 | Songs and ballads |  |
76
THE VOICE OF THE MORNING.
The voice of the morning is calling to childhood,
From streamlet, and valley, and mountain, it calls,
And Mary, the loveliest nymph of the wild wood,
Is crossing the brook where the mill water falls.
Oh! lovely is Mary, her face like a vision
Once seen leaves a charm that will ever endure;
From her glance and her smile there beams something elysian:
She has but one failing—sweet Mary is poor.
From streamlet, and valley, and mountain, it calls,
And Mary, the loveliest nymph of the wild wood,
Is crossing the brook where the mill water falls.
Oh! lovely is Mary, her face like a vision
Once seen leaves a charm that will ever endure;
From her glance and her smile there beams something elysian:
She has but one failing—sweet Mary is poor.
Her bosom is white as the hawthorn, and sweeter;
Her form light and lovesome, as maiden's should be;
Her foot like a fairy's—yet softer and fleeter—
Oh! Mary, the morn hath no lily like thee.
But narrow and low hangs the roof of her dwelling,
Her home it is humble, her birth is obscure;
And though in all beauty and sweetness excelling,
She wanders neglected—for Mary is poor.
Her form light and lovesome, as maiden's should be;
Her foot like a fairy's—yet softer and fleeter—
Oh! Mary, the morn hath no lily like thee.
But narrow and low hangs the roof of her dwelling,
Her home it is humble, her birth is obscure;
And though in all beauty and sweetness excelling,
She wanders neglected—for Mary is poor.
Yet, oh! to her heart mother Nature hath given
The kindest affections that mortal can know;
She loves every star that sheds radiance in heaven,
She worships the flowers as God's image below.
Ah! sad 't is to think that a being resembling
The fairest in beauty, such lot should endure,
But the dews that like tears on the lilies are trembling,
Are types but of Mary—for Mary is poor.
The kindest affections that mortal can know;
She loves every star that sheds radiance in heaven,
She worships the flowers as God's image below.
Ah! sad 't is to think that a being resembling
The fairest in beauty, such lot should endure,
But the dews that like tears on the lilies are trembling,
Are types but of Mary—for Mary is poor.
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