Around the roses of her face
Her flaxen ringlets fell;
No lovelier bosom than her own
Could guiltless sorrow swell!
The holy book before her lay,
That boon to mortals given,
To teach the way from weeping earth
To ever-glorious heaven;
And Mary read prophetic words,
That whisper'd of her doom--
"Oh! they will search for me, but where
I am, they cannot come!"
The tears forsook her gentle eyes,
And wet the sacred lore;
And such a terror shook her frame,
She ne'er had known before.
She ceas'd to weep, but deeper gloom
Her tearless musing brought;
And darker wan'd the evening hour,
And darker Mary's thought.
The sun, he set behind the hills,
And threw his fading fire
On mountain rock and village home,
And lit the distant spire.
(Sweet fane of truth and mercy! where
The tombs of other years
Discourse of virtuous life and hope,
And tell of by-gone tears!)
It was a night of nature's calm,
For earth and sky were still;
And childhood's revelry was o'er,
Upon the daisied hill.
The ale-house, with its gilded sign,
Hung on the beechen bough,
Was mute within, and tranquilly
The hamlet stream did flow.
The room where sat this grieving girl
Was one of ancient years;
Its antique state was well display'd
To conjure up her fears;
With massy walls of sable oak,
And roof of quaint design,
And lattic'd window, darkly hid
By rose and eglantine.
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