Mary.

A poem by Thomas Gent

How oft have I seen her upon the sea-shore,
While tearful, her face, she would hide,
In sad silence the loss of the Sailor deplore
Who from infancy call'd her his bride,

The Sailor she lov'd was a Fisherman's son,
All dangers he triumph'd to meet;
Well repaid, if a smile from his Mary he won,
As he proffer'd his spoils at her feet.

But soon from her smiles was he summon'd away,
His fortunes at sea to pursue:
And grav'd on their hearts was the sorrowful day
That witness'd their final adieu.

They spoke not, ah, no; for they felt their hearts speak
A language their tongues could not tell;
As he kiss'd off the tears that fell fast on her cheek,
As she sigh'd on his bosom, farewel.

Full oft, the sad season of absence to charm,
To the rock or the dale she retir'd;
Where he told her the story, impassion'd and warm
That faithful affection inspir'd.

And now on the eve of his promis'd return,
All anxious, she flies to the strand;
But the night-shades descend ere her eye can discern
The white-sail approaching the land.

With night comes the tempest, unaw'd by the blast
She stood hem'd by ruin around;
She saw a frail bark on the rugged rock cast,
And heard its lasts signals resound.

My lover is lost! we shall never meet more!
She shriek'd with prophetic dismay,
The morn seal'd her sorrows the wreck on the shore
Was the vessel that bore him away.

Each hope her young bosom had cherish'd before,
Was consign'd with the youth to the grave:
She madden'd, she smil'd, as her ringlets she tore,
And buried her woes in the wave.

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