114
miscellaneous poems.
But Mary has turned from her wooer away—
She plucked the wild rose from its prickly spray,
The brier it wounded—Ah! maiden, and thou
Hast wounded another—pale, pale is his brow.
She plucked the wild rose from its prickly spray,
The brier it wounded—Ah! maiden, and thou
Hast wounded another—pale, pale is his brow.
And is it so, Mary?—Heaven help me! I go;—
This moment of agony may you ne'er know!—
He sprang to his feet—and his look of farewell
Was on Mary's vain heart like a withering spell.
This moment of agony may you ne'er know!—
He sprang to his feet—and his look of farewell
Was on Mary's vain heart like a withering spell.
Some said, as a sailor afar he had sailed,
And her light form grew thinner, her rosy cheek paled;
The old mother sighed, for she well knew the trace
Of death on her daughter's once beautiful face.
And her light form grew thinner, her rosy cheek paled;
The old mother sighed, for she well knew the trace
Of death on her daughter's once beautiful face.
The summer hath passed—and the winter is o'er,
Again spring is clust'ring the buds round the door;
Tho' balmy and sweet be the May's gentle breath
Poor Mary still withers, it brings to her—death.
Again spring is clust'ring the buds round the door;
Tho' balmy and sweet be the May's gentle breath
Poor Mary still withers, it brings to her—death.
