Classic and Contemporary Poetry
MARIA, THE VILLAGE GIRL, by JAMES GATES PERCIVAL Poet's Biography First Line: I knew a pleasant village, in a lone Last Line: Could trace her, through the silent wood withdrew. Subject(s): Grief; Love - Loss Of; Sorrow; Sadness | ||||||||
Nature is fine in love; and where 't is fine, It sends some precious instance of itself After the thing it loves. -- HAMLET. I KNEW a pleasant village, in a lone And silent valley, on the southern side Of a long line of mountains, whence a brook Came gently down, and in its winding flow Stole through a pansied meadow, where a bank Of beeches lifted up its tufted slope To the warm sun of April, as it shone Tenderly from a hemisphere of blue, Purer, because the earth sent rarer forth Its dimming exhalations, on whose boughs Yet hung the leaves of winter, with a low And plaintive rustling, telling to the winds A sweet Aeolian tale, and shining out In glossy twinkling, as they lightly turned Their surface to the light, and then veered back With a quick-glancing motion; in a bend Of that close thicket, where the mountain gust Came not, but all was tranquil, and the turf Was deeper greened, and the new opened flowers Spread bolder out their tender leaves, and sent Soft odors on the mellow air, that played Silently in that hollow, where the quail Sat often in the clear warm noon, and turned Her red eye to the silver light, and shook The dropped leaves in her playfulness; one day, When all was purely fair, and the chill winds Were hushed aloft, and as I upwards gazed, The frosted fir, the pendent pine, and all The sable groves of cedar, stood as still, As when a wood of lances wait the breath Of the shrill horn and braying clarion, To sink upon the line of fight, and rush Forward to meet in conflict -- such a day, When the young sod first quickens, and the pale Blue eyes of weeping violets part their lids To drink the first warm rays, I chanced to bend My wandering foot along the grassy brink Of the calm-flowing brooklet, pleased to take With a quick eye its many turns, and dwell On the clear dashing of its water-falls, And the soft gliding of its molten gold, Where the sun met it curving o'er a root That grew across its channel, or the curls, That like a pigeon's plumage waving played Over the sandy shallow, or the still And tranquil mirror where it rested deep And dark beneath a willow -- as I stood Looking aside upon the velvet vest Of the fresh-springing meadow, and above Where the bent birches hung their tufted flowers, New purpling like a silken shred, and faint The scarlet maple buds put out, and fair The downy willow catkins specked with gold Their flaxen locks, when life awoke within The leaf-buds of the forest, then I caught In that still nook, a pale and lovely girl, With a fair hand fondling a petted lamb, That bounded light around her, and with long And oft repeated fondness licked her hand, And then renewed its gambols, though it took Short turns, because a cord of braided blue, The colour of a dove-wing, or the sky, When a full moon shines over it, drew back Her minion to a narrow circle, for She thus had bound it in a silken chain, As if it were a loved one, who would fly To other lands, and leave her here to sing Her sad notes to the evening wind, and tell Her hours in weeping loneliness, and look Where the far path came o'er the hill to catch Her long departed lover, till the night Hid the low vale in darkness, and her eye Turned from the fruitless quest, and then she wept Tenderly, and her sweet voice took a tone, In which despair was uttered, till it sunk Trembling and fainting, as the night wind falls Softer along the harp strings, till a sound Just whispers through the air, and all is still. There was a look of calmness in her thin And delicate features, wasted to a shade, Like a pure spirit musing on the dark And sad afflictions of this life below, And dwelling for a moment on the grief And sickness of the better few, who trust In their most hopeless hours, they yet shall find A sunshine after darkness, and a calm After the tempest ceaseth, when the eye Of love shall rest forever on the friends They late have seen departing on their long And unreturning journey, whose cold lids They closed with pious care, whose stiffened limbs They laid in decent order, and composed Their pale lips to a sweet and dying smile, And shrouded all in whitest lawn, than which No flaky snow falls purer, and no curl Catches a softer tincture from the moon, To throw a thin veil o'er the stars, and dim Their brightness to a faint and mellow ray, Like a tone taper through a curtain, when Sleep broods above the hamlet, and the sound Of life is hushed, and this alone reveals To him who walks in darkness, that two hearts Are pouring out their fullness, or a voice, In the low consecrated tone of prayer, Is talking with the Universal soul, And blending with the perfect purity And majesty of Godhead, or an eye Is watching o'er the page of lofty thought, And catching inspiration at the shrine Of intellect and fancy, till the heart, Big with its high conceptions, overflows, And then his lips pour out the eloquence Of kindled spirit, and a purer stream Of language, musical, and grand, and full Of the quick life of mind, is sent abroad, Than ever meets the anxious ear, when crowds Drink in the rhetoric of master souls. Her looks were purely Grecian, such as charm Taste in an ancient statue, or a gem, Or fair intaglio, where a perfect white, Shaped to a nymph-like beauty, sparkles in A ground of azure; -- it was such a face, As had enamouured Raphael, or inspired The pencil of Corregio to the birth Of a blue-eyed Madonna, or a calm And pensive Spirit looking up to Heaven, Poised on a seraph's wing high in the dome Of an Italian temple, where the God Of charity is worshipped, and the form Of Him who died on Calvary adored. Her brow was softly arched, and it was pure And pale as marble, and the dew of death Seemed resting there, and gave a fearful tint To its else perfect loveliness, and told Thoughts were at work beneath it, which might still Ere long the life within her, but are loved, Although we know them fatal, as we cling To the Circean bowl, and dying grasp At its alluring poison, which conveys A madness to the brain that hath a touch Of inspiration in its reveries, And spreads around the spirit light and calm, Till earth seems beautiful and life is heaven. Her hair was of a sunny brown, and fine As lines of light that stream across a cloud, Ere the sun rises, or the scarlet tuft, That floats beneath the green wave, where on rocks The sea-plume clings, and throws its feeling threads, Like flowing silk around it. It was full, And dropped in light profusion down her neck, And o'er her bosom; and it parted lay In native ringlets round her brow, and shone Deeper beside the snow it rested on, And that came fairer through the curling shade That waved above it, as the sighing wind Sent a sweet-breathing air to shake the leaves, And crisp the sheeted water. As she hung Her head in deepest sorrow, some few tears Stole out and pearled her cheek, but these she brushed With a light touch aside, and then renewed A song, half sad, half playful, such as comes From a crazed brain, that says, it knows not why, A thousand things which are at first as gay As wild mirth in a revel, and then fall To a faint tone, in which despair alone Can have a concord, and at last a sob Closes it, and her glistening tears overflow. She lifted up her head, and mutely gazed Awhile upon the world above, and then Her ashy lips were moving, but no sound Came through their parting paleness, still it shone With a faint hectic flush, like the last tint The sun casts on a wreath of mists, and then A most intense cerulean veils it o'er, So that the sky seems tintless. As she looked Far in the silent atmosphere, methought Her blue eye had a fixedness, and saw A form distinctly featured, and she rose Half from her seat of turf, and threw her arms, As if to meet it in a fond embrace, And a sweet smile broke on her lips, and tears Stood glistening on her eyelids, such quick joy Stirred in her heart, and one faint word alone Escaped, it was Leoni: -- then she dropped Suddenly on her settle, and her head Drooped languidly, and her long flowing locks Showered their full ringlets o'er her, big round tears Dropt thick and freshly through them, and her sobs Shook her, they were so deep; she pressed her brow And wrung her hands, and then she cast them down Clasped on the sod beside her, shook her head, And with a sweet low voice sighed out, "no more." She plucked the flowers that grew around, and kissed Their purple and their yellow leaves, and long Inhaled their perfume; then she opened wide Her lips to the wild laugh, that tells despair, And it rang terribly around, and oft She uttered it still louder, and her eye Kindled and flashed intensely, and the spot Of death stood glowing like a ring of fire On the blue paleness of her cheek, and full The dark veins throbbed upon her brow, and shot Their branches o'er her temples, and she waved Her hand, that seemed a spirit's, where the light Shone with a purple glimmer through, and then She outward turned her palm, and often pushed Some hateful object from her, and a dark Mysterious look of madness glazed her eye, And her pearl teeth were set, and her frame shook With an internal shuddering; then with slow And broken sounds she muttered, "false and foul." Suddenly she sank down, and bending low Hid her face in her mantle; one weak groan Stole from her, like a dying wind at eve Through a sere vine in autumn: then her lamb Drew to her side, and looked with wistful eye On her wild sorrow; as her dim eye caught The innocent eye that gazed so fondly, calm She lifted up her forehead, and composed Her scattered tresses, and held out her hand To the compassionate creature, who was now The only one she trusted in; -- she smiled, As mourners smile, and hanging o'er she spake Few words of tenderness, "thou wilt not leave, Fair face of gentleness, thou wilt not leave, Though the world leave me:" then she gathered flowers And grass-blades, and she wove them in a wreath, And bound it round her minion's neck, and clasped Its soft limbs to her bosom, with a kiss Of sorrow and of love: her soul seemed calm, And shone serenely through her clear blue eyes, Which had in them a meek divinity, All patience, and all hope, that as she gazed Upward to the pure vault and the bright sun, Methought her spirit parted, and took wing, And angels came to welcome it, and bear The weary stranger to a resting-place, And lay her on a pillow which no thorn Hath ever entered. Such a sacred calm Was printed in her look, that she became Sainted to all my feelings, and I stood To see her spurn the earth, and soar away To the pure air above the highest cone, That still looked white behind me; but she soon Rose gently from her seat, and threw her hair With a quick motion backward, closely drew Her russet cloak, and twined her braided line Around her marble fingers, then looked down, And said, "we must go homeward, sweet one, night Is coming in the far sky," and ere I Could trace her, through the silent wood withdrew. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONOMA FIRE by JANE HIRSHFIELD AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARDS by JOHN HOLLANDER WHAT GREAT GRIEF HAS MADE THE EMPRESS MUTE by JUNE JORDAN CHAMBER MUSIC: 19 by JAMES JOYCE DIRGE AT THE END OF THE WOODS by LEONIE ADAMS THE CORAL GROVE by JAMES GATES PERCIVAL |
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