31.12.2010, 18:55
WELSH LUCY,
Or, the Duke of Monmouth's Mother.
Poor Lucy Walters ! who remembers thee ?
Thy name is lost, though on thy native hill
Perchance they know it, yea, and see thee still
But, in the outer world, how few there be
To speak of Monmouth's mother ! To thy door
The tempter came, and thy young heart beguiled ;
Then came the birth of that half-royal child,
Who, when his feeble battle-shout was o'er,
Crept into lone Shag's Heath from lost Sedgemoor ;
Then fell his kinsman's axe, whose triple blow
Thy spirit still hears ! sore penance for that tryst
Of shame, which brought thy motherhood of woe—
Or sighs, at breaking of the mountain-mist.
To view each morn, the headsman's world below.
Or, the Duke of Monmouth's Mother.
Poor Lucy Walters ! who remembers thee ?
Thy name is lost, though on thy native hill
Perchance they know it, yea, and see thee still
But, in the outer world, how few there be
To speak of Monmouth's mother ! To thy door
The tempter came, and thy young heart beguiled ;
Then came the birth of that half-royal child,
Who, when his feeble battle-shout was o'er,
Crept into lone Shag's Heath from lost Sedgemoor ;
Then fell his kinsman's axe, whose triple blow
Thy spirit still hears ! sore penance for that tryst
Of shame, which brought thy motherhood of woe—
Or sighs, at breaking of the mountain-mist.
To view each morn, the headsman's world below.