But Mary miss'd the woodland stile--
The hedge-row was not high;
She gain'd its prickly top, and now
Her murderers were nigh.

A slender tree her fingers caught--
It bent beneath her weight;
'Twas false as love and Mary's fate!
Deceiving as the night!

She fell--and villagers relate
No more of Mary's hour,
But how she rose with deadly might,
And, with a maniac's power,

Fought with her murd'rers till they broke
Her slender arm in twain:
That none could e'er discover where
The maiden's corse was lain.

When wand'ring by that noiseless wood,
Forsaken by the bee,
Each rev'rend chronicler displays
The bent and treach'rous tree.

Pointing the barkless spot to view,
Which Mary's hand embrac'd,
They shake their hoary locks, and say,
"It ne'er can be effac'd!"