may, blameless, think on me,
Whose latest thought shall dwell on Mary Lee!”
—A postscript, added by a stranger, told
The writer's hand was stiff, his heart was cold.
By a sick heart, and in a trembling hand—
Was laid before her. Thus its tenor ran:
“My Mary! I am now a dying man,
Whom the green turf will wrap, before this sheet,
Charged with my love, thy virtuous eye can meet.
We meet no more on earth; but—were it given
To Guilt thus much to hope—we shall in heaven.
The stroke which frees me from each mortal chain,
Leaves thee to deem me all thine own again;
Again thy mind may, blameless, think on me,
Whose latest thought shall dwell on Mary Lee!”
—A postscript, added by a stranger, told
The writer's hand was stiff, his heart was cold.
Mary perused it; but no tear—no sigh—
Rose from her breast, or trickled from her eye.
Astonished gazers saw her eye assume
Celestial light, her cheek celestial bloom;
And breathing thus of seraph-charms, she cried
“O I am happy now!” and, smiling, died.
Rose from her breast, or trickled from her eye.
Astonished gazers saw her eye assume
Celestial light, her cheek celestial bloom;
And breathing thus of seraph-charms, she cried
“O I am happy now!” and, smiling, died.
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