Classic Poem

C ONNAL .

B Y Yarrow stream that glides along,
Whose banks the wild-thyme sweetly covers,
Thus Connal rais'd his mournful song;
By Yarrow fam'd for faithful Lovers.

" Farewell! (he cried) a long farewell!
Farewell to Hope and Joy for ever!
For Hope and Joy can never dwell
Beside the waves that Lovers sever!

With Mary I have pass'd the day,
Beside this stream in murmurs flowing;
With Mary I have lov'd to stray,
Amid the wild-thyme sweetly blowing.

For her my little flock I left:
For Mary at the midnight hour,
My eye-lids were of sleep bereft:
My foot-steps wander'd round her bow'r.

For her it was, at dawning day,
The sweetest flow'rs of spring I blended;
For her at noon-tide's scorching ray,
The lambs and frolick kids I tended.

I form'd a wreath for Mary's hair,
Of all my little garden's treasure;
And when that wreath she deign'd to wear,
Is it in words to tell my pleasure?

Those happy days she has forgot,
Forgotten are my restless hours;
Forgotten is the rural spot
Where Mary wore that wreath of flow'rs.

She has forgot the silver tide,
The tide of Yarrow gently flowing;
And Mary is another's bride,
Where sweeter flow'rs than mine are blowing.

Blow sweet, ye flow'rs, where'er she be,
Ye streams in gentle murmurs languish:
But whisper not the charming she,
How fatal is her Connal's anguish.

When this fond breast shall cease to feel,
When this fond heart shall cease to flutter;
When down these cheeks no tear shall steal,
And these cold lips no sounds shall utter:

Let not Reflection tell my Love
How oft she vow'd to be my marrow;
Let not her foot-steps ever rove
Along the silent banks of Yarrow!

Perhaps if near the favour'd spot,
Where once her vows to me she plighted,
My ceaseless truth, my early lot,
In artless strains should be recited;

She might forget that ev'ry sigh,
That ev'ry tear of Love and Sorrow
That glisten'd in that charming eye,
From others' rights she now must borrow.

O, may she never hear my woe!
Nor Fame's loud tongue the tale discover:
Let no rude stone to Mary shew
The sod that wraps her clay-cold Lover.

Beneath the turf, where once we rov'd,
This faithful heart shall cease to languish;
Beside the bank where once she lov'd,
Soon shall this breast forget its anguish! "

His dying lips their task deny;
He ceas'd his tale, his tale of Sorrow:
Cold was his breast, and clos'd his eye,
Beside the flowing wave of Yarrow.