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THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

LENORA.

A BALLAD, FROM BÜRGER.

AT break of day, with frightful dreams

Lenora ftruggled fore:

My William, art thou flaine, say'd fhe,
Or doft thou love no more?

He went abroade with Richard's hoft,
The Paynim foes to quell:

But he no word to her had writt,

An he was fick or well.

With fowne of trump, and beat of drum,
His fellow-foldyers come;

Their helmes by deckt with oaken boughs,
They feeke their long'd-for home.

And ev'ry roade, and ev'ry lane

Was full of old and young,

To gaze at the rejoicing band,

To hail with gladfome toung.

"Thank God!" their wives and children faide; "Welcome!" the brides did faye :

But greet or kifs Lenora gave

To none upon that daye.

She afkte of all the paffing traine,
For him the wifht to fee:

But none of all the paffing traine
Could tell if lived hee.

And when the foldyers all were bye,

She tore her raven haire,

And caft herself upon

In furious defpaire,

the groune,

Her mother ran and lyfte her up,

And clafped in her arme,

"My child, my child, what doft thou ail? God fhield thy life from harm!"

"O mother, mother! William's gone!
What's all befyde to mee?

Their is no mercye, fure, above!
All, all were fpar'd but hee ?"
"Knell downe, thy paternofter faye,
"Twill calm thy troubled spright:
The Lord is wyfe, the Lord is good;
What hee hath done is right."
"O mother, mother, fay not fo;
Moft cruel is my fate:

I prayde, and prayde; but watte avayl'd? 'Tis now, alas! too late."

"Our Heav'nly Father, if we praye,
Will help a fuff'ring childe :
Go take the holy facrament;

So fhall thy grief grow

milde."

"O mother, what I feel within,
No facrament can staye:
No facrament can teche the dead
To bear the fight of daye."
"May be among the heathen folk
Thy William falfe doth prove,
And puts away his faith and troth,
And takes another love.

Then wherefore forrow for his lofs?
Thy moans are all in vain :
And when his foul and body parte,

His falfehode brings him paine."

"O mother, mother! William's gone : My hope is all forlorne :

The grave my only fafeguarde is

Oh, had I ne'er been borne !

Go out, go out, my lamp of life;
In griflie darkness die :

There is no mercye, fure, above!
For ever let me die."

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Almighty God! O do not judge
My poor unhappy childe;

She knows not what her lips pronounce,
Her anguish makes her wilde!

My girl, forget thine earthly woe,
And think on God and blifs;
For fo, at leaft, fhall not thy foule
Its heavenly bridegroom mifs."
"O mother, mother! what is bliffe,
And what the fiendis celle ?
With him 'tis heaven any where,
Without my William, helle.
Go out, out, my lamp of life:

In endless darkness die:

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Without him I must loath the earth,
Without him fcorn the skye."

And fo defpaire did rave and rage
Athwarte her boiling veins;
Against the Providence of Heaven
She hurlde her impious ftrains.

She bete her breafte, and wrung her hands,
And rollde her tearleffe eye,

From rife of morne, till the pale stars
Again did freeke the skye.

When harke! abroade she hearde the trampe
Of nimble-hoofed steed;

She hearde a knighte with clank alighte,

And climb the flaire in speede.

And foon fhe hearde a tinkling hande,

That twirled at the pin;

And through her door, that open'd not,
These words were breathed in:

"What ho! what ho! thy dore undoe ;
Art watching or asleepe?

My love, doft yet remember mee,
And doft thou laugh or weep?"

"Ah! William here fo late at night;
Oh! I have watchte and wak'd:
Whence doft thou come? For thy return
My herte has forely ak'd."

“ At midnight only we may ride;

I come o'er land and sea :

I mounted late, but foon I go;
Aryfe, and come with mee."
"O William, enter firft my bowre,
And give me one embrace:

The blafts athwarte the hawthorne hiss;
Awayte a little space."

"The blafts athwarte the hawthorn hiss,
I may not harboure here;

My fpur is fharp, my courfer pawes,
My houre of flight is nere.

All as thou ly'ft upon thy couch,

Aryfe and mount behinde;
To-night we'le ride a thousand miles?

The bridal-bed to finde."

“How! ride to night a thousand miles ? Thy love thou doft bemocke:

Eleven is the ftroke that ftill

Rings on within the clocke."

"Look up: the moon is bright, and we Outftride the earthlie men;

I'll take thee to the bridal-bed,

And night shall end but then."

“And where is, then, thy house and home ; And where thy bridal-bed ?"

"'Tis narrow, filent, chilly, dark;

Far hence I reft my head."

"And is there any room for mee,

Wherein that I may creepe ?"

"There's room enough for thee and mee,
Wherein that wee may fleepe.

All as thou ly'ft upon thy couch,
Aryfe, no longer ftop;

The wedding guefts thy coming waite,

Thy chamber dore is ope."

All in her farke, as there fhe lay,
Upon his horse the sprung;
And, with her lily hand fo pale,
About her William clung.

And hurry-skurry forth they goe,
Unheeding wet or drye;

And horfe and rider fnort and blowe,

And sparkling pebbles flye.

How fwift the flood, the mead, the wood, Aright, aleft, are gone!

The bridges thunder as they pass,

But earthly fowne is none.

Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede; Splash, fplafh, across the fee: "Hurrah! the dead can ride apace;

Doft fear to ride with mee?

The moon is brighte, and blue the nyght;
Doft quake the blast to stem ?

Doft fhudder, mayde, to feek the dead ?" "No, no, but what of them?

How gloomlie fownes yon girgye fong!
Nighte-raven's flappe the wing.
What knell doth flowlie toll ding-dong?
The pfalms of death who fing?

It creeps, the fwarthie funeral traine,

The corfe is on the biere;

Like croke of todes from lonely moores,
The chaunte doth meet the eere."

"Go, bear her corfe when midnight's past, With fong, and tear, and wayle;

I've gott my wife, I take her home,
My hour of wedlocke hayl.

Lead forth, O clarke, the chaunting quire,
To fwell our nuptial fong:

Come, preafte, and read the bleffing foone, For bed, for bed we long."

They heede his calle, and hufht the fowne;
The biere was seen no more;

And followde him o'er field and flood
Yet fafter than before.

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