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TALES OF THE HALL, VOL. III. SOFTLY she left her door, her garden gate, And seemed as then committed to her fate; To every horrid thought and doubt a prey, She hurried on, already lost her way: Oft as she glided on in that sad night, She stopped to listen and she looked for light. The inoon was risen, and she sometimes shone Through thick white clouds, that flew tumultuous on, Passing beneath her with an eagle's speed, That ber soft light imprisoned, and then freed ; The fitful glimmering through the hedge-row green, Gave a strange beauty to the changing scene; And roaring winds and rushing waters lent Their mingled voice that to the spirit went. To these she listened ; but new sounds were heard, And sight more startling tu ber soul appeared; There were low lengthened tones, with sobs between, And near at hand, but nothing yet was seen ; She hurried on, and “ Who is there?" she cried, “ A dying wretch !"- was from the earth replied. It was her lover-it was the man she gave, The price she paid, himself from death to save; With whom, expiring, she must kneel and pray, While the soul fitted from the shivering clay, That pressed the dewy ground, and bled its life away!
Smugglers and Poachers, Book XXI. page 203. No. 40.
OH! I have loitered' at thy gate,
And fanned young Hope's delusive fire; And though convinced 'twas vain to wait,
Still something bade me not retire. Each distant footfall that I caught,
Amidst the stillness of the night, Cooceptive Fancy idly thought
The fond forerunner of delight. And every taper's twinkling ray
That glanced aloft from room to room, Seemed kindly to command my stay,
And still my weary watch resume. And every bolt that cautious care
Within tlie rusty staple drew, Moved not predictive of despair,
But moments blessed witli love and you. Oft to the wicket have I ran,
Deceived by some approaching tread; But, ah! it was not thee, my Ann,
That o'er the gravelly pathway sped. Then back upon my throbbing breast
The tide of joy hath coldly rushed; And whilst a sigh my pain confess'd,
My cheek with conscious shame hath blushed. Oft through the misty vale of eve,
A feeting shadow hath beguiled;
My heart more desolate and wild!
To me thy bonnet's waving plume;
Thy light form glimmering through the gloom.
No keen regret, no sullying shade,
On Mensory's record ihen would live,., But every pang be overpaid
By raptures--thou alone canst give! February 24, 1821.
Nor sink beneath thy weight of care ;" ***
The smile that it was wont to wear.'
And lull thy troubled thoughts to rest
And calm the torments of thy breast.
But now, thank God! those days are o’er;
The hand that smites can also cure.
To yield the world, and flee to God ; --
With souls resigned, 10" kiss the rou."
is the sympathetic sigh-,
Refuse to shed one tear for thee ?
In joy, in grief, to thine has clung :
Together wept, together sung.
And tell us 'tis a cure for woe;
They know vot where its waters flow.