Poems (E. L. F.)/Mary

by E. L. F.

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 00 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 save
The 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.