The towering elms divide their tops;
And now a dismal heath
Proclaims her "final doom" is near
The awful hour of death!
The villain check'd his weary horse,
And spoke of trust betray'd;
And Mary's heart grew sick with fright,
As, answering, thus she said--
"Oh! kill me not until I see
My mother's face again!
Ride on, in mercy, horseman, ride,
And let us reach the lane!
"There slay me by my mother's door,
And I will pray for thee--
For she shall find her daughter's corse"--
"No, girl, it cannot be.
"This heath thou shalt not cross, for soon
Its earth will hide thy form;
That babbling tongue of thine shall make
A morsel for the worm!"
She leap'd upon the ling-clad heath,
And, nerv'd with phrensied fear,
Pursued her slippery way across,
Until the wood was near.
But nearer still _two_ fiends appear'd,
Like hunters of the fawn,
Who cast their cumb'ring cloaks away,
Beside that forest lone;
And bounded swifter than the maid,
Who nearly 'scap'd their wrath,
For well she knew that woody glade,
And every hoary path,
Obscur'd by oak and hazel bush,
Where milk-maid's merry song
Had often charm'd her lover's ear,
Who blest her silv'ry tongue.
But Mary miss'd the woodland stile--
The hedge-row was not high;
She gain'd its prickly top, and now
Her murderers were nigh.
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