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Pale Moon! thou Spectre of the Sky!
I see thy white shroud waving :
And now, behold thy bosom cold—
Oh! Memory sad! it made me mad!
Then wherefore mock my raving?

Yes; on my Mary's bosom cold
Death laid his bony fingers!
Hark! how the wave begins to lave
The rocky shore, I hear it roar !
The whistling Pilot lingers.

Oh! bear me, bear me o'er the main,
See the white sails are flying;

Yon glittering Star shall be my car,
And by my side, shall Mary glide,
Mild as the South-wind, sighing!

My bare-foot way is mark'd with blood, Well! what care I for sorrow?

The Sun shall rise to chear the skies,

The wintry day shall pass away,

And summer smile, to morrow!

The frosted heath is wide and drear,
And rugged is my pillow;

Soon shall I sleep, beneath the deep,
How calm to me, that sleep will be
Rock'd by the bounding billow.

The village clock strikes mournfully,
It is my death-bell tolling!

But, though yon cloud begins to shroud
The gliding moon,-the day stream soon
Shall down yon steep come rolling..

Roll down yon steep, broad flood of light;
Drive hence that Spectre !-Jasper
Remembers now her snowy brow,
'Tis Mary! see! she beckons me—
Oh! let me, let me clasp her!

She fades away, I feel her not!
She's gone, 'tis dark and dreary :
The drizzling rain now chills my brain,
The bell for me rings mournfully-

Come Death! for I am weary.

I'll steal beneath yon haunted Tower,
And wait the day-star's coming-

The Bat shall flee at sight of me,
The ivied wall shall be my hall,

My Priest, the Night-Fly humming.

Yon Spectre's iron shroud I'll wear
With frozen spots bespangled:

The night-shade too, besprent with dew,
With many a flower of healing power,
Shall cool my bare feet, mangled.

Is it the storm that Jasper feels?
Ah no! 'tis passion blighted!

The Owlet's shriek makes white my cheek,
The dark Toads stray across my way,

And sorely am I frighted.

Amid the broom my bed I'll make,

Dry fern shall be my pillow;

And Mary dear! wert thou but here, Blest should I be, sweet Maid, with thee,

To weave a crown of willow.

The church-yard path is wet with dew

Hence, Screech-Owls! for I fear

ye! Fall gentle showers, revive the flowers That feebly wave on Mary's grave— But whisper, she will hear ye.

Beneath the yew-tree's shadow long
I'll hide me and be wary :

But I shall weep when others sleep!
Is it the Dove that calls its love?
No! 'tis the voice of Mary!

How merrily the Lark is heard!
The ruddy dawn advancing :
Jasper is gay! his wedding day
The envious sun shall see begun,
With music and with dancing.

How sullen moans the midnight main; How wide the dim scene stretches! The moony light, all silvery white, Across the wave illumes the grave

Of Heaven-deserted wretches.

The dead lights gleam, the signal sounds!
Poor Bark! the storm will beat thee!
What Spectre stands upon the sands?
'Tis Mary dear! Oh! do not fear,
Thy Jasper flies to meet thee!

Now to the silent river's side

Poor Jasper rush'd unwary :

With frantic haste the green bank paced, Plunged in the wave,-no friend to save, And sinking,-call'd on MARY!

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