The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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THE MAID OF LOWDORE. |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
THE MAID OF LOWDORE.
The crest of dark Skiddaw was misty and dreary,
The winds roared aloud near the hoarse raven's nest,
The strongest with reaching its top would be weary,
And like the young lover, be wishful to rest,—
The winds roared aloud near the hoarse raven's nest,
The strongest with reaching its top would be weary,
And like the young lover, be wishful to rest,—
The lover that wandered, his breast with love burning,
For Anna, the beautiful maid of Lowdore,
Who watched the clouds as she wished his returning,
But night came too soon—he returned no more.
For Anna, the beautiful maid of Lowdore,
Who watched the clouds as she wished his returning,
But night came too soon—he returned no more.
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Beneath him the dark mist rolled rapid in motion;
Above was the evening star seen through the cloud;
But the mist was as fatal to him as the ocean,
When seas wash the lost from the wave-beaten shroud.
Above was the evening star seen through the cloud;
But the mist was as fatal to him as the ocean,
When seas wash the lost from the wave-beaten shroud.
A wand'rer he roamed, where the curlew was screaming,
Till he heard the deep roar of the lone mountain flood;
Of danger approaching he little was dreaming,
Though on the high verge of dire terror he stood.
Till he heard the deep roar of the lone mountain flood;
Of danger approaching he little was dreaming,
Though on the high verge of dire terror he stood.
He thought on his Anna, with earnest endeavour
Tried to reach the blest spot his soul did adore;
He steps—shrieks, and falls!—but the shepherd can never
Return to his love at the falls of Lowdore.
Tried to reach the blest spot his soul did adore;
He steps—shrieks, and falls!—but the shepherd can never
Return to his love at the falls of Lowdore.
His Anna now nightly sits list'ning with wonder,
To hear in the tempest the high cataract's roar;
And thinks she can hear, in the midst of its thunder,
Her shepherd call “Anna, the Maid of Lowdore!”
To hear in the tempest the high cataract's roar;
And thinks she can hear, in the midst of its thunder,
Her shepherd call “Anna, the Maid of Lowdore!”
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |