The Maid's Lament

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"Who makes the bridal bed,

Birdie, say truly?”

-"The gray-headed sexton

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 God! 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.

He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwined him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.

A Bridal Dirge

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;

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They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow.

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

"AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT"

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;
And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me
there,

And tell me our love is remembered even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such rapture to hear,
When our voices commingling breathed like one on the ear;

And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,
I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of
Souls

Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

A BRIDAL DIRGE

WEAVE no more the marriage chain!

All unmated is the lover;
Death has ta'en the place of Pain;
Love doth call on love in vain:

Life and years of hope are over!

No more want of marriage bell!
No more need of bridal favor!
Where is she to wear them well?
You beside the lover, tell!

Gone--with all the love he

Paler than the stone she lies:

gave

her!

Colder than the winter's morning!

Wherefore did she thus despise

(She with pity in her eyes)

Mother's care, and lover's warning?

Youth and beauty,-shall they not

Last beyond a brief to-morrow?

No: a prayer and then forgot!

This the truest lover's lot;

This the sum of human sorrow!

Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874]

"OH! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM"

OH! snatched away in beauty's bloom,

On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear

Their leaves, the earliest of the year;
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:

And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause and lightly tread;

Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead!

Away! we know that tears are vain,
That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:
Will this unteach us to complain?
Or make one mourner weep the less?
And thou, who tell'st me to forget,

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

TO MARY

IF I had thought thou couldst have died,

I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be:

It never through my mind had passed
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,

And thou shouldst smile no more!

My Heart and I

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again;

And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain.

But when I speak-thou dost not say
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;

And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene,

I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave,—
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart
In thinking, too, of thee;

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore!

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Charles Wolfe [1791-1823]

MY HEART AND I

ENOUGH! We're tired, my heart and I.
We sit beside the headstone thus,
And wish that name were carved for us.

The moss reprints more tenderly

The hard types of the mason's knife,
As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life
With which we're tired, my heart and I.

You see we're tired, my heart and I.
We dealt with books, we trusted men,
And in our own blood drenched the pen,