She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and O! The difference to me. THE DEAD LOVE. SLUMBER did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seemed a thing that could not feel No motion has she now, nor force; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course With rocks, and stones, and trees. Sir Walter Scott. [BORN 1771. DIED 1832.] "A WEARY LOT IS THINE." WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, A doublet of the Lincoln green,— This morn is merry June, I trow, He turned his charger as he spoke He gave his bridle reins a shake, And adieu for evermore! SONG. HERE shall the lover rest Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast, Parted for ever? Where, through groves deep and high, Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die Under the willow. Eleu loro Soft shall be his pillow. There, through the summer day, Cool streams are laving: There, while the tempests sway, Scarce are boughs waving; There thy rest shalt thou take, Parted for ever, Never again to wake, Never, O never! Eleu loro Never, O never! Where shall the traitor rest, He, the deceiver, Who could win maiden's breast, Ruin, and leave her? In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying; Eleu loro There shall he be lying. Her wing shall the eagle flap O'er the false-hearted; His warm blood the wolf shall lap Ere life be parted: Shame and dishonor sit By his grave ever; Blessing shall hallow it Never, O never! Eleu loro Never, O never! TAKE me to your arms, love, For keen the wind doth blow! O take me to your arms, love, For bitter is my woe. She hears me not, she cares not, Nor will she list to me; And here I lie in misery, Beneath the willow-tree. My love has wealth and beauty,— My love has wealth and beauty,— And I, alas! am poor; The ribbon fair, that bound her hair, Is all that's left to me, While here I lie, in misery, Beneath the willow-tree. |