The Pickering Manuscript/Mary
For other versions of this work, see Mary (Blake).
Mary
Sweet Mary the first time she ever was thereCame into the Ball room among the FairThe young Men & Maidens around her throngAnd these are the words upon every tongue
An Angel is here from the heavenly ClimesOr again does return the Golden timesHer eyes outshine every brilliant rayShe opens her lips tis the Month of May
Mary moves in soft beauty & conscious DelightTo augment with sweet smiles all the joys of the NightNor once blushes to own to the rest of the FairThat sweet Love & Beauty are worthy our care
In the Morning the Villagers rose with delightAnd repeated with pleasure the joys of the nightAnd Mary arose among Friends to be freeBut no Friend from henceforward thou Mary shalt see
Some said she was proud some calld her a whoreAnd some when she passed by shut to the doorA damp cold came oer her her blushes all fledHer lillies & roses are blighted & shed
O why was I born with a different FaceWhy was I not born like this Envious RaceWhy did Heaven adorn me with bountiful handAnd then set me down in an envious Land
To be weak as a Lamb & smooth as a DoveAnd not to raise Envy is calld Christian LoveBut if you raise Envy your Merits to blameFor planting such spite in the weak & the tame
I will humble my Beauty I will not dress fineI will keep from the Ball & my Eyes shall not shineAnd if any Girls Lover forsakes her for meI'll refuse him my hand & from Envy be free
She went out in Morning attird plain & neatProud Marys gone Mad said the Child in the StreetShe went out in Morning in plain neat attireAnd came home in Evening bespatterd with mire
She trembled & wept sitting on the Bed sideShe forgot it was Night & she trembled & criedShe forgot it was Night she forgot it was MornHer soft Memory imprinted with Faces of Scorn
With Faces of Scorn & with Eyes of DisdainLike foul Fiends inhabiting Marys mild BrainShe remembers no Face like the Human DivineAll Faces have Envy sweet Mary but thine
And thine is a Face of sweet Love in DespairAnd thine is a Face of mild sorrow & careAnd thine is a Face of wild terror & fearThat shall never be quiet till laid on its bier