Heath flowers being a collection of poems, chiefly lyrical, written in the Highlands. By William Glen |
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ELEGY, |
 | Heath flowers |  |
88
ELEGY,
WRITTEN IN ABERFOYLE CHURH-YARD.
There lies the last of all her race,—
O! she was lovely, kind, and true;
In her, young beauty's modest grace
Was just expanding to the view:
With it the brightest virtues grew;
But worth or beauty could not save,—
Death ne'er a lovelier victim drew
Into the dreary darksome grave.
O! she was lovely, kind, and true;
In her, young beauty's modest grace
Was just expanding to the view:
With it the brightest virtues grew;
But worth or beauty could not save,—
Death ne'er a lovelier victim drew
Into the dreary darksome grave.
O! where is now the promised bliss?
O! where is the betrothed bride?
Are all my prospects come to this,
Evanished thus my bosom pride?
A wanderer now, I onward glide,
A lonely, sad, wayfaring child;
Before me is a chaos wide,
A rude, a friendless, howling wild.
O! where is the betrothed bride?
Are all my prospects come to this,
Evanished thus my bosom pride?
A wanderer now, I onward glide,
A lonely, sad, wayfaring child;
Before me is a chaos wide,
A rude, a friendless, howling wild.
89
No more we'll wander, arm-in-arm,
Thro' the sweet vale of Aberfoyle;
For she, who gave that Strath its charm,
No more will glad it with her smile:
How often would we hours beguile,
When wandering on fair Duchray lea!
But never more I'll tread its soil,
For it is wrapt in gloom to me.
Thro' the sweet vale of Aberfoyle;
For she, who gave that Strath its charm,
No more will glad it with her smile:
How often would we hours beguile,
When wandering on fair Duchray lea!
But never more I'll tread its soil,
For it is wrapt in gloom to me.
Each step reminds me of my loss,
I cannot look on wild Craigmore;
The Avon-Dhu I dare not cross,
We told our loves there o'er and o'er:
And when I see Loch-Ard's sweet shore,
Viewing the path where aft we sped,
I turn away—my heart is sair,
And many a bitter tear I shed.
I cannot look on wild Craigmore;
The Avon-Dhu I dare not cross,
We told our loves there o'er and o'er:
And when I see Loch-Ard's sweet shore,
Viewing the path where aft we sped,
I turn away—my heart is sair,
And many a bitter tear I shed.
I'll wander to some unknown spot,
And roam beneath the Indian sky;
But then will Jessy be forgot,
Or can I from my sorrows fly?
No, no,—I'll linger here and die,
And never leave my native soil;
And when death comes, O! may I lie
Beside my Love in Aberfoyle.
And roam beneath the Indian sky;
But then will Jessy be forgot,
Or can I from my sorrows fly?
No, no,—I'll linger here and die,
And never leave my native soil;
And when death comes, O! may I lie
Beside my Love in Aberfoyle.
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