 | The Collected Songs of Charles Mackay |  |
THE HAUNTED BALL-ROOM.
I
Hark! sweet music's airy measure,Throbbing up in waves of song!
What have I to do with pleasure?
Let me fly the joyous throng.
For she comes amid the dancers,
Woman-shaped,—a dream,—a breath!
Let me fly!—fly! fly from anguish!
Fly, fly from living death!
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II
Dripping wet, with garments trailing,I behold her, lost too soon,
Through the filmy twilight sailing
Slow between me and the moon.
Evermore her lifted finger
Points reproachful to my breast;—
Let me die!—die! die for pity!
Die! die! and be at rest!
III
Oh, the melancholy river!O'er her face the waters roll;
Heaven forgive her, and receive her!—
There's a darkness on my soul!
Great the wrong, and great the sorrow;
None can tell the pangs I bear;
For she's lost!—lost! lost for ever!
Lost! lost! to my despair!
| The Collected Songs of Charles Mackay | |