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 moon was risen, and she sometimes shone Through thick white clouds, that flew tumultuous on, Passing beneath her with an eagle's speed,
That her 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 to her 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 flitted from the shivering clay, That pressed the dewy ground, and bled its life away! Smugglers and Poachers, Book XXI. page 203.
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, Conceptive 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 the rusty staple drew, Moved not predictive of despair,
But moments blessed with 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 fleeting shadow hath beguiled; But, ah! it only came, to leave
My heart more desolate and wild!
The woodbine's flaunting boughs have been To me thy bonnet's waving plume; And in the silvery birch I've seen
Thy light form glimmering through the gloom.
And oft, as some unwonted sound
Awoke a whispering echo near,
With breathless pause I've glanced around, And thought thy voice surprised my ear. But no resembling voice was heard: Nought, save the spirit of the breeze, Whose sighs in wanton mockery stirred The rustling foliage of the trees.
And when the midnight bell proclaimed 'Twas time to breathe a sad farewell, Though outraged Reason sternly blamed, She could not break the binding spell.
Still have I loitered at thy gate,
Till morn diffused her blushing ray; Then, sorrowing o'er my hapless fate, Reluctant-slowly-turned away.
Yet, as I turned, a lingering glance My anxious eye would backward cast; Whilst each dull effort to advance Grew tardier, sadder than the last.
Long on the distant hill I've stood, Whence, like a speck thy cot appears, And gazed until with heart subdued, The landscape faded through my tears. The early hinds I've chanced to meet, Have all their dark suspicions had; Some, half afraid, would mildly greet, Whilst others, winking, deemed me mad!
Wilt thou-ab, never!-deign to bless? Must thus my vigils always prove? One hour with thee were happiness All other human joys above.
Come, with those melting charms of thine, And though the tempest fiercely howl, They'll shed, endued with light divine, Unclouded sunshine o'er my soul!
No keen regret, no sullying shade, On Memory's record then would live, But every pang be overpaid
By raptures-thou alone canst give! February 24, 1821.
TO A FRIEND IN AFFLICTION.
NAY, weep not so, dispel this gloom, Nor sink beneath thy weight of care; But let thy face once more assume The smile that it was wont to wear. Let friendship's voice thy pillow smooth, And lull thy troubled thoughts to rest; Mine be the task thy griefs to soothe, And calm the torments of thy breast. For I have deeply drank of woe;
But now, thank God! those days are o'er; Aud thine will pass, for well we know The hand that smites can also cure. "Tis by afflictions we are brought
To yield the world, and flee to God; By disappointments we are taught, With souls resigned, to "kiss the rod." Sweet is the sympathetic sigh-
And thou hast heaved that sigh for me; Mourned for my sorrows, and shall I Refuse to shed one tear for thee? Ah no, dear girl! thou know'st my heart In joy, in grief, to thire has clung : Yes, we have each sustained our part, Together wept, together sung. The poets talk of Lethe's stream, And tell us 'tis a cure for woe; But, oh' 'tis all an idle dream,
They know not where its waters flow. There is a purses sin, and purges pain; stream in heaven,
Which cl And they to whom this stream is given To drink, shall "never thirst again.'
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