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THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

LENORA.

A BALLAD, FROM BÜRGER.

A* Lenora fruggled fore :

T break of day, with frightful dreams
My William, art thou slaine, fay'd she,

Or doft thou love no more?
He went abroade with Richard's host,

The Paynim foes to quell:
But he no word to her had writt,

An he was sick or well.
With sowne of trump, and beat of drum,

His fellow-foldyers come ;
Their helmes bydeckt with oaken boughs,

They seeke 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 gladsome toung. “ Thank God!" their wives and children faide ;

“ Welcome !" the brides did saye :
But greet or kiss Lenora gave

To none upon that daye.
She askte of all the passing traine,

For him she wisht to see:
But none of all the passing traine

Could tell if lived hee.

fate :

And when the foldyers all were bye,

She tore her raven haire, And cast herself upon

the

groune, In furious despaire, Her mother ran and lyfte her up,

And clasped in her arme, “ My child, my child, what dost thou ail?

God shield thy life from harm !" “ O mother, mother ! William's gone!

What's all besyde to mee? Their is no mercye, fure, above !

All, all were spar'd but bee?" “ Knell downe, thy paternoster faye,

'Twill calm thy troubled spright; The Lord is wyse, the Lord is good;

What hee hath done is right.” “ O mother, mother, fay not so; Most cruel is

my I prayde, and prayde; but watte avayld?

'Tis now, alas ! too late.” “ Our Heav'nly Father, if we praye,

Will help a fuff'ring childe: Go take the holy sacrament;

So shall thy grief grow milde." “ O mother, what I feel within,

No sacrament can staye :
No facrament can teche the dead

To bear the fight of daye.”
May be among the heathen folk

Thy William false doth prove,
And puts away his faith and troth,

And takes another love.
Then wherefore forrow for his loss?

Thy moans are all in vain :
And when his soul and body parte,

His falsehode brings him paine." " O mother, mother! William's gone :

My hope is all forlorne :
The grave my only safeguarde is

h, had I ne'er been borne !

+

Go out, go out, my lamp of life;

In grillie darkness die :
There is no mercye, sure, above !

For ever let me die."
" 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 bliss; For so, at least, shall not thy soule

Its heavenly bridegroom miss." “ O mother, mother! what is blisse,

And what the fiendis celle ? With him 'tis heaven any where, Without

my William, helle. Go out, out, my lamp of lifo :

In endless darkness die :
Without him I must loath the earth,

Without him scorn the skye."
And so despaire did rave and rage

Athwarte her boiling veins ; Against the Providence of Heaven

She hurlde her impious strains.
She bete her breaste, and wrung her hands,

And rollde her tearlesse eye,
From rise 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 staire in speede.
And soon she 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 dost thou laugh or weep?"

go;

« Ah! William here so late at night;

Ob! I have watchte and wakid: Whence doft thou come? For thy return

My herte has sorely akid." “ At midnight only we may ride ;

I come o'er land and sea : I mounted late, but soon I

Aryse, and come with mee."
“ O William, enter first my bowre,

And give me one embrace:
The blasts athwarte the hawthorne hiss;

Awayte a little space.”
“ The blasts athwarte the hawthorn hiss,
I

may not harboure here;
My spur is sharp, my courser pawes,

My houre of flight is nere.
All as thou ly'st upon thy couch,

Aryse 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 stroke that still

Rings on within the clocke.”. “ Look up: the moon is bright, and we

Outstride 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, silent, chilly, dark; Far hence I rest

my

head.” " And is there

mee, Wherein that I'may creepe?” “ There's room enough for thee and mee,

Wherein that wee may sleepe.
All as thou ly'st upon thy couch,

Aryse, no longer stop;
The wedding guests thy coming waite,

Thy chamber dore is ope.”

any room for

All in her sarke, as there she lay,

Upon his horse she sprung; And, with her lily hand so pale,

About her William clung.
And hurry-fkurry forth they goe,

Unheeding wet or drye ;
And horse and rider snort and blowe,

And sparkling pebbles flye.
How, swift the flood, the mead, the wood,

Aright, aleft, are gone !
The bridges thunder as they pass,

But earthly sowne is none.
Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede ;

Splash, splash, across the see: “ Hurrah ! the dead can ride apace ;

Doft fear to ride with mee? The moon is brighte, and blue the nyght;

Duft quake the blast to ftem ?
Dost shudder, mayde, to seek 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 psalms of death who sing?
It
creeps,

the swarthie funeral traine, The corse is on the biere; Like croke of todes from lonely moores,

The chaunte doth meet the eere." “ Go, bear her corse 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 song: Come, preafte, and read the blessing soone,

For bed, for bed we long."
They heede his calle, and husht the sowne ;

The biere was seen no more ;
And followde him o'er field and flood

Yet faster than before.

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