2
Mary’s Dream.
By Alexander Lowe.
The moon had climb’d the higheſt hill
That riſes o’er the ſource of Dee,
And from the eaſtern ſummit ſhed
Her ſilver light on tower and tree,
When Mary laid her down to ſleep—
Her thoughts on Sandy, far at ſea,
Then ſoft and low a voice was heard,
Saying, “Mary, weep no more for me.”
She from her pillow gently rais’d
Her head, to aſk who there might be,
And ſaw young Sandy ſhiv’ring ſtand,
With pallid cheek and hollow eye—
“O Mary dear! cold is my clay,
It lies beneath a ſtormy ſea;
Far, far from thee I ſleep in death,
So, Mary, weep no more for me!
“Three ſtormy nights and ſtormy days
We toſs’d upon the raging main,
And long we ſtrove our bark to ſave,
But all our ſtriving was in vain:
Even then, when horror clill’d my blood,
My heart was fill’d with love to thee;
The ſtorm is paſt, and I at reſt,
So, Mary, weep no more for me!
