And she forgave me, that I gaz'd But when I told the cruel scorn That sometimes from the savage den, There came and look'd him in the face And that, unknowing what he did, And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees; The scorn that craz'd his brain: And that she nurs'd him in a cave, His dying words-but when I reach'd All impulses of soul and sense Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, She wept with pity and delight, Her bosom heav'd-she stept aside, She half-enclos'd me with her arms, 'Twas partly love, and partly fear, I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, 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 mists of death his brows have shaded. Too soon, brave chief, thy course was run, Untimely sunk-in darkness shrouded. Ah! where are now the matchless pair, 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 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, Hoarsely the sable raven sings. The magic harp is silent laid, Which once could charm the list'ning throng, All, all are faded from the mind, Past days of greatness to descry. Then, oh! how soothing here to trace Oblivion's streams hath swept away. And Thou, whose pages have essay'd The young with rapture long shall read A DIRGE. CHATTERTON. O! SING unto my roundelay, Dance no more at holiday, 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; Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree. Here, upon my true-love's grave, 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. |