Louisa, A Ballad Poem by Robert Anderson

Louisa, A Ballad



Where yon tall pine nods o'er the deep,
And murm'ring chides each passing gale,
Louisa oft would sit and weep,
And tell, with broken sighs, her tale.

``What dost thou gaze at, village youth?
Why down thy cheek rolls the big tear?
Why press thy finger on thy mouth?
Louisa's tale, boy, would'st thou hear?

``The hips and haws are oft my food;
The nearest water drink supplies;
My bed is in the thickest wood,
But sleepless oft with morn I rise!

``Thou little girl, with rosy cheek,
To thee the villain man's unknown;
He'll woo thee, but thy ruin seek,
Then soon thy happiness is flown!

``Art thou an only parent's care?
I, too, had once a mother dear!
Hie home! her smiles, her blessings share--
No more my sorrows shalt thou hear!''

Thus sunk a prey to want and grief,
The world no pleasure could impart;
Friendship could lend her no relief,
Nor pity heal a broken heart.

With woe--worn looks, in wild despair,
Now she'd repeat a lover's name;
Now gaze on one, her only care,
The living record of her shame.

Now in each feature, fondly trace
The look, that did her heart betray;
Then bending o'er his beauteous face,
Would weep the ling'ring hours away.

``Ah! pretty babe!'' she oft would cry,
``Thy smile but deeper wounds my breast!
Where, where from mis'ry can we fly?
The grave's our only place of rest!

``Ah! pretty babe! no father hears
Thy tongue its lisping tales repeat;
No lover dries thy mother's tears,
Nor marks her painful bosom beat!

``Be sorrow poor Louisa's lot!
Yet still her pray'r shall be to Heav'n,
That tho' by Henry now forgot,
His wrongs to her may be forgiv'n!''

A stranger now to all repose,
No more the mourner hop'd for peace;
And Heav'n, in pity to her woes,
Soon bade Louisa's sorrows cease.

Where yon tall spire o'er--tops the height,
And many a place of rest is seen,
There wanders one from morn to night;
Guilt marks his look and alter'd mien.

He heeds no stranger's proffer'd aid,
Nor chilling rain, nor piercing blast;
But near the aged yew--tree's shade,
For ever thinks of what is past.

On one he looks, to one he speaks,
Whom oft he prays kind Heav'n to save;
And with his babe, the Maniac seeks
Wild flow'rs, to deck Louisa's grave.

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