Borne on the solemn breeze—
For Mary's spirit wanders there,
In snowy robe array'd,
To tell each trembling villager
Where sleeps the murder'd maid.
It was a Sabbath's eve of love,
When nature seem'd more holy;
And nought in life was dull, but she,
Whose look was melancholy.
She lean'd her tear-stain'd cheek of health