Ellen Gray or, The dead maiden's curse. A poem, by the late Dr. Archibald Macleod [i.e. W. L. Bowles] |
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 | Ellen Gray |  |
But hope yet whispers, “Dry the accusing tear,—
When Sunday comes, again he will be here!”
And Sunday came, and struggling from a cloud,
The sun shone bright,—the bells were chiming loud,—
And lads and lasses in their best attire,
Were tripping past, and light was on the spire;—
But Hubert came not;—with an aching heart
Poor Ellen saw the Sunday train depart:
Her mother follow'd, with starch'd pinners clean,
And pray'r-book, tottering o'er the dewy green;
Ellen, to hear no more of peace on earth,
Retir'd in silence to the lonely hearth.
When Sunday comes, again he will be here!”
And Sunday came, and struggling from a cloud,
The sun shone bright,—the bells were chiming loud,—
And lads and lasses in their best attire,
Were tripping past, and light was on the spire;—
But Hubert came not;—with an aching heart
Poor Ellen saw the Sunday train depart:
Her mother follow'd, with starch'd pinners clean,
And pray'r-book, tottering o'er the dewy green;
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Retir'd in silence to the lonely hearth.
| Ellen Gray | |