Classic Poem

Beside the grave, where evermore,
Unknell'd, uncoffin'd, not unwept,
Her widow'd mother slept,
Beneath the copse of willows hoar,
With dwarf ash mix'd, and crab, and sloe,
And brambles for the gadding vine;
Close to the deep lake's western shore,
In restless mood, walk'd to and fro
The orphan Etheline.
Lone daughter of a wizard sire,
(So, by her policy deceived,
Men eagerly believ'd,)
Fear'd was her power, and widely known:
Her spells could rule the thunder-stone,
That floods the heavens with fire;
Her glance strike dead the secret foe
Who but in thought might work her woe.
A bow-shot from the roughen'd wave,
Not ten yards from the copse and grave,
Back'd westward by the boundless wood,
Her moss'd and log-built cabin stood;
And still beneath the crops went,
And enter'd oft the tenement,
But could not there abide.
She feign'd much wonder — " Why no more
Came Adwick then, as heretofore,
To lonely Waterside? "
(Such was the name her dwelling bore,)
And sometimes blush'd, (but not with shame,)
For neither he nor Konig came.
" Not that she car'd for Konig. Why
Should lowly maiden look so high?
Besides, of love he never spoke;
Though oft' he came, 'twas but to joke;
And still he came, to go in haste;
And weeks, since last he came, had pass'd.
Then, why should Adwick knit his brow?
Was Adwick jealous? Jealous! No;
She'd scorn him, if he could be so. "