HER sire, a harsh and angry man,
With furious voice revil’d,
“Hence from my sight, I’ll none of thee–
I harbour not thy child.”
And fast amid her fluttering hair,
With clenched fist he gripes,
And seized a leathern thong, and lash’d
Her side with sounding stripes.
“Poor soul, I’ll have thee hous’d and nurs’d;
Thy terrors I lament:
Stay here–we’ll have some further talk–
The old one shall repent:
What’s fit and fair I’ll do for thee,
Shalt yet retain my love–
Shalt wed my huntsman, and we’ll then
Our former transports prove.
“Me vengeance waits; my poor, poor child,
Thy wound shall bleed afresh,
When ravens from the gallows tear
Thy mother’s mould’ring flesh.”
Hard by the bow’r her gibbet stands;
Her skull is still to show;
It seems to eye the barren grave,
Three spans in length below.
(Charlotte Dacre)
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Based on Topics: Man Poems, Soul Poems, Sense & Perception Poems, Hair PoemsBased on Keywords: hous, leathern, nurs, spans, thong, gripes, gibbet, revil, here-we