I cannot but add here an imitation of this song, with which the author of The Tale of Rosamond Gray and Blind Margaret has favoured me, and which appears to me to have caught the happiest manner of our old ballads.
The clouds are black'ning, the storms threat'ning,
The cavern doth mutter, the greenwood moan;
Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart aching,
Thus in the dark night she singeth alone,
Her eye upward roving:
The world is empty, the heart is dead surely,
In this world plainly all seemeth amiss;
To thy heaven, Holy One, take home thy little one,
I have partaken of all earth's bliss,
Both living and loving.
The text of Lamb's version as printed in Works, 1818, i. 42 is as follows:
BALLAD.
From the German.
The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening,
And ever the forest maketh a moan:
Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart aching,
Thus by herself she singeth alone,
Weeping right plenteously.
The world is empty, the heart is dead surely,
In this world plainly all seemeth amiss:
To thy breast, holy one, take now thy little one,
I have had earnest of all earth's bliss
Living most lovingly.
Spring, 1800.
LINENOTES:
[[1]]
Countess (in a pressing manner). 1800, 1828, 1829.