Imágenes de páginas

I never felt such silence, as
The silence of that street;
And yet my fear
Wrought in my ear
The sound of coming feet.

The moon was struggling in the clouds,
And not a star look'd out;

As all alone

I bore him on,
Methought I heard a shout.

I paused, and listened, as if I
Were rooted to the earth;

And I could hear

The laugh and jeer
Of revellers in their mirth.

Oh ! how they laughed and rioted,
And shouted o'er their wine;
No heart was sore,
For no one bore
A burden such as mine.

Oh! how that laugh stuck in my heart, Till from it leapt a sigh;

Then all alone

I bore him on
To where the dead do lie.

I laid him on our mother's grave,
Beneath the lonely yew;

Its branches spread

Above my head,
And the silent moon stared through.

Then huriedly I scooped a grave;
The last of all our kin,—

Unto my breast

I closely prest,
And gently laid him in.

And then I gazed upon his face,
Yet no tear could I shed;
And then I took
A last long look
With a loving kind of dread.

Oh brother, who would once have thought,
That it would come to this;
I could not speak,
But on his cheek
Imprinted one long kiss.

But suddenly my heart beat quick,
Methought I heard a tread;
A startled whoop
And then the swoop
Of dark wings overhead.

And there upon a drooping bough,
Of that dark lonely tree,
Two burning eyes
Of monstrous size
Were looking upon me.

I stood as fascinated fast,
By their phosphoric light;
How they did stare
And wildly glare
Like demons of the night.

I cannot tell how long I gazed,
All stupid with affright;
At last,they flew
From off the yew—
Oh 'twas a fearful night.

Then hurriedly I filled the grave,
My brain was burning wild;
In torrents fast
Tears came at last,
And I wept like a child.

I laid the turf upon his head,
And when my work was done,

The old church clock,

With drowsy stroke,
Proclaimed the hour of one.

And still at midnight's deepest hour,
I startle with affright;

For dreams, how true!

Come to renew
The horrors of that night.

THE YOUNG RAKE; Or, Skinflint's Last Advice.

A Tavern Scene.

Come fill your bumpers to the brim,

And listen to my story;
For let the world sink or swim,

We'll carry on the glory.
Here's to old misers and their ploys,

And may they ne'er consider, It's for sic rantin' roarin' boys,

They claut their gear thegither!

Weel lads I'm frae the Brig o' Dee,

My daddie was a miller; And dying, his advice to me,

Was—" Jock claut ye the siller!
For lad ye'll aye hae friens eneugh,

As lang as ye hae plenty;
But oh! ye'll hae a battle teugh,

If ance the purse grows empty.

« AnteriorContinuar »