Imagini ale paginilor
PDF
ePub

And she forgave me, that I gaz'd
Too fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scorn
That craz'd that bold and lovely Knight,
And that he cross'd the mountain woods,
Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade,

There came and look'd him in the face
An Angel beautiful and bright;
And that he knew it was a Fiend
This miserable Knight!

And that, unknowing what he did,
He leap'd amid a murd'rous band,
And sav'd from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land!

And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;
And how she tended him in vain-
And ever strove to expiate

The scorn that craz'd his brain:

And that she nurs'd him in a cave,
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest leaves
A dying man he lay.

His dying words-but when I reach'd
That tend'rest strain of all the ditty,
My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturb'd her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense

Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve;
The music, and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdu'd,
Subdu'd and cherish'd long!

She wept with pity and delight,
She blush'd with love, and virgin-shame,
And, like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heav'd-she stept aside,
As conscious of my look she stept-
Then suddenly, with timorous eye,
She fled to me, and wept.

She half-enclos'd me with her arms,
She press'd me with a meek embrace;
And bending back her head, look'd up,
And gaz'd upon my face.

'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly 'twas a bashful art,
That I might rather feel, than see
The swelling of her heart.

I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin-pride,
And so I won my Genevieve,

My bright and beauteous Bride!

LINES WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF AT

THE END OF WAVERLEY.

MRS B. C. WILSON.

CLOS'D is the book-the tale is o'er-
The scenes from Fancy's eyes are faded;
The gallant chieftain is no more,

The mists of death his brows have shaded.

Too soon, brave chief, thy course was run,
Too soon thy bright career was clouded;
Thy glory's hardly risen sun,

Untimely sunk-in darkness shrouded.

Ah! where are now the matchless pair,
Who through old Scotland's valley rov'd?
Where rests the high-born, noble fair,
Who Wogan's memory so much lov'd?

The lily and the mountain oak,

United, brav'd the warring wind; The tree has felt the spoiler's stroke, The blighted flower is left behind.

And cold are now those Highland breasts
Which beat with valour's fervid glow;
Low in the tomb each warrior rests,
Unconscious of his chieftain's woe.

Deserted is that ancient hall,

Where once the bard's sweet numbers rose;

Where grace and beauty led the ball,

The spider's filmy brood repose.

The owl usurps MacIvor's chair,
The bat there spreads his ebon wings;
And screaming to the dusky air,

Hoarsely the sable raven sings.

The magic harp is silent laid,

Which once could charm the list'ning throng,
No more the echoing hall and glade
Repeats the notes of Flora's song.

All, all are faded from the mind,
Like lightning in a summer sky;
And few the traces left behind,

Past days of greatness to descry.

Then, oh! how soothing here to trace
(Though faintly) that unclouded day;
To search the annals of a race

Oblivion's streams hath swept away.

And Thou, whose pages have essay'd
To save what yet is spar'd by time ;-
Receive the thanks of many a maid,
And many a youth of Scotia's clime.

The young with rapture long shall read
Of warlike times-too great to last;
The old, (while yet their bosoms bleed,)
May almost dream they are not past.

A DIRGE.

CHATTERTON.

O! SING unto my roundelay,
O! drop the briny tear with me,

Dance no more at holiday,
Like a running river be:
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.

Black his hair as the winter night,

White his skin as the summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing,

In the brier'd dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing, To the night-mares as they go :

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.

See the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud;
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud :
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.

Here, upon my true-love's grave,
Shall the barren flowers be laid,

Nor one holy saint to save

All the coldness of a maid:

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.

« ÎnapoiContinuă »