Motherwell’s Poems by Margaret Fuller

Motherwell’s Poems. Boston: Published by William D. Ticknor

WE see an American edition of these poems with pleasure. They are mostly strains of a private and domestic beauty, and will be tenderly cherished by those who receive them at all. They are, however, of very unequal merit, and some of them will scarce find excuse for publication. Among those new to us, we do not find any to compare with the old favorites introduced to us years ago by Blackwood; “Jeanie Morrison” — “My heid is like to rend, Willie” — and “Wearie’s Well,” while we miss with regret one which we have seen attributed to Motherwell, and which has a simple dignity about it rarely seen to-day, beginning

“She was not fair nor full of grace.”

We transcribe Wearie’s Well, as the best recommendation to any who may not as yet have become acquainted with the volume.

“In a saft simmer gloamin’
In yon dowie dell,
It was there we twa first met
By Wearie’s cauld well.
We sat on the brume bank
And looked in the burn,
But sidelang we looked on
Ilk ither in turn.“The corn-craik was chirming
His sad eerie cry,
And the wee stars were dreaming
Their path through the sky;
The burn babbled freely
Its love to ilk flower,
But we heard and we say nought
In that blessed hour.

“We heard and we saw nought
Above or around;
We felt that our love lived,
And loathed idle sound,
I gazed on your sweet face
Till tears filled my e’e,
And they drapt on you wee loof, —
A warld’s weath to me.

“Now the winter’s snaw’s fa’ing
On bare holm and lea;
And the cauld wind is strippin’
Ilk leaf aff the tree.
But the snaw fa’s not faster,
Nor leaf disna part
Sae sune frae the bough, as
Faith fades in your heart

“Ye’ve waled out anither
Your bridegroom to be;
But can his heart luve sae
As mine luvit thee?
Ye’ll get biggings and mailins,
And monie braw claes;
But they a’winna buy back
The peace o’ past days.

“Farewell, and forever
My first luve and last,
May thy joys be to come, —
Mine live in the past.
In sorrow and sadness,
This hour fa’s on me;
But light as thy luve, may
It fleet over thee!”

Source: The Dial (January 1842) pp. 393-394