Classic Poem

In yon neat, lattic'd cot, from whose chimney ascending
The smoke to the west points a column of shade,
Where the jasmine and woodbine their tendrils are blending,
Dwelt Mary the orphan, a poor Village Maid.

Enshrin'd in her bosom sat innocence dawning,
Whilst the soft cherub Beauty, each feature adorning,
Bade the sweet glow of health, like the first blush of morning,
Yet heighten the charms of the poor Village Maid.

She was Grief's early victim—for Edward, her lover
(Why, visions of bliss! why so soon did ye fade?)
By a parent's harsh mandate was now a sad rover
On the salt waves afar from his poor Village Maid.

Her bosom alas! now seem'd bursting with sorrow,
Tho' Fancy from Hope oft a solace would borrow,
And timidly glance on the far-distant morrow,
That might haply bring peace to the poor Village Maid.

Ah! long was the time the fair mourner was striving
To hide what her feelings too sadly betray'd,
When tidings most dread, on a sudden arriving,
Now frenzied the brain of the poor Village Maid:

That a band of fierce negroes, the thickets widescouring,
Had sprung on the crew, with their number o'er-powering,
And murdering her Edward, then piece-meal devouring,
Thus blasted the hopes of the poor Village Maid.

Oft she gaz'd, as entranc'd, on the clouds that roll'd over
Th' horizon, when now day's last glories decay'd,
For there would she picture the ghost of her lover,
Invoking with smiles his poor dear Village Maid.

When at midnight the clock at the Abbey was sounding,
She would play with the ivy, its dark walls surrounding,
Then list to the echo, so dreary, resounding
The hollow-toned steps of the poor Village Maid.

If an owl cross'd her path, or an insect loud-humming,
Strangely mocking the sound, her abrupt pace she stay'd,
She would say 'twas the voice of her Edward now coming,
Again to see Mary, the poor Village Maid.

Whilst frequent she wander'd, unmeaningly singing,
Or the crowfoot, late cull'd, from her breast rudely flinging,
E'en the scarce-lisping babe, to its mother's arms clinging,
Shrunk with fear from craz'd Mary, the poor Village Maid.

With a wild fit of laughter the sense of woe scoffing,
Ah many a day to the sea-beach she stray'd,
And fancied each ship, in the dim, distant offing,
Brought the youth so belov'd by the poor Village Maid.

One morn as she sate weaving garlands of willow,
And resting her arm on yon cliff, her hard pillow,
Ah! prone to her feet rush'd an high-curling billow,
And bore to her grave the poor craz'd Village Maid!