Volume Ii Part 138 (2/2)

--”When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye.”

Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?”

--”The gray-headed s.e.xton That delves the grave duly.

”The glow-worm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady!”

Walter Scott [1771-1832]

SONG

Earl March looked on his dying child, And, smit with grief to view her-- The youth, he cried, whom I exiled Shall be restored to woo her.

She's at the window many an hour His coming to discover; And he looked up to Ellen's bower And she looked on her lover--

But ah! so pale, he knew her not, Though her smile on him was dwelling!

And I am then forgot--forgot?

It broke the heart of Ellen.

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, Her cheek is cold as ashes; Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes To lift their silken lashes.

Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]

THE MAID'S LAMENT From ”The Examination of Shakespeare”

I loved him not; and yet now he is gone I feel I am alone.

I checked him while he spoke; yet could he speak, Alas! I would not check.

For reasons not to love him once I sought, And wearied all my thought To vex myself and him: I now would give My love, could he but live Who lately lived for me, and when he found 'Twas vain, in holy ground He hid his face amid the shades of death.

I waste for him my breath Who wasted his for me; but mine returns, And this lorn bosom burns With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, And waking me to weep Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years Wept he as bitter tears.

Merciful G.o.d! Such was his latest prayer, These may she never share!

Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold, Than daisies in the mold, Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate, His name and life's brief date.

Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, And, oh! pray too for me!

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

”SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND”

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her, sighing: But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking;-- Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.

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