 | Poems by William Stanley Roscoe |  |
27
VERSES
WRITTEN IN LANCASTER CHURCH-YARD, AUGUST, 1800.
The moon uplifts her dewy head
Above the castle's battled towers;
And gliding thro' her heavenly road,
Leads on the silent midnight hours.
Above the castle's battled towers;
And gliding thro' her heavenly road,
Leads on the silent midnight hours.
Along the church-yard's quiet path
I tread the damp and dripping grass;
And hear the whispers of the dead,
As o'er their peopled graves I pass.
I tread the damp and dripping grass;
And hear the whispers of the dead,
As o'er their peopled graves I pass.
And bending o'er thy low-laid bed,
I call thee, Mary, from the tomb!
O wake thee from thy senseless trance,
And at a lover's bidding come.
I call thee, Mary, from the tomb!
O wake thee from thy senseless trance,
And at a lover's bidding come.
28
Not mine to shudder at thy form,
Tho' shrouded in nocturnal dress;
For thou wouldst speak with seraph voice,
And wear an angel's form I guess.
Tho' shrouded in nocturnal dress;
For thou wouldst speak with seraph voice,
And wear an angel's form I guess.
Ah! who at yester-eve had thought
Thy spring of life so soon had fled?
Who ever dreamt the morrow morn
Might count thee with the parted dead?
Thy spring of life so soon had fled?
Who ever dreamt the morrow morn
Might count thee with the parted dead?
To-day the lily lifts its bells
In perfum'd guise of courtesy;
Alas, to-morrow's piercing blast
May kill it with inclemency.
In perfum'd guise of courtesy;
Alas, to-morrow's piercing blast
May kill it with inclemency.
Where is thy dance, where is thy song?
Where is thy beauty's boasted bloom?
'Tis danc'd by Death, 'tis sung by Grief,
'Tis buried in an earthly tomb.
Where is thy beauty's boasted bloom?
'Tis danc'd by Death, 'tis sung by Grief,
'Tis buried in an earthly tomb.
29
Oh! ask from Death a short reprieve,
A little space, and then no more;
A last permission, once again
To view this world's forsaken shore.
A little space, and then no more;
A last permission, once again
To view this world's forsaken shore.
Oh yield to him thy ruby kiss,
And turn on him thy beaming eye;
And clasp him with a lover's arms,
And shed the tear of extacy.
And turn on him thy beaming eye;
And clasp him with a lover's arms,
And shed the tear of extacy.
And bend thy beauteous blushing neck,
And breathe upon his ghastly cheek;
And parley with the ruthless king,
And speak as thou wert wont to speak.
And breathe upon his ghastly cheek;
And parley with the ruthless king,
And speak as thou wert wont to speak.
But oh, thy lips are faded now,
All blighted in their blooming hour;
Thy beaming eyes are clos'd in dust,
And mute that tongue of heavenly power.
All blighted in their blooming hour;
Thy beaming eyes are clos'd in dust,
And mute that tongue of heavenly power.
30
Then welcome be thy shadowy house,
And welcome be thy chamber cold;
Where dying I may clasp thy heart,
And slumber with its sacred mould!
And welcome be thy chamber cold;
Where dying I may clasp thy heart,
And slumber with its sacred mould!
Our tomb o'erspread with wintry flowers,
No studied epitaph shall claim;
But soft shall fall the traveller's tear,
That wets with grief each sculptur'd name.
No studied epitaph shall claim;
But soft shall fall the traveller's tear,
That wets with grief each sculptur'd name.
What time the cloister'd beadsman walks,
To contemplate the stormy moon;
Or seated on our holy grave,
Long listens to the dashing Lune;
To contemplate the stormy moon;
Or seated on our holy grave,
Long listens to the dashing Lune;
When thro' yon chapel's chanted roof,
The solemn dirge at distance rolls;
His voice shall join the swelling choir,
A requiem to our parted souls!
The solemn dirge at distance rolls;
His voice shall join the swelling choir,
A requiem to our parted souls!
| Poems by William Stanley Roscoe | |