"Again in my chamber!
Again at my bed!
With thy smile sweet as sunshine,
And hand cold as lead!
I know thee! I know thee!
Nay, start not, my sweet!
These golden robes shrunk up
And showed me thy feet;
These golden robes shrunk up,
And taffety thin,
While out crept the emblems
Of Death and of Sin.
Bright beautiful devil!
Pass, pass from me now;
For the damp dew of death
Gathers thick on my brow;
And bind up thy girdle,
Nor beauties disclose,
More dazzlingly white
Than the wreath-drifted snows:
And away with thy kisses;
My heart waxes sick,
As thy red lips, like worms,
Travel over my cheek!
Ha! press me no more with
That passionless hand,
'Tis whiter than milk, or
The foam on the strand;
'Tis softer than down, or
The silken-leafed flower;
But colder than ice thrills
Its touch at this hour.
Like the finger of death,
From cerements unroll'd,
Thy hand on my heart falls
Dull, clammy, and cold.
Nor bend o'er my pillow--
Thy raven-black hair
O'ershadows my brow with
A deeper despair;
These ringlets, thick falling,
Spread fear through my brain,
And my temples are throbbing
With madness again.
The moonlight! the moonlight!
The deep-winding bay!
There are TWO on that strand,
And a ship far away!
In its silence and beauty,
Its passion and power,
Love breathed o'er the land
Like the soul of a flower.
The billows were chiming
On pale yellow sands,
And moonshine was gleaming
On small ivory hands.
There were bow'rs by the brook's brink,
And flowers bursting free;
There were hot lips to suck forth
A lost soul from me.
Now mountain and meadow,
Frith, forest, and river,
Are mingling with shadows--
Are lost to me ever.
The sunlight is fading,
Small birds seek their nest;
While happy hearts, flower-like,
Sink sinless to rest.
But I!-'tis no matter;
Ay, kiss cheek and chin;
Kiss--kiss--thou hast won me,
Bright, beautiful Sin!"
And now we shall lay down our pen, and bid farewell for a season both to
poet and to poetaster. If any of our young friends who are now setting
up as ballad-writers upon their own account, have a spark of genius
within them--and we do think that, with proper training, something might
be made of the lads--let them study the distinctions which we have drawn
above, and cultivate energy and simplicity as the cardinal virtues of
composition. Also let them study, but not copy, the ancient ballad-book:
for it is a domain which we have long preserved from poachers, and if we
catch any of them appropriating, remodelling, or transferring from it,
we shall beg an afternoon's loan of THE CRUTCH, and lay the delinquent
as low as Sheldon. It may be that some do not know what is in that
ballad-book: if so--let them read the Death of the Douglas at
Otterbourne, and then, if they dare, indulge us with the catastrophe of
Harry Hotspur.
"And then he called his little foot-page,
And said, 'Run speedilie,
And fetch my ae dear sister's son,
Sir Hugh Montgomerie.'
'My nephew gude,' the Douglas said,
'What recks the death o' ane!
Last nicht I dreimed a drearie dreim,
And I ken the day's thy ain.
'My wound is deep, I fain wad sleep;
Tak thou the vanguard o' the three,
And bury me by the braken-bush
That grows on yonder lily-lee.
O bury me by the braken-bush
Beneath the bluming brier;
Let never living mortal ken
That a kindly Scot lies here!'
He lifted up that noble lord,
Wi' the saut tear in his e'e;
He laid him in the braken-bush,
That his merrie-men might not see.
The moon was clear, the day drew near,
The spears in flinders flew;
And mony a gallant Englishman
Ere day the Scotsmen slew.
The Gordons gude in English blude
They steep'd their hose and shoon;
The Lindsays flew like fire about
Till a' the fray was dune.
The Percy and Montgomery met,
That either of other were fain;
They swappet swords, and they twa swat,
Till the blude ran down like rain.
'Now yield thee, yield thee, Percy,' he said,
'Or else I shall lay thee low.'
'To whom shall I yield?' Earl Percy said,
'Sin' I see it maun be so.'
Thou shalt not yield to lord nor loun,
Nor yet shalt thou yield to me;
But yield thee to the braken-bush
That grows on yon lily-lee.'
This deed was dune at the Otterbourne
About the breaking o' the day.
Earl Douglas was buriet at the braken-bush,
And Percy led captive away."
So died in his harness the doughty Earl of Douglas, and never was the
fall of a warrior more greatly commemorated by minstrel, be his age, his
land, his birth, or his language what they may!