William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.
Jemmy DawsonWilliam Shenstone (17141763)
C
Ye tender hearts, and lovers dear;
Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh,
Nor need you blush to shed a tear.
Do thou a pensive ear incline;
For thou canst weep at every woe,
And pity every plaint, but mine.
A brighter never trod the plain;
And well he lov’d one charming maid,
And dearly was he lov’d again.
Of gentle blood the damsel came,
And faultless was her beauteous form,
And spotless was her virgin fame.
That led the faithful youth astray,
The day the rebel clans appear’d—
O had he never seen that day!
And in the fatal dress was found;
And now he must that death endure,
Which gives the brave the keenest wound.
When Jemmy’s sentence reach’d her ear!
For never yet did Alpine snows
So pale, or yet so chill appear.
‘O Dawson! monarch of my heart,
Think not thy death shall end our loves,
For thou and I will never part.
And bring relief to Jemmy’s woes,
O George! without a prayer for thee,
My orisons should never close.
Would crown a never-dying flame,
And every tender babe I bore
Should learn to lisp the giver’s name.
To yonder ignominious tree,
He shall not want one constant friend
To share the cruel Fate’s decree.’
The sledge mov’d slowly on before;
Tho’ borne in a triumphal car,
She had not lov’d her favourite more.
The terrible behests of law;
And the last scene of Jemmy’s woes
With calm and steadfast eye she saw.
Which she had fondly lov’d so long:
And stifled was that tuneful breath,
Which in her praise had sweetly sung:
Round which her arms had fondly clos’d;
And mangled was that beauteous breast,
On which her love-sick head repos’d:
She did to every heart prefer;
For though it could its king forget,
’Twas true and loyal still to her.
She bore this constant heart to see;
But when ’twas moulder’d into dust,
‘Yet, yet,’ she cried, ‘I’ll follow thee.
The pure, and lasting love I bore:
Accept, O heaven! of woes like ours,
And let us, let us weep no more.’
The lover’s mournful hearse retir’d;
The maid drew back her languid head,
And sighing forth his name, expir’d.
The tear my Kitty sheds is due;
For seldom shall she hear a tale
So sad, so tender, yet so true.