 | The Sylphs of the Seasons, with other poems |  |
165
WILL THE MANIAC.
A BALLAD.
Hark! what wild sound is on the breeze?
'Tis Will, at evening fall
Who sings to yonder waving trees
That shade his prison wall.
'Tis Will, at evening fall
Who sings to yonder waving trees
That shade his prison wall.
Poor Will was once the gayest swain
At village dance was seen;
No freer heart of wicked stain
E'er tripp'd the moonlight green.
At village dance was seen;
No freer heart of wicked stain
E'er tripp'd the moonlight green.
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His flock was all his humble pride,
A finer ne'er was shorn;
And only when a lambkin died
Had Will a cause to mourn.
A finer ne'er was shorn;
And only when a lambkin died
Had Will a cause to mourn.
But now poor William's brain is turn'd
He knows no more his flock;
For when I ask'd “if them he mourn'd,”
He mock'd the village clock.
He knows no more his flock;
For when I ask'd “if them he mourn'd,”
He mock'd the village clock.
No, William does not mourn his fold,
Though tenantless and drear;
Some say, a love he never told
Did crush his heart with fear.
Though tenantless and drear;
Some say, a love he never told
Did crush his heart with fear.
And she, 'tis said, for whom he pin'd
Was heiress of the land,
A lovely lady, pure of mind,
Of open heart and hand.
Was heiress of the land,
A lovely lady, pure of mind,
Of open heart and hand.
167
And others tell, as how he strove
To win the noble fair,
Who, scornful, jeer'd his simple love,
And left him to despair.
To win the noble fair,
Who, scornful, jeer'd his simple love,
And left him to despair.
Will wander'd then amid the rocks
Through all the live long day,
And oft would creep where bursting shocks
Had rent the earth away.
Through all the live long day,
And oft would creep where bursting shocks
Had rent the earth away.
He lov'd to delve the darksome dell
Where never pierc'd a ray,
There to the wailing night-bird tell,
‘How love was turn'd to clay.’
Where never pierc'd a ray,
There to the wailing night-bird tell,
‘How love was turn'd to clay.’
And oft upon yon craggy mount,
Where threat'ning cliffs hang high,
Have I observ'd him stop to count
With fixless stare the sky.
Where threat'ning cliffs hang high,
Have I observ'd him stop to count
With fixless stare the sky.
168
Then to himself, in murmurs low,
Repeating as he wound
Along the mountain's woody brow,
'Till lost was every sound.
Repeating as he wound
Along the mountain's woody brow,
'Till lost was every sound.
But soon he went so wild astray
His kindred ach'd to see;
And now, secluded from the day,
In yonder cell is he.
His kindred ach'd to see;
And now, secluded from the day,
In yonder cell is he.
| The Sylphs of the Seasons, with other poems | |