Pale Moon! thou Spectre of the Sky! Yes ; on my Mary's bosom cold Oh! bear me, bear me o'er the main, Mild as the South-wind, sighing! My bare-foot way is mark'd with blood, The Sun shall rise to chear the skies, And summer smile, to morrow! The frosted heath is wide and drear, Soon shall I sleep, beneath the deep, The village clock strikes mournfully, But, though yon cloud begins to shroud Roll down yon steep, broad flood of light; 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, The Bat shall flee at sight of me, My Priest, the Night-Fly humming. Yon Spectre's iron shroud I'll wear The night-shade too, besprent with dew, Is it the storm that Jasper feels? The Owlet's shriek makes white my cheek, 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- Beneath the yew-tree's shadow long But I shall weep when others sleep! How merrily the Lark is heard! 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! 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! |