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Stay, gentle stranger, softly tread!

0, trouble not this hallowed heap! Vile Envy says my Julia 's dead;

But Envy thus will never sleep.

Ye creeping Zephyrs, hist you, pray,

Nor press so hard yon withered leaves ; For Julia sleeps beneath this clay,

Nay, feel it, how her bosom heaves!

O, she was purer than the stream

That saw the first-created morn; Her words were like a sick man's dream

That nerves with health a heart forlorn.

And who their lot would hapless deem,

Those lovely, speaking lips to view, That light between, like rays that beam

Through sister clouds of rosy hue?

Yet these were to her fairer soul

But as yon opening clouds on high To glorious worlds that o'er them roll,

The portals to a brighter sky.

And shall the glutton worm defile

This spotless tenement of love, That like a playful infant's smile

Seemed born of purest light above?

And yet I saw the sable pall

Dark-trailing o'er the broken ground, The earth did on her coffin fall,

I heard the heavy, hollow sound.

Avaunt, thou Fiend! nor tempt my brain

With thoughts of madness brought from hell! No woe like this of all her train

Has Memory in her blackest cell.

'T is all a tale of fiendish art,

Thou com'st, my love, to prove it so! I'll press thy hand upon my heart, —

It chills me like a hand of snow !

Thine eyes are glazed, thy cheeks are pale,

Thy lips are livid, and thy breath Too truly tells the dreadful tale,

Thou comest from the house of death!

O, speak, beloved ! lest I rave;

The fatal truth I'll bravely meet, And I will follow to the grave,

And wrap me in thy winding-sheet.




Ah me! how hard the task to bear,

The weight of ills we know ! But harder still to dry the tear

That mourns a nameless woe.

If by the side of Lucy's wheel

I sit to see her spin,
My head around begins to reel,

My heart to beat within.

Or when on harvest holiday

I lead the dance along, If Lucy chance to cross my way,

So sure she leads me wrong.

* This and the two following ballads were written at a very early age, and have already appeared in some of the periodical works of their day.

If I attempt the pipe to play,

And catch my Lucy's eye, The trembling music dies away,

And melts into a sigh.

Where'er I go, where'er I turn,

If Lucy there be found,
I seem to shiver, yet I burn, -

My head goes swimming round.

I cannot bear to see her smile,

Unless she smile on me; And if she frown, I sigh the while,

But know not whence it be.

Ah, what have I to Lucy done

To cause me so much stir ? From rising to the setting sun

I sigh and think of her.

In vain I strive to join the throng

In social mirth and ease; Now lonely woods I stray among,

For only woods can please.

Ah me! this restless heart I fear

Will never be at rest,
Till Lucy cease to live, or tear

Her image from my breast.

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