| |
| ’TWAS at the silent, solemn hour | |
| When night and morning meet; | |
| In glided Margaret’s grimly ghost, | |
| And stood at William’s feet. | |
| |
| Her face was like an April-morn | 5 |
| Clad in a wintry cloud; | |
| And clay-cold was her lily-hand, | |
| That held her sable shroud. | |
| |
| So shall the fairest face appear | |
| When youth and years are flown: | 10 |
| Such is the robe that kings must wear, | |
| When Death has reft their crown. | |
| |
| Her bloom was like the springing flower, | |
| That sips the silvery dew; | |
| The rose was budded in her cheek— | 15 |
| Just 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 died before her time. | 20 |
| |
| ‘Awake!’ she cried, ‘thy true-love calls, | |
| Come from her midnight grave; | |
| Now let thy pity hear the maid | |
| Thy love refused to save.’… | |
| |
| He hied him to the fatal place | 25 |
| Where Margaret’s body lay; | |
| And stretch’d him on the green-grass turf | |
| That wrapt her breathless clay. | |
| |
| And thrice he called on Margaret’s name, | |
| And thrice he wept full sore; | 30 |
| Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, | |
| And word spake never more! | |
| |
