Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MARION LEE, by BERNARD ESPINASSE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

MARION LEE, by                    
First Line: To 'the wanderer's rest at the foot of the rise
Last Line: And they say 'tis the ghost of poor marion lee.
Subject(s): Crime & Criminals; Death; Deception; Escapes; Hunting; Love; Dead, The; Fugitives; Hunters


To "The Wanderer's Rest" at the foot of the Rise
Where the ranges grow purple when evening dies
Came troopers, hard-riding, all dusty and brown,
On the trail of a bushranger, hunting him down.
And they carelessly talked as they went in to sup
About riding again when the moon should be up;
And they spoke of their errand whilst sipping their tea
To the inn-keeper's daughter, to Marion Lee.

With lips that grew white she pretended to smile,
Yet she stilled the wild beat of her heart all the while,
Then she stole from the room and she stole from the house,
With the speed of a bird and the tread of a mouse.
For the man whom they sought with a price on his head
In days that were gone she had promised to wed,
And criminal though now, alas! he might be,
Still true to her lover was Marion Lee.

She knew where he lay, not a mile from them then,
In a cave in the hills, like a fox in his den,
And to warn him of danger while yet there was time,
The spur of the ranges she started to climb.
Through the black bush she hurried, a phantom in white,
Till the cave-mouth was reached where it yawned to the night.
There in fever's delirium tossing was he,
And he babbled a name—it was Marion Lee!

"They will take him!" she cried, as she trembled with fear,
"If they find him unarmed and insensible here."
And she thought of their words, as they went in to sup,
About riding again when the moon should be up.
But with danger Love's ready resources awoke,
She wrapped herself round in the bushranger's cloak!
Put his hat on her head, loosed his horse from a tree,
And away to the ranges rode Marion Lee!

When the bush in the moonlight grew ghostly and grey,
The troopers rode out on the trail of their prey.
In silence their road at a gallop they took,
And never drew rein till their leader cried, "Look!"

On the crest of the rise where the she-oaks are bare
Was the bushranger riding his coaly-black mare;
By the star on her forehead they knew it was she,
But they guessed not the rider was Marion Lee!

Ere a shot could be fired the figure was gone,
And the echo of hoofs on the night-wind was borne.
With a shout of dismay and a volley to boot,
Up the slope went the troopers in angry pursuit,
And there was the bushranger, riding full speed,
In his cloak and slouch hat, on his coaly-black steed;
But the mare had a start and once galloping free,
"Let him catch us who can!" whispered Marion Lee.

Not a shot did they fire, that resolute five,
For 'twas double reward if they took him alive;
So they rode with set teeth and they spurred with a will,
And the mare and her rider ahead of them still!
Through the tanglefoot scrub, by the misty lagoon,
Through the shadowy bush in the light of the moon.
On, on, to the hills that look out to the sea,
Her work all but ended, sped Marion Lee.

For at length, when the dawn broke across the Divide,
And the horses ran lame with that terrible ride,
When decoyed by a woman, true-hearted and brave,
The troopers were miles from the bushranger's cave,
One, cursing, drew trigger—alas! he aimed well,
For she reeled in her saddle an instant, then fell.
When they sprang from their horses their prisoner to see—
They looked on the dead face of Marion Lee!

So the story is told of that terrible ride;
How a bushranger's sweetheart, in saving him, died.
And they say that he vanished, like mist from the ground,
And that never again was a trace of him found.
But the bushmen who live in the ranges declare
That a figure is seen on a coaly-black mare
Of a night, when the moon is up, galloping free,
And they say 'tis the ghost of poor Marion Lee.





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