Роберт Андерсон (Robert Anderson)

Mad Margery

Poor Margery sits on the shore by the willow;
Pale and woe--worn her looks, for distracted is she;
To the winds she complains, and chides each foaming billow,
And oft is the sea--weed poor Margery's pillow,
Whose treasure's entomb'd in the sea.

Poor Margery lov'd, and a youth more enchanting
Ne'er woo'd a fair maiden, or sail'd the salt wave;
Their bliss to complete but a few years were wanting,
Fir'd by glory, he left her, his tender heart panting,
But soon found a watery grave.

Poor Margery long watch'd her lover's returning,
Oft fond expectation the ship brought in view;
Peace at length wav'd her olive, with pain'd bosom burning,
She heard the sad tidings that chang'd hope to mourning,
How his loss was bewail'd by the crew.

Now faded's the face many a rustic call'd pretty;
Sun--burnt are her cheeks, sunk and languid her eyes;
To the loud--screaming sea--bird she sings her wild ditty,
But shuns ev'ry stranger, or laughs at their pity,
And weeps, when a vessel she spies.

At her breast hangs the token of love, giv'n at parting,
Which daily she washes with love's painful tears;
Now vacantly gazing, now frantic upstarting,
Remembrance across her disorder'd brain darting,
The voice of her lover she hears.

No more must the morning awake her to gladness;
No more her torn bosom can harbour sweet peace.
Ah, poor luckless maiden! abandon'd to sadness,
He who rides on the wind can alone heal thy madness,
And bid all thy sorrowings cease! 

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