MARY.

———

BY WILLIAM M. BRIGGS.

———

There was a maiden once—so fair —

So shy in look—yet so beguiling —

With wealth of changeful golden hair,

And eyes so bright, yet ever smiling;

That fain thought I—so fair was she —

It should be writ in Poesie!

Her name was like a poet’s dream —

And that sweet name, they call it Mary —

A word of gentle, sunny sheen —

Though names may, like young maidens, vary —

And May, with woman’s wayward will,

Had sometimes gleams of April still!

But often on some dreamy day,

Out where the old green woods were swaying,

When the blue skies stretched far away,

And the glad sunshine’s every ray

Seemed with each bud and floweret playing,

And misty air and sunny beams

Grew tempting-full of foolish dreams;

Then would she sit in quiet mood,

With thoughtful face and gentle tone;

I dreamed the spirit of the wood

Had come to tryst with me alone,

And speak such earnest words as tell

That human hearts may love too well:

Such exquisite, sweet thoughts as rise

From souls that artless passion moves,

And mounting upward through the eyes

Betray the heart that loves,

And whisper, ere the lips can part,

That love lies brooding at the heart.

That love—young love—oh! who can tell

How much there is of mad’ning pain

For one who loves too deep—too well

To be beloved so back again —

To be so loved, yet doomed to see

All that he loves droop hopelessly!

Ah me! I look upon the past,

As o’er some book of faded flowers,

Where Joys, now crushed, too sweet to last,

Remind me of those vanished hours;

And every trace those leaves impart

Is pressed more deeply on my heart.

The touch, the tone, the melting look,

The half-reclining, gentle pressure,

The keeping time with hand and foot

To some love ditty’s murmured measure

While with her fingers, soft and fair,

She smoothed the tangles of my hair;

And how through long and silent ways

We wandered in the sunny weather,

As light of heart and full of lays

As any wanton bird in feather —

And every word that she would say

Seems ringing through my soul to-day.

There was a maiden once—so fair —

That I shall ne’er forget it—never —

Though time may silver o’er my hair,

And I may seem as calm as ever —

For dreams, whose guidance ne’er can vary,

Are trystings still for me and Mary.