A LAMENTATION. Joanna Baillie Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Baillie, Joanna, 1762-1851. Fugitive Verses. By Joanna Baillie, author of “Dramas on the Passions,“ etc. London Edward Moxon, Dover Street. MDCCCXL. 1840 pp. 84-88.

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A LAMENTATION . WHERE ancient broken wall encloses round , From tread of lawless feet , the hallowed ground , And sombre yews their dewy branches wave , O'er many a graven stone and mounded grave ; Where Parish Church , confusedly to the sight , With deeper darkness prints the shades of night , In garb deranged and loose , with scattered hair , His bosom open to the nightly air , Lone , o'er a new-heaped grave poor Basil bent , And to himself began his simple plaint . " Alas , how cold thy home , how low thou art , Who wert the pride and mistress of my heart ! The fallen leaves now rustling o'er thee pass , And o'er thee waves the dank and dewy grass , The new-laid sods and twisted osier tell , How narrow is the space where thou must dwell . Now rough and wintry winds may on thee beat , Chill rain , and drifting snow , and summer's heat ; Each passing season's rub , for woe is me ! Or gloom or sunshine is the same to thee . Ah Mary ! lovely was thy slender form , And bright thy cheerful brow that knew no storm . Thy steps were graceful on the village green , As though thou hadst some courtly lady been . At Church or market still the gayest lass , Each youngster slacked his speed to see thee pass . At early milking tuneful was thy lay , And sweet thy homeward song at close of day ; But sweeter far , and every youth's desire , Thy cheerful converse by the evening fire . Alas ! no more thou'lt foot the village sward , No song of thine shall ever more be heard , And they full soon will trip it on the green , As blythe and gay as thou hadst never been . Around the evening fire with little care , Will neighbours sit and scarcely miss thee there ; And when the sober parting hour comes round , Will to their rest retire , and slumber sound . But Basil cannot rest ; his days are sad , And long his nights upon the weary bed . Yet still in broken dreams thy form appears , And still my bosom proves a lover's fears . I guide thy footsteps through the tangled wood ; I catch thee sinking in the boisterous flood ; I shield thy bosom from the threatened stroke ; I clasp thee falling from the headlong rock ; But ere we reach the dark and dreadful deep , High heaves my troubled breast , I wake and weep . At every wailing of the midnight wind , Thy lowly dwelling comes into my mind . When rain beats on my roof , wild storms abroad , I think upon thy bare and beaten sod ; I hate the comfort of a sheltered home , And hie me forth , o'er pathless fields to roam . " O Mary ! loss of thee hath fixed my doom , This world around me is a weary gloom , Dull heavy musings lead my mind astray , I cannot sleep by night , nor work by day . Or wealth or pleasure dullest hinds inspire , But cheerless is their toil who nought desire ; Let happier friends divide my farmer's stock , Cut down my grain , and shear my little flock ; For now my only care on earth will be Here every Sunday morn to visit thee , And in the holy Church with heart sincere And humble mind our worthy Curate hear ; He best can tell , when earthly woes are past , The surest way to meet with thee at last . I'll thus a while a weary life abide , Till wasting time hath laid me by thy side ; For now on earth there is no place for me , Nor peace nor slumber till I rest with thee . " Loud from the lofty spire , with piercing knell , Solemn and awful , toll'd the parish bell , A later hour than rustics deem it meet That Churchyard ground be trod by mortal feet . The wailing lover started at the sound , And raised his head and cast his eyes around . The gloomy pile in strengthened horror lowered , Large and majestic every object towered ; Dun through the gloom , they shewed like forms unknown , And tall and ghastly , rose each whitened stone ; Aloft the dismal screech-owl 'gan to sing , And past him skimm'd the bat with flapping wing . The fears of nature woke within his breast , He left the hallowed spot of Mary's rest , And sped his way the Churchyard wall to gain , Then check'd his fear and stopp'd and would remain . But shadows round a deeper horror wear ; A deeper silence falls upon his ear ; An awful stillness broods upon the scene , His fluttering heart recoils , he turns again . With hasty steps he measures back the ground , And leaps with summoned force the Churchyard bound ; Then home , with shaking limbs and quickened breath , His footsteps urges from the place of death .