William Bowles - The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Vol. 2

And we were up as soon as day, 58 58 Polwhele. These are the first four lines of the real song of the season, which is called "The Furry-song of Helstone." Furry is, probably, from Feriæ.
To fetch the summer home,
The summer and the radiant May,
For summer now is come.

In Madern vale the bell-flowers bloom, 59 59 Campanula cymbalaria, foliis hederaciis .
And wave to Zephyr's breath:
The cuckoo sings in Morval Coombe,
Where nods the purple heath. 60 60 Erica multiflora , common in this part of Cornwall.

Come, dance around Glen-Aston tree —
We bring a garland gay,
And Mary of Guynear shall be
Our Lady of the May.

But where is William? Did he not declare,
He would be first the blossomed bough to bear!
She will not join the train! and see! the flower
She gathered now is fading! Hour by hour
She watched the sunshine on the thatch; again
Her mother turns the hour-glass; now, the pane
The westering sun has left – the long May-day
So Mary wore in hopes and fears away.
Slow twilight steals. By the small garden gate
She stands: Oh! William never came so late!
Her mother's voice is heard: Good child, come in;
Dream not of bliss on earth – it is a sin:
Come, take the Bible down, my child, and read;
In sickness, and in sorrow, and in need,
By friends forsaken, and by fears oppressed,
There only can the weary heart find rest.
Her thin hands, marked by many a wandering vein,
Her mother turned the silent glass again;
The rushlight now is lit, the Bible read,
Yet, ere sad Mary can retire to bed,
She listens! – Hark! no voice, no step she hears, —
Oh! seek thy bed to hide those bursting tears!
When the slow morning came, the tale was told,
(Need it have been?) that William's love was cold.
But hope yet whispers, dry the accusing tear, —
When Sunday comes, he will again be here!
And Sunday came, and struggling from a cloud.
The sun shone bright – the bells were chiming loud —
And lads and lasses, in their best attire,
Were tripping past – the youth, the child, the sire;
But William came not. With a boding heart
Poor Mary saw the Sunday crowd depart:
And when her mother came, with kerchief clean,
The last who tottered homeward o'er the green,
Mary, to hear no more of peace on earth,
Retired in silence to the lonely hearth.
Next day the tidings to the cottage came,
That William's heart confessed another flame:
That, with the bailiff's daughter he was seen,
At the new tabernacle on the green;
That cold and wayward falsehood made him prove
Alike a traitor to his faith and love.

The bells are ringing, it is Whitsuntide, —
And there goes faithless William with his bride.
Turn from the sight, poor Mary! Day by day,
The dread remembrance wore her heart away:
Untimely sorrow sat upon her cheek,
And her too trusting heart was left to break.
Six melancholy months have slowly passed,
And dark is heard November's hollow blast.
Sometimes, with tearful moodiness she smiled,
Then, still and placid looked, as when a child,
Or raised her eyes disconsolate and wild.
Oft, as she strayed the brook's green marge along,
She there would sing one sad and broken song: —

Lay me where the willows wave, 61 61 The rhythm of this song is taken from a ballad "most musical, most melancholy," in the Maid's Tragedy, "Lay a garland on my grave."
In the cold moonlight;
Shine upon my lowly grave,
Sadly, stars of night!

I to you would fly for rest,
But a stone, a stone,
Lies like lead upon my breast,
And every hope is flown.

Lay me where the willows wave,
In the cold moonlight;
Shine upon my lowly grave,
Sadly, stars of night!

Her mother said, Thou shalt not be confined,
Poor maid, for thou art harmless, and thy mind
The air may soothe, as fitfully it blows,
Whispering forgetfulness, if not repose.
So Mary wandered to the northern shore; 62 62 The bay of St Ives.
There oft she heard the gaunt Tregagel roar
Among the rocks; and when the tempest blew,
And, like the shivered foam, her long hair flew,
And all the billowy space was tossing wide,
Rock on! thou melancholy main, she cried,
I love thy voice, oh, ever-sounding sea,
Nor heed this sad world while I look on thee!
Then on the surge she gazed, with vacant stare,
Or tripping with wild fennel in her hair, 63 63 Feniculum vulgare , or wild fennel, common on the northern coast of Cornwall.
Sang merrily: Oh! we must dry the tear,
For Mab, the queen of fairies, will be here, —
William, she shall know all! – and then again
Her ditty died into its first sad strain: —

Lay me where the willows wave,
In the cold moonlight;
Shine upon my lowly grave,
Sadly, stars of night!

When home returned, the tears ran down apace;
She looked in silence in her mother's face;
Then, starting up, with wilder aspect cried,
How happy shall we be at Whitsuntide,
Then, mother, I shall be a bride – a bride!
Ah! some dire thought seems in her breast to rise,
Stern with terrific joy she rolls her eyes:
Her mother heeded not; nor when she took,
With more impatient haste, her Sunday book,
She heeded not – for age had dimmed her sight.
Her mother now is left alone: 'tis night.
Mary! poor Mary! her sad mother cried,
Mary! my Mary! – but no voice replied.

Next morn, light-hearted William passed along,
And careless hummed a desultory song,
Bound to St Ives' revel. 64 64 Revel is a country fair. Not a ray
Yet streaked the pale dawn of the dubious day;
The sun is yet below the hills: but, look!
There is the tower – the mill – the stile – the brook, —
And there is Mary's cottage! All is still!
Listen! no sound is heard but of the mill.
'Tis true, the toils of day are not begun,
But Mary always rose before the sun.
Still at the door, a leafless relic now,
Appeared a remnant of the May-day bough;
No hour-glass, in the window, tells the hours:
Where is poor Mary, where her book, her flowers?
Ah! was it fancy? – as he passed along,
He thought he heard a spirit's feeble song. 65 65 It is a common idea in Cornwall, that when any person is drowned, the voice of his spirit may be heard by those who first pass by.
Struck by the thrilling sound, he turned his look.
Upon the ground there lay an open book;
One page was folded down: – Spirit of grace!
See! there are soils, like tear-blots, on the place!
It is a prayer-book! Soon these words he read;
Let him be desolate, and beg his bread! 66 66 The passage folded down was the 109th Psalm, commonly called "the imprecating psalm." I extract the most affecting passages: — "May his days be few." "Let his children be fatherless, and his wife a widow." "Let there be none to extend mercy." "Let their name be blotted out, because he slayed even the broken in heart."
Let there be none, not one, on earth to bless, —
Be his days few, – his children fatherless, —
His wife a widow! – let there be no friend
In his last moments mercy to extend!
It was a prayer-book he before had seen:
Where? when? Once more, wild terror on his mien,
He read the page: – An outcast let him lie,
And unlamented and forsaken die!
When he has children, may they pine away
Before his sight, – his wife to grief a prey.
Ah! 'tis poor Mary's book! – the very same
He read with her at church; and, lo! her name: —
The book of Mary Banks; – when this you see,
And I am dead and gone, remember me!
He trembles: mark! – the dew is on his brow:
The curse is hers! he cried – I feel it now!
I see already, even at my right hand,
Dead Mary, thy accusing spirit stand!
I feel thy deep, last curse! Then, with a cry,
He sunk upon the earth in agony.
Feebly he rose, – when, on the matted hair
Of a drowned maid, and on her bosom bare,
The sun shone out; how horrid, the first glance
Of sunlight, on that altered countenance!
The eyes were open, but though cold and dim,
Fixed with accusing ghastliness on him!
Merciful God! with faltering voice he cries,
Hide me! oh, hide me from the sight! Those eyes —
They glare on me! oh, hide me with the dead!
The curse, the deep curse rests upon my head!
Alas, poor maid! 'twas frenzy fired thy breast,
Which prompted horrors not to be expressed:
Whilst ever at thy side the foul fiend stood,
And, laughing, pointed to the oblivious flood.
William, heart-stricken, to despair a prey,
Soon left the village, journeying far away.
For, as if Mary's ghost in judgment cried,
His wife, in the first pains of child-birth, died.
Who has not heard, St Cuthbert, of thy well?
Perhaps the spirit may his fortunes tell. 67 67 The people of the country consult the spirit of the well for their future destiny, by dropping a pebble into it, striking the ground, and other methods of divination, derived, no doubt, from the Druids. — Polwhele.
He dropped a pebble – mark! no bubble bright
Comes from the bottom – turn away thy sight!
He looks again: O God! those eye-balls glare
How terribly! Ah, smooth that matted hair!
Mary! dear Mary! thy cold corse I see
Rise from the fountain! Look not thus at me!
I cannot bear the sight, that form, that look!
Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!
Meantime, poor Mary in the grave was laid; —
Her lone and gray-haired mother wept and prayed:
Soon to the dust she followed; and, unknown,
There they both rest without a name or stone.
The village maids, who pass in summer by,
Still stop and say one prayer, for charity!
But what of William? Hide me in the mine!
He cried, the beams of day insulting shine!
Earth's very shadows are too gay, too bright, —
Hide me for ever in forgetful night!
In vain – that form, the cause of all his woes,
More sternly terrible in darkness rose!
Nearer he saw, with its pale waving hand,
The phantom in appalling stillness stand;
The letters of the book shone through the night,
More blasting! Hide, oh hide me from the sight!
Ocean, to thee and to thy storms I bring
A heart, that not the music of the spring,
Nor summer piping on the rural plain,
Shall ever wake to happiness again!
Ocean, be mine, – wild as thy wastes, to roam
From clime to clime! – Ocean, be thou my home!
Some say he died: here he was seen no more;
He went to sea; and oft, amid the roar
Of the wild waters, starting from his sleep,
He gazed upon the wild tempestuous deep;
When, slowly rising from the vessel's lee,
A shape appeared, which none besides could see;
Then would he shriek, like one whom Heaven forsook,
Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!
In foreign lands, in darkness or in light,
The same dread spectre stood before his sight;
If slumber came his aching lids to close,
Funereal forms in long procession rose.
Sometimes he dreamed that every grief was past
Mary, long lost on earth, is found at last;
And now she smiled as when, in early life,
She lived in hope that she should be his wife;
The maids are dressed in white, and all are gay,
For this (he dreamed) is Mary's wedding-day!
Then wherefore sad? a chill comes o'er his soul, —
The sounds of mirth are hushed; and, hark! a toll! —
A slow, deep toll; and lo! a sable train
Of mourners, moving to the village fane.
A coffin now is laid in holy ground,
That, heavily, returns a hollow sound,
When the first earth upon its lid is thrown:
That hollow sound now changes to a groan:
While, rising with wan cheek, and dripping hair,
And moving lips, and eyes of ghastly glare,
The spectre comes again! It comes more near!
'Tis Mary! and that book with many a tear
Is wet, which, with dim fingers, long and cold,
He sees her to the glimmering moon unfold.
And now her hand is laid upon his heart.
Gasping, he wakes – with a convulsive start,
He gazes round! Moonlight is on the tide —
The passing keel is scarcely heard to glide, —
See where the spectre goes! with frenzied look
He shrieks again, Oh! Mary, shut the book!
Now, to the ocean's verge the phantom flies, —
And, hark! far off, the lessening laughter dies.
Years passed away, – at night, or evening close,
Faint, and more faint, the accusing spectre rose.
Restored from toil and perils of the main,
Now William treads his native place again.
Near the Land's-end, upon the rudest shore,
Where, from the west, Atlantic surges roar,
He lived, a lonely stranger, sad, but mild;
All marked his sadness, chiefly when he smiled;
Some competence he gained, by years of toil:
So, in a cottage, on his native soil,
He dwelt, remote from crowds, nor told his tale
To human ear: he saw the white clouds sail
Oft o'er the bay, 68 68 Bay of St Michael's Mount. when suns of summer shone,
Yet still he wandered, muttering and alone.
At night, when, like the tumult of the tide,
Sinking to sad repose, all trouble died,
The book of God was on his pillow laid,
He wept upon it, and in secret prayed.
He had no friend on earth, save one blue jay, 69 69 The blue jay of the Mississippi. See Chateaubriand's Indian song in "Atala."
Which, from the Mississippi, far away,
O'er the Atlantic, to his native land
He brought; – and this poor bird fed from his hand.
In the great world there was not one beside
For whom he cared, since his own mother died.
Yet manly strength was his, for twenty-years
Weighed light upon his frame, though passed in tears;
His age not forty-two, and in his face
Of care more than of age appeared the trace.
Mary was scarce remembered; by degrees,
The sights and sounds of life began to please.
Ruth was a widow, who, in youth, had known
Griefs of the heart, and losses of her own.
She, patient, mild, compassionate, and kind,
First woke to human sympathies his mind.
He looked affectionately, when her child
Caressed his bird, and then he stood and smiled.
This widow and her child, almost unknown,
Lived in a cottage that adjoined his own.
Her husband was a fisher, one whose life
Is fraught with terror to an anxious wife:
Night after night exposed upon the main;
Returning, tired with toil, or drenched with rain;
His gains, uncertain as his life; he knows
No stated hours of labour and repose.
When others to a cheerful home retire,
And his wife sits before the evening fire,
He, rocking in the dark, tempestuous night,
Haply is thinking of that social light.
Ruth's husband left the bay, the wind and rain
Came down, the tempest swept the howling main;
The boat sank in the storm, and he was found,
Below the rocks of the dark Lizard, drowned.
Seven years had passed, and after evening prayer,
To William's cottage Ruth would oft repair,
And with her little son would sometimes stay,
Listening to tales of regions far away.
The wondering boy loved of those scenes to hear —
Of battles – of the roving buccaneer —
Of the wild hunters, in the forest-glen,
And fires, and dances of the savage men.
So William spoke of perils he had passed, —
Of voices heard amid the roaring blast;
Of those who, lonely and of hope bereft,
Upon some melancholy rock are left,
Who mark, despairing, at the close of day,
Perhaps, some far-off vessel sail away.
He spoke with pity of the land of slaves —
And of the phantom-ship that rides the waves. 70 70 Called the Flying Dutchman, the phantom ship of the Cape.
It comes! it comes! A melancholy light
Gleams from the prow upon the storm of night.
'Tis here! 'tis there! In vain the billows roll;
It steers right on, but not a living soul
Is there to guide its voyage through the dark,
Or spread the sails of that mysterious bark!
He spoke of vast sea-serpents, how they float
For many a rood, or near some hurrying boat
Lift up their tall neck, with a hissing sound,
And questing turn their bloodshot eye-balls round.
He spoke of sea-maids, on the desert rocks,
Who in the sun comb their green dripping locks,
While, heard at distance, in the parting ray,
Beyond the furthest promontory's bay,
Aërial music swells and dies away!
One night they longer stayed the tale to hear,
And Ruth that night "beguiled him of a tear,
Whene'er he told of the distressful stroke
Which his youth suffered." Then, she pitying spoke;
And from that night a softer feeling grew,
As calmer prospects rose within his view.
And why not, ere the long night of the dead,
The slow descent of life together tread?
The day is fixed; William no more shall roam,
William and Ruth shall have one heart – one home:
The world shut out, both shall together pray:
Both wait the evening of life's changeful day:
She shall his anguish soothe, when he is wild,
And he shall be a father to her child.
Fair rose the morn – the summer air how bland!