The weedy lane she lov’d to tread When stars their twinkling lustre shed; While from the lone and silent Cot The watchful Cur assail’d her not, Though at the beggar he would fly, And fright the Trav’ller passing by: But she, so kind and gentle seem’d, Such sorrow in her dark eyes beam’d, That savage fierceness could not greet With less than love,—POOR MARGUERITE! Oft, by the splashy brook she stood And sung her Song to the waving wood; The waving wood, in murmurs low, Fill’d up the pause of weary woe; Oft, to the Forest tripp’d along And inly humm’d her frantic Song; Oft danc’d mid shadows Ev’ning spread Along the whisp’ring willow-bed. And wild was her groan, When she climb’d, alone— The rough rock’s side, While the foaming tide, Dash’d rudely against the sandy shore, And the lightning flash’d mid the thunder’s roar. And many a time she chac’d the fly, And mock’d the Beetle, humming by; And then, with loud fantastic tone She sang her wild strain, sad—alone. And if a stranger wander’d near Or paus’d the frantic Song to hear, The burthen she would soft repeat, “Who comes to soothe POOR MARGUERITE?” And why did she with sun-burnt breast, So wander, and so scorn to rest? Why did the NUT-BROWN MAIDEN go O’er burning plains and wastes of snow? What bade her fev’rish bosom sigh, And dimm’d her large and hazle eye? What taught her o’er the hills to stray Fearless by night, and wild by day? What stole the hour of slumber sweet— From the scorch’d brain of MARGUERITE. Soon shalt thou know; for see how lorn She climbs the steep of shaggy thorn— Now on the jutting cliff she stands, And clasps her cold,—but snow-white hands. And now aloud she chaunts her strain While fiercely roars the troublous main. Now the white breakers curling shew The dread abyss that yawns below, And still she sighs, “the sound is sweet, “It seems to say, POOR MARGUERITE!” “Here will I build a rocky shed, “And here I’ll make my sea-weed bed; “Here gather, with unwearied hands— “The orient shells that deck the sands. “And here will I skim o’er the billows so high, “And laugh at the moon and the dark frowning sky. “And the Sea-birds, that hover across the wide main, “Shall sweep with their pinions, the white bounding plain.— “And the shivering sail shall the fierce tempest meet, “Like the storm, in the bosom of POOR MARGUERITE!