Classic Poem

A BALLAD .

While the wind it blew cold on her desolate breast,
On a bank the poor E LLINOR laid,
And the clouds which roll'd black, to a heart so opprest,
No tumults of terror convey'd!

Blow, Tempest! she cry'd — tho' tremendous thou art,
No more will this bosom repine,
For the treach'ry that cleaves to my sorrowful heart
Has a breath that is sharper than thine!

The moon-beam that trembles, and breaks thro' the sky,
Seems kindly to pity my grief;
But far from Compassion my sorrows wou'd fly,
For it never can bring them relief!

What smile can it bring me so tender, so kind,
As that which my confidence won? —
Nor e'er would I grieve the compassionate mind,
To tell them my hopes are undone.
'Twould heighten my anguish — my pangs, to complain —
The name I have lov'd to combine
With all that is false, and deceitful and vain —
What comfort, alas! wou'd be mine?

No anger — no vengeance — a name shall exposes,
That was once to my fancy so dear,
When Heaven in Mercy shall grant me repose,
He may find me insensible here!

Nor now do I envy the child of Deceit,
Though my credulous truth he despise;
Yet dark is the shadow his fancy shall meet,
When he hears that his E LLINOR dies! —

I wish not a sorrow that's keen and severe,
But such as Repentance may be,
For the pardon I grant him, I feel is sincere —
And Heaven will grant it to me!

Blow Tempest, she cried, tho' tremendous you rave,
My bosom the whirlwind can bear,
For green is the verdure that grows on my grave,
And I know that a shelter is there.