The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Vol. 2. Bowles William Lisle

Mary wore in hopes and fears away.

      Slow twilight steals. By the small garden gate

      She stands: Oh! William never came so late!

      Her mother's voice is heard: Good child, come in;

      Dream not of bliss on earth – it is a sin:

      Come, take the Bible down, my child, and read;

      In sickness, and in sorrow, and in need,

      By friends forsaken, and by fears oppressed,

      There only can the weary heart find rest.

      Her thin hands, marked by many a wandering vein,

      Her mother turned the silent glass again;

      The rushlight now is lit, the Bible read,

      Yet, ere sad Mary can retire to bed,

      She listens! – Hark! no voice, no step she hears, —

      Oh! seek thy bed to hide those bursting tears!

      When the slow morning came, the tale was told,

      (Need it have been?) that William's love was cold.

      But hope yet whispers, dry the accusing tear, —

      When Sunday comes, he will again be here!

      And Sunday came, and struggling from a cloud.

      The sun shone bright – the bells were chiming loud —

      And lads and lasses, in their best attire,

      Were tripping past – the youth, the child, the sire;

      But William came not. With a boding heart

      Poor Mary saw the Sunday crowd depart:

      And when her mother came, with kerchief clean,

      The last who tottered homeward o'er the green,

      Mary, to hear no more of peace on earth,

      Retired in silence to the lonely hearth.

      Next day the tidings to the cottage came,

      That William's heart confessed another flame:

      That, with the bailiff's daughter he was seen,

      At the new tabernacle on the green;

      That cold and wayward falsehood made him prove

      Alike a traitor to his faith and love.

      The bells are ringing, it is Whitsuntide, —

      And there goes faithless William with his bride.

      Turn from the sight, poor Mary! Day by day,

      The dread remembrance wore her heart away:

      Untimely sorrow sat upon her cheek,

      And her too trusting heart was left to break.

      Six melancholy months have slowly passed,

      And dark is heard November's hollow blast.

      Sometimes, with tearful moodiness she smiled,

      Then, still and placid looked, as when a child,

      Or raised her eyes disconsolate and wild.

      Oft, as she strayed the brook's green marge along,

      She there would sing one sad and broken song: —

      Lay me where the willows wave,61

      In the cold moonlight;

      Shine upon my lowly grave,

      Sadly, stars of night!

      I to you would fly for rest,

      But a stone, a stone,

      Lies like lead upon my breast,

      And every hope is flown.

      Lay me where the willows wave,

      In the cold moonlight;

      Shine upon my lowly grave,

      Sadly, stars of night!

      Her mother said, Thou shalt not be confined,

      Poor maid, for thou art harmless, and thy mind

      The air may soothe, as fitfully it blows,

      Whispering forgetfulness, if not repose.

      So Mary wandered to the northern shore;62

      There oft she heard the gaunt Tregagel roar

      Among the rocks; and when the tempest blew,

      And, like the shivered foam, her long hair flew,

      And all the billowy space was tossing wide,

      Rock on! thou melancholy main, she cried,

      I love thy voice, oh, ever-sounding sea,

      Nor heed this sad world while I look on thee!

      Then on the surge she gazed, with vacant stare,

      Or tripping with wild fennel in her hair,63

      Sang merrily: Oh! we must dry the tear,

      For Mab, the queen of fairies, will be here, —

      William, she shall know all! – and then again

      Her ditty died into its first sad strain: —

      Lay me where the willows wave,

      In the cold moonlight;

      Shine upon my lowly grave,

      Sadly, stars of night!

      When home returned, the tears ran down apace;

      She looked in silence in her mother's face;

      Then, starting up, with wilder aspect cried,

      How happy shall we be at Whitsuntide,

      Then, mother, I shall be a bride – a bride!

      Ah! some dire thought seems in her breast to rise,

      Stern with terrific joy she rolls her eyes:

      Her mother heeded not; nor when she took,

      With more impatient haste, her Sunday book,

      She heeded not – for age had dimmed her sight.

      Her mother now is left alone: 'tis night.

      Mary! poor Mary! her sad mother cried,

      Mary! my Mary! – but no voice replied.

      Next morn, light-hearted William passed along,

      And careless hummed a desultory song,

      Bound to St Ives' revel.64 Not a ray

      Yet streaked the pale dawn of the dubious day;

      The sun is yet below the hills: but, look!

      There is the tower – the mill – the stile – the brook, —

      And there is Mary's cottage! All is still!

      Listen! no sound is heard but of the mill.

      'Tis true, the toils of day are not begun,

      But Mary always rose before the sun.

      Still at the door, a leafless relic now,

      Appeared a remnant of the May-day bough;

      No hour-glass, in the window, tells the hours:

      Where is poor Mary, where her book, her flowers?

      Ah! was it fancy? – as he passed along,

      He thought he heard a spirit's feeble song.65

      Struck by the thrilling sound, he turned his look.

      Upon the ground there lay an open book;

      One

61

The rhythm of this song is taken from a ballad "most musical, most melancholy," in the Maid's Tragedy, "Lay a garland on my grave."

62

The bay of St Ives.

63

Feniculum vulgare, or wild fennel, common on the northern coast of Cornwall.

64

Revel is a country fair.

65

It is a common idea in Cornwall, that when any person is drowned, the voice of his spirit may be heard by those who first pass by.