THE MAD LOVER AT THE GRAVE OF HIS MISTRESS. STAY, gentle stranger, softly tread! Ye creeping Zephyrs, hist you, pray, 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 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 Has Memory in her blackest cell. 'T is all a tale of fiendish art, Thou com'st, my love, to prove it so! Thine eyes are glazed, thy cheeks are pale, Too truly tells the dreadful tale, Thou comest from the house of death! O, speak, beloved! lest I rave; And wrap me in thy winding-sheet. 24* FIRST LOVE. A BALLAD.* Ан me! how hard the task to bear, If by the side of Lucy's wheel 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, Where'er I go, where'er I turn, I seem to shiver, yet I burn, — My head goes swimming round. I cannot bear to see her smile, Ah, what have I to Lucy done From rising to the setting sun In vain I strive to join the throng Now lonely woods I stray among, Ah me! this restless heart I fear Till Lucy cease to live, or tear Her image from my breast. |