The Legend of Genevieve with other tales and poems. By Delta [i.e. David Macbeth Moir] |
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THE
MANIAC'S PLAINT. |
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 | The Legend of Genevieve |  |
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THE MANIAC'S PLAINT.
My heart throbs on from day to day;
Mine eyes they never close in sleep;
I see my loved companions gay,
Yet all my solace is to weep;
For, clothed in melancholy deep,
My heart may well afflicted be,
Since Time can bring
Upon his wing
No earthly joy to me!—
Mine eyes they never close in sleep;
I see my loved companions gay,
Yet all my solace is to weep;
For, clothed in melancholy deep,
My heart may well afflicted be,
Since Time can bring
Upon his wing
No earthly joy to me!—
I'll twine my brow with willow wreath,
I'll place the cypress in my breast;
I'll sit upon his tomb, and breathe
My plaint to him that loved me best;
When brooding storms obscure the west,
How sweet beneath the willow tree,
If, while I sing,
The tempest's wing
Should come to set me free!
I'll place the cypress in my breast;
I'll sit upon his tomb, and breathe
My plaint to him that loved me best;
When brooding storms obscure the west,
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If, while I sing,
The tempest's wing
Should come to set me free!
The ravens sit, a clamorous troop,
Upon the mouldering Abbey tower;
Hark! as the owl sends forth her whoop
From danky vaults that form her bower;
Soon, at the silent midnight hour,
Lone men shall mark, amid the gloom,
In dim affright,
A lambent light
Glide slowly o'er my tomb.
Upon the mouldering Abbey tower;
Hark! as the owl sends forth her whoop
From danky vaults that form her bower;
Soon, at the silent midnight hour,
Lone men shall mark, amid the gloom,
In dim affright,
A lambent light
Glide slowly o'er my tomb.
Beloved youth, since thou art gone,
No hope bestirs my bosom, save,
When dark existence all is flown,
To join thee in the quiet grave;
And when the wandering breezes wave
The forests in the cold moonshine,
When all is still,
My spirit will,
Unseen, converse with thine!
No hope bestirs my bosom, save,
When dark existence all is flown,
To join thee in the quiet grave;
And when the wandering breezes wave
The forests in the cold moonshine,
When all is still,
My spirit will,
Unseen, converse with thine!
| The Legend of Genevieve | |