Athol
Soft fell the dews on Yarrow Plain,
Beneath whose sward lies many a Lover,
The bird of night renew'd her strain,
Around the dreary grave to hover.
The Raven croak'd, the moon-beam shone,
When Athol stray'd, with steps of Sorrow,
" Ah me! what shadowy forms are yon,
That wander on the Banks of Yarrow?
Why screams the Death-bird from the tree?
Why bring the winds the voice of mourning?
The scream, the winds proclaim to me,
That Athol never sees the morning.
Why sinks my heart with coward fear?
And why so chill my blood with horror?
Again the shadowy forms are near,
In all the eloquence of Sorrow.
Is it? — it is my Mary's shade,
It is the pale, the breathless Lover:
How shall I meet the injur'd Maid?
And how my contrite heart discover?
No sound that senseless ear can reach,
Nor sees that eye my sorrows flowing;
Though well the wand'ring shade can teach
To Athol all her woes are owing —
Those lips are now in silence clos'd,
And cold for ever is that bosom,
That form is to the worm expos'd,
Who feeds him on the fall'n blossom.
Why are those lips in silence clos'd?
And why so cold that lovely bosom?
Why is that form to worms expos'd?
And who could nip so fair a blossom?
'Twas Athol's tongue convey'd the tale,
Which broke that heart with Love and Sorrow,
Which made that blooming cheek be pale,
And cold, upon the banks of Yarrow.
'Twas Athol urg'd by jealous fear,
Who feign'd too well the guileful story,
Which fill'd that eye with many a tear,
For what? to add to Connal's glory.
To blast the fame I once cou'd boast,
To rend that tender breast with anguish,
To know that all I love is lost,
And void of ev'ry hope to languish.
Little did wretched Athol think
That Mary was so true a Lover,
And little knew on Yarrow brink
How soon her gentle shade would hover.
The wave of Yarrow murmurs nigh,
Which once, methought, was sweetly flowing;
'Twas sweet, for Mary then was by,
Though no kind look on me bestowing.
That wave, those forms of fleeting air,
Which strike my guilty Soul with horror,
The winds to Athol howl despair,
And bid him never see to-morrow.
Ye phantoms of the injur'd dead,
Ye passing winds that hear my anguish,
Ye know by Love and Sorrow led,
That here my Mary ceas'd to languish.
Ye know that from this bleeding heart,
Which mourns my Mary lost for ever,
Her lov'd idea cannot part,
Nor long shall Death our fortunes sever.
My tears have wet her early grave,
My hands have deck'd the sod with willow,
Then haste thee, Athol, to the wave,
And rest thee on thy wat'ry pillow.
The closing wave thy form shall hide,
No sod shall tell the passing rover,
That here the wretched Athol died,
A faithful, though a guilty Lover. "
One look he cast on Mary's grave,
High rose his heart with inward Sorrow,
His hasty foot-steps sought the wave,
He plung'd beneath the flowing Yarrow.
In the fair blossom of his youth,
He fell depriv'd of life and glory,
Ye Lovers keep the path of truth,
Warn'd by the guilty Athol's story.
Beneath whose sward lies many a Lover,
The bird of night renew'd her strain,
Around the dreary grave to hover.
The Raven croak'd, the moon-beam shone,
When Athol stray'd, with steps of Sorrow,
" Ah me! what shadowy forms are yon,
That wander on the Banks of Yarrow?
Why screams the Death-bird from the tree?
Why bring the winds the voice of mourning?
The scream, the winds proclaim to me,
That Athol never sees the morning.
Why sinks my heart with coward fear?
And why so chill my blood with horror?
Again the shadowy forms are near,
In all the eloquence of Sorrow.
Is it? — it is my Mary's shade,
It is the pale, the breathless Lover:
How shall I meet the injur'd Maid?
And how my contrite heart discover?
No sound that senseless ear can reach,
Nor sees that eye my sorrows flowing;
Though well the wand'ring shade can teach
To Athol all her woes are owing —
Those lips are now in silence clos'd,
And cold for ever is that bosom,
That form is to the worm expos'd,
Who feeds him on the fall'n blossom.
Why are those lips in silence clos'd?
And why so cold that lovely bosom?
Why is that form to worms expos'd?
And who could nip so fair a blossom?
'Twas Athol's tongue convey'd the tale,
Which broke that heart with Love and Sorrow,
Which made that blooming cheek be pale,
And cold, upon the banks of Yarrow.
'Twas Athol urg'd by jealous fear,
Who feign'd too well the guileful story,
Which fill'd that eye with many a tear,
For what? to add to Connal's glory.
To blast the fame I once cou'd boast,
To rend that tender breast with anguish,
To know that all I love is lost,
And void of ev'ry hope to languish.
Little did wretched Athol think
That Mary was so true a Lover,
And little knew on Yarrow brink
How soon her gentle shade would hover.
The wave of Yarrow murmurs nigh,
Which once, methought, was sweetly flowing;
'Twas sweet, for Mary then was by,
Though no kind look on me bestowing.
That wave, those forms of fleeting air,
Which strike my guilty Soul with horror,
The winds to Athol howl despair,
And bid him never see to-morrow.
Ye phantoms of the injur'd dead,
Ye passing winds that hear my anguish,
Ye know by Love and Sorrow led,
That here my Mary ceas'd to languish.
Ye know that from this bleeding heart,
Which mourns my Mary lost for ever,
Her lov'd idea cannot part,
Nor long shall Death our fortunes sever.
My tears have wet her early grave,
My hands have deck'd the sod with willow,
Then haste thee, Athol, to the wave,
And rest thee on thy wat'ry pillow.
The closing wave thy form shall hide,
No sod shall tell the passing rover,
That here the wretched Athol died,
A faithful, though a guilty Lover. "
One look he cast on Mary's grave,
High rose his heart with inward Sorrow,
His hasty foot-steps sought the wave,
He plung'd beneath the flowing Yarrow.
In the fair blossom of his youth,
He fell depriv'd of life and glory,
Ye Lovers keep the path of truth,
Warn'd by the guilty Athol's story.
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