Poems (E. L. F.)/Mary

For works with similar titles, see Mary.

MARY.

Many a year hath passed away Since I beheld a scene,As deeply fraught with joy and woe As life hath ever been.

Here let me view the cottage dear, The porch and trellised door,Where roses sweet together meet, And ivy trembles o'er;

The glassy lake whose mirrored sheen Reflects the sunlit sky,And many a blushing flower is seen To greet the passer-by;

And mountains dark, whose towering height Seemed, in my fancy's play,A barrier 'twixt the world and those Who shunned its bright array.

The sun shone brighter in those days, Fairer each flower that grew;The very birds sang lighter then, As if they loved them too.

I loved a fair and joyous girl, And made her all mine own;And here long months of tenderness In beauty glided on.

She was to me a brightening star Of life and love on earth,And joy lay laughing in her eye— Her very voice was mirth.

Those days were far too bright to last— Mine, but to pass away;And dread consumption's fatal blast Made all I loved its prey.

And it smiled upon her placid brow, Blushing on that fair cheek; But the anguish of a breaking heart No words could ever speak.

I saw her dying day by day, And still no power to saveThe lovely and the loving one From the dark and cheerless grave.

And yet the sun, with brightening ray, Shone o'er the deep-blue sky,While my Mary's spirit passed away To its better home on high.

And I fled, from that sad hour, away, I knew not, cared not, whither;And I wished, in passion's fearful play, That we had died together.

And many a year I wandered far, In many a distant clime;And my heart's young grief is shadowed now By the blending hand of Time.