Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the briered dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares as they go. My love is dead, etc.
See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my-true-love's shroud, Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud. My love is dead, etc.
Here, upon my true-love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid, Nor one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid. My love is dead, etc.
With my hands I'll bind the briers
Round his holy corse to gre; Ouphant fairy, light your fires;
Here my body still shall be. My love is dead, etc.
Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's blood away; Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day. My love is dead, etc.
Water-witches, crowned with reytes,
Bear me to your lethal tide. I die! I come! my true-love waits....
Thus the damsel spake, and died.
THOMAS CHATTERTON.
Many a year is in its grave
Since I crossed this restless wave:
And the evening, fair as ever,
Shines on ruin, rock, and river.
Then in this same boat beside.
Sat two comrades old and tried,—
One with all a father's truth,
One with all the fire of youth.