Louisa, A Ballad Poem by Robert Anderson

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.