THE BRITISH POETICAL MISCELLANY. LENORA. A BALLAD, FROM BÜRGER. AT break of day, with frightful dreams Lenora ftruggled fore: My William, art thou flaine, say'd fhe, He went abroade with Richard's hoft, But he no word to her had writt, An he was fick or well. With fowne of trump, and beat of drum, Their helmes by deckt with oaken boughs, And ev'ry roade, and ev'ry lane Was full of old and young, To gaze at the rejoicing band, To hail with gladfome toung. "Thank God!" their wives and children faide; "Welcome!" the brides did faye : But greet or kifs Lenora gave To none upon that daye. She afkte of all the paffing traine, But none of all the paffing traine And when the foldyers all were bye, She tore her raven haire, And caft herself upon In furious defpaire, the groune, Her mother ran and lyfte her up, And clafped in her arme, "My child, my child, what doft thou ail? God fhield thy life from harm!" "O mother, mother! William's gone! Their is no mercye, fure, above! I prayde, and prayde; but watte avayl'd? 'Tis now, alas! too late." "Our Heav'nly Father, if we praye, So fhall thy grief grow milde." "O mother, what I feel within, Then wherefore forrow for his lofs? His falfehode brings him paine." "O mother, mother! William's gone : My hope is all forlorne : The grave my only fafeguarde is Oh, had I ne'er been borne ! Go out, go out, my lamp of life; There is no mercye, fure, above! 66 Almighty God! O do not judge She knows not what her lips pronounce, My girl, forget thine earthly woe, In endless darkness die: Without him I must loath the earth, And fo defpaire did rave and rage She bete her breafte, and wrung her hands, From rife of morne, till the pale stars When harke! abroade she hearde the trampe She hearde a knighte with clank alighte, And climb the flaire in speede. And foon fhe hearde a tinkling hande, That twirled at the pin; And through her door, that open'd not, "What ho! what ho! thy dore undoe ; My love, doft yet remember mee, "Ah! William here fo late at night; “ At midnight only we may ride; I come o'er land and sea : I mounted late, but foon I go; The blafts athwarte the hawthorne hiss; "The blafts athwarte the hawthorn hiss, My fpur is fharp, my courfer pawes, All as thou ly'ft upon thy couch, Aryfe and mount behinde; The bridal-bed to finde." “How! ride to night a thousand miles ? Thy love thou doft bemocke: Eleven is the ftroke that ftill Rings on within the clocke." "Look up: the moon is bright, and we Outftride the earthlie men; I'll take thee to the bridal-bed, And night shall end but then." “And where is, then, thy house and home ; And where thy bridal-bed ?" "'Tis narrow, filent, chilly, dark; Far hence I reft my head." "And is there any room for mee, Wherein that I may creepe ?" "There's room enough for thee and mee, All as thou ly'ft upon thy couch, The wedding guefts thy coming waite, Thy chamber dore is ope." All in her farke, as there fhe lay, And hurry-skurry forth they goe, And horfe and rider fnort and blowe, And sparkling pebbles flye. How fwift the flood, the mead, the wood, Aright, aleft, are gone! The bridges thunder as they pass, But earthly fowne is none. Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede; Splash, fplafh, across the fee: "Hurrah! the dead can ride apace; Doft fear to ride with mee? The moon is brighte, and blue the nyght; Doft fhudder, mayde, to feek the dead ?" "No, no, but what of them? How gloomlie fownes yon girgye fong! It creeps, the fwarthie funeral traine, The corfe is on the biere; Like croke of todes from lonely moores, "Go, bear her corfe when midnight's past, With fong, and tear, and wayle; I've gott my wife, I take her home, Lead forth, O clarke, the chaunting quire, Come, preafte, and read the bleffing foone, For bed, for bed we long." They heede his calle, and hufht the fowne; And followde him o'er field and flood |