The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell ... Now first collected and edited, with memoir, by Robert Howie Smith |
 | I. |
BRAES OF OCHTERTYRE—SONG. |
 | II. |
 | The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell |  |
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BRAES OF OCHTERTYRE—SONG.
Quick beats my fever'd brain,
Distraction shakes my wasting frame;
Dark seems the new day,
And darker still to-morrow;
Wild are the images
That rush upon me at her name;
Yet not a tear bedews this cheek,
So pale and wan with sorrow:
Distraction shakes my wasting frame;
Dark seems the new day,
And darker still to-morrow;
Wild are the images
That rush upon me at her name;
Yet not a tear bedews this cheek,
So pale and wan with sorrow:
For low beneath yon grassy turf
Soft slumbers all I e'er could prize.
Death struck the dread blow,
And murder'd peace and pleasure:
Soon, ah soon this heart must break!
How keen these feelings agonize!
Lost for ever to my sight,
The grave holds my soul's treasure.
Soft slumbers all I e'er could prize.
Death struck the dread blow,
And murder'd peace and pleasure:
Soon, ah soon this heart must break!
How keen these feelings agonize!
Lost for ever to my sight,
The grave holds my soul's treasure.
Time was, with joyful step
I hasten'd here at eventide;
Life fled too fleeting
The hours with her beguiling:
Mild shone the setting sun,
And ting'd with gold yon mountain's side;
Mild were his last rays
That smil'd on Mary smiling.
I hasten'd here at eventide;
Life fled too fleeting
The hours with her beguiling:
Mild shone the setting sun,
And ting'd with gold yon mountain's side;
Mild were his last rays
That smil'd on Mary smiling.
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He set—and with him set those orbs
That beam'd serenity and love;
Cold grew that warm heart—
Ah, would that mine were colder!
With Mary perish'd ev'ry joy—
Peace beckons only from above.
The last sad wish this heart can frame,
Is here with her to moulder.
That beam'd serenity and love;
Cold grew that warm heart—
Ah, would that mine were colder!
With Mary perish'd ev'ry joy—
Peace beckons only from above.
The last sad wish this heart can frame,
Is here with her to moulder.
| The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell | |