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 Lady's Dream.
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
The Lady's Dream.
Let April waft her breeze of life,
And sprinkle far her fostering dew,
And o'er the meadow's velvet breast
Her simple gems renew.
Yes, though she breathe her sweets for you
All o'er the lawn and verdant vale,
In sympathy, oh! stay with me,
And list my piteous tale!
And sprinkle far her fostering dew,
And o'er the meadow's velvet breast
Her simple gems renew.
Yes, though she breathe her sweets for you
All o'er the lawn and verdant vale,
In sympathy, oh! stay with me,
And list my piteous tale!
I wist not when the dawning broke,
Nor when the sun rose bright and high;
What time I slept, nor when I woke,
I knew not—no not I.
I dreamed I sat on my love's knee,
I leaned my head upon his breast,
And yet I wept—I knew not why;
But oh, my heart was ill at rest!
Nor when the sun rose bright and high;
What time I slept, nor when I woke,
I knew not—no not I.
I dreamed I sat on my love's knee,
I leaned my head upon his breast,
And yet I wept—I knew not why;
But oh, my heart was ill at rest!
I felt his arms around me prest;
His vows of love were breathed in vain:
For still my heart with sorrow heaved—
'Twas like to break in twain:
The tears fell from my eyes like rain;
He did not chide but went away;
A glance of anger in his eye
Gleamed like the meteor's ray.
His vows of love were breathed in vain:
For still my heart with sorrow heaved—
'Twas like to break in twain:
The tears fell from my eyes like rain;
He did not chide but went away;
A glance of anger in his eye
Gleamed like the meteor's ray.
I could not hold nor bid him stay,
Such were the throes my bosom wrung;
I tried to follow, but my limbs
Were powerless as my tongue.
I sought him through the busy throng,
I sought him through the weary waste,
Through caves of death and dens of woe
Deep moaning to the blast.
Such were the throes my bosom wrung;
I tried to follow, but my limbs
Were powerless as my tongue.
I sought him through the busy throng,
I sought him through the weary waste,
Through caves of death and dens of woe
Deep moaning to the blast.
362
But when I rose, or how I past
That dreary day, is all a dream;
His form alone my fancy sought,
My feelings still the same:
'Tis said I often called his name;
But when they named my bridal day,
I wistful looked, and raving seemed—
My thoughts went all astray.
That dreary day, is all a dream;
His form alone my fancy sought,
My feelings still the same:
'Tis said I often called his name;
But when they named my bridal day,
I wistful looked, and raving seemed—
My thoughts went all astray.
No more the bird sings from the spray,
Or summer fans her flowers for me;
The sunbeams all unheeded play,
And breezes from the sea.
Like passing hum of meadow bee,
Who winds his little aerial horn;
The fairy rainbow's ample bend,
Or dew-web of the morn;
Or summer fans her flowers for me;
The sunbeams all unheeded play,
And breezes from the sea.
Like passing hum of meadow bee,
Who winds his little aerial horn;
The fairy rainbow's ample bend,
Or dew-web of the morn;
So fled my bliss! So quick were shorn
The garlands from my maiden brow!
Sweet ladies, list a lady's tale
All lone and hopeless now!
The evening came with noise and show;
Mine eye sought for the bridegroom still—
His head is on the dripping pew,
His heart is cold and chill!
The garlands from my maiden brow!
Sweet ladies, list a lady's tale
All lone and hopeless now!
The evening came with noise and show;
Mine eye sought for the bridegroom still—
His head is on the dripping pew,
His heart is cold and chill!
A corse lies in the cold church-aisle,
All dripping wet with ocean brine,
Whose gentle form is all unknown—
Ladies, that youth was mine!
That youth was gentle, fair, and kind;
My heart, my troth, I yielded free;
But, ah! his own hand reft his life—
His soul from heaven and me.
All dripping wet with ocean brine,
Whose gentle form is all unknown—
Ladies, that youth was mine!
That youth was gentle, fair, and kind;
My heart, my troth, I yielded free;
But, ah! his own hand reft his life—
His soul from heaven and me.
His bridal bed the drumly sea;
His revel-room the cheerless tomb;
The red worm sleeps coiled on the breast
My heart chose for its home.
No sun shall ever cheer the gloom
That broods around his hopeless urn;
No ray of grace avert his doom,
Nor point his soul's return.
His revel-room the cheerless tomb;
The red worm sleeps coiled on the breast
My heart chose for its home.
No sun shall ever cheer the gloom
That broods around his hopeless urn;
No ray of grace avert his doom,
Nor point his soul's return.
Then can ye wonder why I mourn,
And shun the day-light's piercing eye;
Or why this pallid maiden cheek
Is never, never dry?
The vernal flowers of every dye
The mollient breezes will renew;
But mine for evermore shall lie
Unmoved by winds or dew.
And shun the day-light's piercing eye;
Or why this pallid maiden cheek
Is never, never dry?
The vernal flowers of every dye
The mollient breezes will renew;
But mine for evermore shall lie
Unmoved by winds or dew.
And when yon sky's ethereal blue
Shall vanish like its slightest dye—
When all this green and solid globe
One mouldering heap shall lie;
Then where shall I my love descry?
Where hope his face to see again?
Oh! can ye wonder I should weep,
Ye ladies of the plain?
Shall vanish like its slightest dye—
When all this green and solid globe
One mouldering heap shall lie;
Then where shall I my love descry?
Where hope his face to see again?
Oh! can ye wonder I should weep,
Ye ladies of the plain?
Yet, oh! let pity's gentle sigh
Spontaneous from your bosoms steal;
The dew of beauty's beaming eye
A maiden's bleeding heart may heal.
Spontaneous from your bosoms steal;
The dew of beauty's beaming eye
A maiden's bleeding heart may heal.
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |