Poems (Holford)/A Ballad

by Margaret Holford (1778-1852)

 "And if I might open that eye so bright
To look on another day,
Oh then I would kneel thro' the live-long night,
Ye should not bid me pray!

 "From that silent voice, if but one sound more
Might to mine ear be given,
Oh ne'er should my cry and my pray'r be o'er
'Till I had wearied Heaven!

 "But my heart upon yonder bier is laid,
Ye are bearing it away!
And how can she plead to Heaven for aid
Who has not a heart to pray!

 "Go hide my love under the damp green stone!
Go bury him low and deep!
I'll build me a bow'r in the church-yard lone
To watch my husband's sleep.

 "And when the moon rises above the yew
Which shadows his silent breast,
I'll mingle my tears with the glitt'ring dew
That sprinkles his place of rest."

 "Oh cold is the night, and the wind it blows,
And thy husband sleeps in peace,
Then pray for the balsam of soft repose,
It shall bid thy sorrows cease!

 "But seek not thou 'mid the shadows of night
Yon church-yard dark and wide,
For there hovers oft the shivering sprite,
And the shrouded phantoms glide!"

 Yet tho' sick and wan is the moonlight ray,
Tho' hollow the night-blasts rave,
The Lady has taken the dreary way
Which leads to the new-made grave.

 And the morning cock it crows loud and shrill,
And the clouds of night are gone,
Yet the Lady is watching pale and still
By the side of the silent stone!

 Now heavily, heavily pass'd the day,
And again the night is come,
And the owl has call'd the Lady away
To visit her husband's home;

 But the bat is flapping its leathern wing,
And 'tis sad to sit alone,
And when the cock crows and the matins ring,
The Lady she is gone!

 "Now Lady, Lady, the moon shines clear,
And soft the night-winds blow,
Thy watch will be sweet by the chambers drear
Where thy true love sleeps below!"

 Now slowly, slowly, her steps she bent
Thro' the church-path's lonely track,
Yet tho' all so slowly she thither went,
Full quickly she hied her back!

 "Oh its I would shrive, go call me a priest,
I have sinn'd in too much sorrow,
And I will away to the midnight feast
And throw by my weeds to-morrow!!

 "Of a cheek like this to wither the bloom
Alas! 'tis a deadly crime!
So I'll sit no more by the lonely tomb,
'Tis good to repent in time."

 Then her maidens braided her yellow hair,
And with jewels deck'd her brow;
And they tinted that Lady's cheek so fair,
With the rose-bud's softest glow.

 And her mantle of silk it floated proud
Around her slender form,
While her Lord lay wrapt in his mould'ring shroud,
A feast for the crawling worm!

 But the dead are gone, and we may be gay;
Time mocks us from our sorrow,
For if we are sullen and sad to-day
We too may be dead to-morrow!

 "Oh I lov'd my lord while beauty and life
In charms array'd his form,
But 'tis vain with the grave to hold my strife,
Or rival the loathsome worn!"

 Now wise I ween was that Lady's mind,
Her moonlight watch for leaving;
For love is a dream, and sighs they are wind—
What e'er was gain'd by grieving?

 Then Lady away to the midnight ball!
Waste no more time in weeping,
For the vapours float and the dews they fall,
Thy husband's pillow steeping.

 By echoing harps and by tapers bright,
By mirth and dance surrounded,
That Lady she soon bade her grief good night,
And her light heart gaily bounded!

 And if yet upon her wavering sense
A saddening thought remains,
Hark! Flattery is nigh to drive it thence,
With its false yet dulcet strains!

 See how she listens, and blushes, and smiles,
Her vow and her griefs forgetting,
While entranced by the syren's warbled wiles
She marks each rival fretting!

 "Now Lady, and are those sweet smiles thine own,
Or to another given?"
"Oh, their Lord sleeps under the damp green stone,
And his soul is gone to heaven!

 "And the gale that flutters thro' scented groves,
And the lark that skims the sky,
And the mountain kid that merrily roves,
Are not less fetter'd than I."

 Then she gave her hand to the gallant gay
(Already her heart was dancing,)
And blythe to the crowd she hasten'd away,
Where nimble feet were glancing.

 Now floated a damp and earthy smell,
Twas like a church-yard vapour!
And a ghastly mist o'er the dancers fell,
And dimm'd each struggling taper;

 And frozen and terror-struck stood the crowd,
Which of late so jocund were,
For a spectre was there in his wavering shroud,
And the dress which dead men wear!

 And hollowly hollowly sounds his tongue,
And it says in the Lady's ear,
"Thou camest not tho' I waited long,
So I come for thee my dear!"

 Then quick on her shuddering hand he plac'd
His fingers livid and cold,
And his ghastly arm it grasp'd her waist,
Which shrank from its icy hold!

 "We must not tarry—'tis time to come!
Why art thou my love so slow?
The glow-worm is waiting to light thee home,
And all is ready below!"

 The Lady is gone with her spectre spouse,
Tho' she had fain denied,
The grave is a sad and a dreary house
For a gay and blooming bride!

 The mist is fled, and the tapers are bright,
And all is as before;
But each dancer's heart is frozen with fright,
And the joy of the ball is o'er!