Classic Poem

Where, travel-tir'd, from Winco's feet,
Don creeps slow Rother's moan to meet,
An exile wak'd, again to prove
The might of famine, sorrow, love.
“Bless'd Mary!” thus, he feebly pray'd,
“I faint—Bless'd Mary, lend thine aid.
No work is here, but for the strong!
I hunger, Mary! oh, how long?
For leave to toil, I begg'd in vain;
Gaunt rivals met, mocking pain:
“Return,” they said, “o'er ocean's foam,
To popish Ireland, murder's home.”
On raindrops chill the moon shines chill;
Dost thou behold her, Katy Gill?
Wak'st thou, to weep with weeping flowers,
While here I perish, far from ours?
No more to see my blessed four!
In this world never, never more!
Mother of God! send them to me;
For I, oh, Mary, come to thee!
A long, sad tale is truly told;
I cannot live, yet am not dead;
My tears are hot, my blood runs cold:
Thou, deep, bright river, be my bed!
Oh, comfort me! for some are fain
To beg cold water—oft' in vain!”
Smiling, he rose; and like a bride
That meets her bridegroom, sought the tide.
Then, flashing far, the waters rose,
And mutter'd curses on his foes;
While on the stream, and from the sky,
The sickled moon gleam'd angrily.