BRYAN
AND
PEREENE
.
A
WEST
INDIAN
BALLAD
;
Founded
on
a
real
Fact
,
that
happened
a
few
Years
ago
in
the
Island
of
ST.
CHRISTOPHER
.
THE
north-east
wind
did
briskly
blow
,
The
ship
was
safely
moor'd
,
Young
Bryan
thought
the
boat's
crew
slow
,
And
so
leapt
over-board
.
Pereene
,
the
pride
of
Indian
dames
,
His
heart
long
held
in
thrall
,
And
whoso
his
impatience
blames
,
I
wot
,
ne'er
lov'd
at
all
.
A
long
,
long
year
,
one
month
and
day
,
He
dwelt
on
English
land
,
Nor
once
in
thought
would
ever
stray
,
Though
ladies
sought
his
hand
.
For
Bryan
he
was
tall
and
strong
,
Right
blythsome
roll'd
his
een
,
Sweet
was
his
voice
whene'er
he
sung
,
He
scant
had
twenty
seen
.
But
who
the
countless
charms
can
draw
,
That
grac'd
his
mistress
true
;
Such
charms
the
old
world
never
saw
,
Nor
oft
I
ween
the
new
.
Her
raven
hair
plays
round
her
neck
,
Like
tendrils
of
the
vine
;
Her
cheeks
red
dewy
rose
buds
deck
,
Her
eyes
like
diamonds
shine
.
Soon
as
his
well
known
ship
she
spied
,
She
cast
her
weeds
away
,
And
to
the
palmy
shore
she
hied
,
All
in
her
best
array
.
In
sea-green
silk
so
neatly
clad
,
She
there
impatient
stood
;
The
crew
with
wonder
saw
the
lad
Repel
the
foaming
flood
.
Her
hands
a
handkerchief
display'd
,
Which
he
at
parting
gave
;
Well
pleas'd
the
token
he
survey'd
,
And
manlier
beat
the
wave
.
Her
fair
companions
one
and
all
,
Rejoicing
crowd
the
strand
;
For
now
her
lover
swam
in
call
,
And
almost
touch'd
the
land
.
Then
through
the
white
surf
did
she
haste
,
To
clasp
her
lovely
swain
;
When
,
ah
!
a
shark
bit
through
his
waist
:
His
heart's
blood
dy'd
the
main
!
He
shriek'd
!
his
half
sprang
from
the
wave
,
Streaming
with
purple
gore
,
And
soon
it
found
a
living
grave
,
And
,
ah
!
was
seen
no
more
.
Now
haste
,
now
haste
,
ye
maids
,
I
pray
,
Fetch
water
from
the
spring
:
She
falls
,
she
falls
,
she
dyes
away
,
And
soon
her
knell
they
ring
.
Now
each
May-morning
round
her
tomb
Ye
fair
,
fresh
flowrets
strew
,
So
may
your
lovers
scape
his
doom
,
Her
hapless
fate
scape
you
.