 | Poems |  |
120
ELEANOR GREY.
BALLAD.
Oh! long shall I think of the Miller's fair daughter,
The flower of the valley, poor Eleanor Grey;
For though Sorrow's sure dart to the dark grave has brought her,
Her virtues, in memory, ne'er can decay!
Like the glow-worm, which shines, the night's darkness illuming;
Like the breath of the rose, which, though sweet while 'tis blooming,
Breathes sweeter when death is its beauty entombing,
Is the memory sweet of lost Eleanor Grey!
The flower of the valley, poor Eleanor Grey;
For though Sorrow's sure dart to the dark grave has brought her,
Her virtues, in memory, ne'er can decay!
Like the glow-worm, which shines, the night's darkness illuming;
Like the breath of the rose, which, though sweet while 'tis blooming,
Breathes sweeter when death is its beauty entombing,
Is the memory sweet of lost Eleanor Grey!
121
If to love be a crime, and there's sin in believing,
Then greatly a sinner was Eleanor Grey;
For Edwin was tender as well as deceiving,
And swore to protect, when he meant to betray.
And like the mild night-plant, when some rude foot bends it,
Whose only reproach is the perfume it lends it,
She sigh'd, “My heart blesses the false youth who rends it!”
And died as she bless'd him, poor Eleanor Grey!
Then greatly a sinner was Eleanor Grey;
For Edwin was tender as well as deceiving,
And swore to protect, when he meant to betray.
And like the mild night-plant, when some rude foot bends it,
Whose only reproach is the perfume it lends it,
She sigh'd, “My heart blesses the false youth who rends it!”
And died as she bless'd him, poor Eleanor Grey!
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