WILLIAM AND MARGARET.
WHEN all was wrapt in dark midnight,
And all were fast asleep,
In glided Marg’ret’s grimly ghost,
And stood at William’s feet,
Her face was like the April morn,
Clad in a wint’ry cloud;
And clay-cold was her lily hand,
That held the sable shroud.
So shall the fairest face appear,
When youth and years are flown-
Such is the robe that kings must wear,
When death hath reft their crown.
Her bloom was like the springing flow’r,
That sips the silver dew;
The rose was budded in her cheek,
And opening to the view.
But love had like the canker-worm,
Consum’d her early prime;
The rose grew pale, and left her cheek;
She dy’d before her time.
Awake, she cry’d, thy true-love calls,
Come from her midnight grave,,
Now let they pity hear the maid,
Thy love refus’d to save.
This it the dark and fearful hour,
When injur’d ghosts complain ;
Now dreary graves give up their dead,
To haunt the faithless swain.
Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,
Thy pledge and broken oath;
And give me back my maiden vow,
And give me back my troth.
