Charles Mackay (Чарльз Маккей)
Mary and Lady Mary
OR, NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBORS. The Lady Mary's placid eyes Beam with no hopes, no memories; Beneath their lids no tear-drops flow For Love or Pity, Joy or Woe. She never knows, too barren she, The fruitfulness of sympathy; She never weeps for others' pain, Or smiles, except in her disdain. Her face is pallid as the pearl, Her hair is sleek, without a curl; With finger-tip she condescends To touch the fingers of her friends, As if she feared their palms might brand Some moral stigma on her hand; Her pulse is calm, milk-white her skin, She hath not blood enough to sin. A very pattern, sage and staid, Of all her sex — a model maid; Clear star — bright paragon of men — She breaks no law of all the ten; Pure to the sight as snow-peak'd hill — As inaccessible and chill — In sunshine — but repelling heat — And freezing in her own conceit. If ever known to breathe a sigh, It was for lack of flattery. Though cold, insensible and dull, Admirers call her beautiful; She sucks their incense, breathes it, doats On her own praise, that gently floats On Fashion's wave — and lies in wait To catch admirers of her state. In published charities, her name Stands foremost, for she buys her fame; At church men see her thrice a-week, In spirit proud, in aspect meek; Wearing Devotion like a mask, So marble cold, that sinners ask, Beholding her at Mercy's throne, "Is this a woman or a stone?" But different, far, the little maid, That dwells unnoticed in the shade Of Lady Mary's pomp and power; A Mary, too, a simple flower, With face all health, with cheeks all smile, Undarkened by one cloud of guile; And ruddy lips that seem to say, "Come kiss me, children, while ye may." A cordial hand, a chubby arm, And hazel eyes, large, soft, and warm; Dark hair in curls, a snow-like bust, A look all innocence, all trust, Lit up at times by sunny mirth, Like summer smiling on the earth; A ringing laugh, whose every note Bursts in clear music from her throat. A painter's daughter — poor, perchance, But rich in native elegance; God bless the maid — she may not be Without some touch of vanity. She twines red rose-buds in her hair, And smiles to know herself so fair; And quite believes, like other belles, The pleasant tale her mirror tells. A very woman, full of tears, Hopes, blushes, tendernesses, fears, Griefs, laughter, kindness, joys and sighs, Loves, likings, friendships, sympathies; A heart to feel for every woe, And pity, if not dole, bestow; A hand to give from scanty store, A look to wish the offering more. In artless faith and virtue strong, Too loving to do Love a wrong; She takes delight in simple things, And in the sunshine works and sings. Sweet bird! so meekly innocent, The foulest hawk that ever rent A trusting heart, would gaze, and fly, And spare her in her purity. Take Lady Mary ye who will, Her woods, her castle on the hill, Her lands o'er half a county spread — And wither in her loveless bed; But give me Mary, frank and free, Her beauty, grace, and modesty; I pass My Lady in the mart — I take the Woman with the heart.
Charles Mackay’s other poems:
