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 DESERTED MAID. |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
254
THE DESERTED MAID.
To some gloomy cave will I wander away,
Where waterfalls foam through each cleft,
And there shun the light of the pleasant spring day,
Since I by my lover am left.
Where waterfalls foam through each cleft,
And there shun the light of the pleasant spring day,
Since I by my lover am left.
There hang, ye dried ferns, in the wet gloomy shade,
Ye owls, fly around me in scorn,
As ye hoot at a maid by her lover betray'd,
Whose features with weeping are worn.
Ye owls, fly around me in scorn,
As ye hoot at a maid by her lover betray'd,
Whose features with weeping are worn.
Oh let not a flower be seen in the field,
Nor daisies spring up near my feet;
Thou beautiful hill, no more primroses yield,
Where my lover and I used to meet.
Nor daisies spring up near my feet;
Thou beautiful hill, no more primroses yield,
Where my lover and I used to meet.
Ye eglantines, keep your sweet scent in the bud,
Nor throw it away to the wind;
Ye hyacinths, blossom no more in the wood,
Where I on his bosom reclin'd.
Nor throw it away to the wind;
Ye hyacinths, blossom no more in the wood,
Where I on his bosom reclin'd.
But wither, like me, ev'ry cowslip and rose,
Nor bloom in your beauty and charms,
As you did when this bosom knew nothing of woes,
Lull'd to peace in a false lover's arms.
Nor bloom in your beauty and charms,
As you did when this bosom knew nothing of woes,
Lull'd to peace in a false lover's arms.
255
Ye stockdoves I fed in the cold chilling frost,
Let your cooings be accents of pain,
In woe sing, ye birds, that my lover is lost,
Till the grottos re-echo the strain.
Let your cooings be accents of pain,
In woe sing, ye birds, that my lover is lost,
Till the grottos re-echo the strain.
The gems that he bought in my bosom I'll bear,
I only the jewels will view,
And dim their bright lustre with many a tear,
Which springs from a bosom that's true.
I only the jewels will view,
And dim their bright lustre with many a tear,
Which springs from a bosom that's true.
When life has ebb'd out to the last fatal day,
And this bosom heaves feebly for breath,
If then I can speak, for my Edwin I'll pray,
And show that I lov'd him in death.
And this bosom heaves feebly for breath,
If then I can speak, for my Edwin I'll pray,
And show that I lov'd him in death.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |