Classic Poem

" WHERE is my Love? " pale Mary cry'd,
Her tender brain distraught with Sorrow,
" Where is my Love, so late the pride,
So late the blooming pride of Yarrow?

Tell him my fond, my aching heart,
To him was true, was constant ever,
O! let us meet, no more shall Art,
No more shall Envy make us sever.

Tell him the false deceiver came,
With many a well-concerted story,
That Connal blasted Mary's fame;
Her fame, the tender Virgin's glory.

Tell him — but ah! mistaken Maid,
Who shall speak peace to the departed?
Or who shall soothe the fleeting shade
Of a fond Lover broken-hearted?

Ye kind companions of my woe,
Whose tender bosoms melt with Sorrow,
Lead me where Connal lies so low! —
Perhaps, distracting thought, to-morrow,

My eye might wander o'er that face,
Which now 'mid thousands 'twou'd discover,
And Memory refuse to trace
The features of my injur'd Lover.

Ah me! — is that the blooming cheek,
Where youth and beauty late were blowing?
Is that the eye which shone so meek,
The lips from which soft sounds were flowing?

Oh! yet if near this fatal tide,
Too kind, and too deserving Lover,
If here where Truth and Honour dy'd,
Thy tender Spirit loves to hover;

To Mary's agonizing heart,
With Tenderness and Sorrow breaking,
Guide, quickly guide, the icy dart,
Which Death is yet at distance shaking.

And at this spot, ye weeping Fair,
Sweet flow'rs, and sweeter tears bestowing,
Still dread your first vows to forswear,
And here let ev'ry sweet be blowing. "

The kindly tear refus'd to flow,
Nor longer did the Maiden languish,
Beside her Lover cold and low,
She sunk at once opprest with anguish.

There on her Connal's early grave,
Who fell by false Detraction's arrow,
Silent she sleeps beside the wave,
The melancholy wave of Yarrow.