Peter Faultless to his brother Simon tales of night, in rhyme, and other poems. By the author of Night [i.e. Ebenezer Elliott] |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. | VIII.
THE LOVER'S SONG. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
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 | Peter Faultless to his brother Simon |  |
VIII. THE LOVER'S SONG.
“Scarcely from Mary's cheek, where bliss
In tears and blushes lay,
Had William kiss'd, with transport's kiss,
Love's blissful tear away,
When, o'er her murdered sister's bier,
He saw her shed a wilder tear.
In tears and blushes lay,
Had William kiss'd, with transport's kiss,
Love's blissful tear away,
When, o'er her murdered sister's bier,
He saw her shed a wilder tear.
“Fast, fast, into the new-made grave,
Fast fell the melting snow;
But scarce had Winter ceas'd to rave
O'er her who slept below,
When Mary mourn'd her William fled!
And then she mourn'd her William dead!
Fast fell the melting snow;
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O'er her who slept below,
When Mary mourn'd her William fled!
And then she mourn'd her William dead!
“Ah, life is but a tearful stream,
On which floats joy, the flower!
Deeply we plunge, and rise, and scream,
And strive, with all our power,
To grasp the bright weed gliding nigh,
And snatch, and miss, and sink, and die.
On which floats joy, the flower!
Deeply we plunge, and rise, and scream,
And strive, with all our power,
To grasp the bright weed gliding nigh,
And snatch, and miss, and sink, and die.
“The young bride wept; the sister wept
Where Ann serenely sleeps;
The widow wept, when William slept;
The wedded widow weeps!
Ah, earth's frail love is woe, is woe!
Did not thy sister find it so?
Where Ann serenely sleeps;
The widow wept, when William slept;
The wedded widow weeps!
Ah, earth's frail love is woe, is woe!
Did not thy sister find it so?
“And not to soothe wild passion came
Religion from above:
Speak not, in scorn, her holy name;
Religion's self is love—
Love, with no poison in her kiss;
And, if she weeps, her tear is bliss.
Religion from above:
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Religion's self is love—
Love, with no poison in her kiss;
And, if she weeps, her tear is bliss.
“Be still my heart! soon shalt thou be—
Beneath thy mother's mould;
There is a bed of rest for thee,
Where Ann reposes cold:
The turf sleeps sweetly on her breast;
And thou (but not like it) shalt rest.”
Beneath thy mother's mould;
There is a bed of rest for thee,
Where Ann reposes cold:
The turf sleeps sweetly on her breast;
And thou (but not like it) shalt rest.”
| Peter Faultless to his brother Simon | |