[Tea-Table Miscellany Contents]
An Old BALLAD.
–
‘TWas at the fearful midnight hour,
When all were fast asleep,
In glided Margaret’s grimly ghost,
And stood at William’s feet.
–
Her face was pale like April morn,
Clad in a wintry cloud;
And clay cold was her lilly hand
That held her sable shroud.
–
So shall the fairest face appear,
When youth and years are flown:
Such is the robe that kings must wear,
When death has rest their crown.
–
Her bloom was like the springing flour
That sips the silver dew;
The rose was budded in her cheek,
Just opening to the view.
–
But love had, like the canker worm,
Consum’d her early prime:
The rose grew pale, and left her cheek;
She dy’d before her time.
–
Awake! – she cry’d, thy true love calls,
Come from her midnight grave:
Now let thy pity hear the maid,
Thy love refus’d to save.
–
This is the dumb and dreary hour,
When injur’d ghosts complain,
And aid the secret fears of night,
To fright the faithless man.
–
Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,
Thy pledge and broken oath,
And give me back my maiden-vow,
And give me back my troth.
–
How could you say, my face was fair,
And yet that face forsake?
How could you win my virgin heart,
Yet leave that heart to break?
–
Why did you promise love to me,
And not that promise keep?
Why said you, that my eyes were bright,
Yet left these eyes to weep?
–
How could you swear, my lip was sweet,
And made the scarlet pale?
And why did I, young witless maid,
Believe the flatt’ring tale?
–
That face, alas! no more is fair;
These lips no longer red;
Dark are my eyes, now clos’d in death,
And every charm is fled.
–
The hungry worm my sister is;
This winding-sheet I wear:
And cold and weary lasts our night,
Till that last morn appear.
–
But hark! – the cock has warn’d me hence –
A long and late adieu!
Come see, false man! how low she lies,
That dy’d for love of you.
–
The lark sung out, the morning smil’d,
And rais’d her glitt’ring head:
Pale William quak’d in every limb;
Then, raving, left his bed.
–
He hy’d him to the fatal place
Where Margaret’s body lay,
And stretch’d him o’er the green grass turf
That wrapt her breathless clay.
–
And thrice he call’d on Margaret’s name,
And thrice he wept full sore:
Then laid his cheek on her cold grave,
And word spoke never more.
– New Words by Different Hands.
