The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd Centenary Edition. With a Memoir of the Author, by the Rev. Thomas Thomson ... Poems and Life. With Many Illustrative Engravings [by James Hogg] |
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The Flower of Annisley.
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
The Flower of Annisley.
Oh, is she gone? Oh, is she gone
From love, from duty, and from me—
The fairest flower the sun shone on,
The lovely maid of Annisley?
Thou lonely mourner, tell to me
Whose was the name thou mentionedst now,
With tear-drops trickling to thy knee,
And scathe of sorrow on thy brow?
From love, from duty, and from me—
The fairest flower the sun shone on,
The lovely maid of Annisley?
Thou lonely mourner, tell to me
Whose was the name thou mentionedst now,
With tear-drops trickling to thy knee,
And scathe of sorrow on thy brow?
Is Ellen's fair and comely mould
The inmate of the darkling worm?
And does the gravel couch enfold
The mildest, comeliest, earthly form?
Yes—here she sleeps in loneliness!
She faded with her virgin fame;
And now her votaries, numberless,
Shun even the mention of her name.
The inmate of the darkling worm?
And does the gravel couch enfold
The mildest, comeliest, earthly form?
Yes—here she sleeps in loneliness!
She faded with her virgin fame;
And now her votaries, numberless,
Shun even the mention of her name.
She who gave brilliance to the hall,
And added lightness to the day—
The meteor of the waterfall,
The seraph of the sylvan lay—
Though pure as mortal thing could be,
The idol of the adoring throng,
Emblem of glory's fallacy,
Fell by the shafts of deadly wrong.
And added lightness to the day—
The meteor of the waterfall,
The seraph of the sylvan lay—
Though pure as mortal thing could be,
The idol of the adoring throng,
Emblem of glory's fallacy,
Fell by the shafts of deadly wrong.
'Twas envy poisoned first the dart,
And malice winged it from her bow,
And deeply was the weetless heart
Pierced by the sure and secret blow.
She trembled, wept, and looked to heaven;
The die was cast; relief was none!
Then shunned, unpitied, unforgiven,
Ellen was left to die alone.
And malice winged it from her bow,
And deeply was the weetless heart
Pierced by the sure and secret blow.
She trembled, wept, and looked to heaven;
The die was cast; relief was none!
Then shunned, unpitied, unforgiven,
Ellen was left to die alone.
As ever you saw the young rose tossed,
Or apple blossom from the tree,
By tempest or untimely frost,
So fell the flower of Annisley.
And never was green leaf on the path,
Or fallen blossom in the clay
Trode down the careless foot beneath,
As was the marvel of her day.
Or apple blossom from the tree,
By tempest or untimely frost,
So fell the flower of Annisley.
And never was green leaf on the path,
Or fallen blossom in the clay
Trode down the careless foot beneath,
As was the marvel of her day.
O virgin beauty, thou art sweet!
Sweet to the soul and to the eye!
Thy blush, that comes on fairy feet,
The mirror of the morning sky;
Thy smile of mildness and of love;
The aspirations of thy will
To mercy—well approved above
By one who owns thy nature still;—
Sweet to the soul and to the eye!
Thy blush, that comes on fairy feet,
The mirror of the morning sky;
Thy smile of mildness and of love;
The aspirations of thy will
To mercy—well approved above
By one who owns thy nature still;—
All, all bespeak thee Nature's flower,
But oh, what snares are laid for thee!
As is thy virtue's lordly power,
So is thy danger in degree;
And when, in bounding gaiety,
Thou walk'st the brink of fear and fever,
One step aside—and, woe is me!
Thou fall'st to rise no more, for ever.
But oh, what snares are laid for thee!
As is thy virtue's lordly power,
So is thy danger in degree;
And when, in bounding gaiety,
Thou walk'st the brink of fear and fever,
One step aside—and, woe is me!
Thou fall'st to rise no more, for ever.
When doors of mercy fold below,
Turn thou thy spirit's eyes away
To where unnumbered glories glow
In home beyond the solar ray.
But for the flower of Annisley,
While life warms this old breast of mine,
I'll yearly pour regretfully
The hymn of sorrow o'er her shrine.
Turn thou thy spirit's eyes away
To where unnumbered glories glow
In home beyond the solar ray.
But for the flower of Annisley,
While life warms this old breast of mine,
I'll yearly pour regretfully
The hymn of sorrow o'er her shrine.
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |