BY M. G. LEWIS ESQ.—NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.
Oh! gentle huntsman, softly tread,
And softly wind thy bugle-horn;
Nor rudely break the silence shed
Around the grave of Agilthorn!
Oh! gentle huntsman, if a tear
E'er dimmed for other's woe thine eyes,
Thoul't surely dew, with drops sincere,
The sod, where Lady Eva lies.
Yon crumbling chapel's sainted bound,
Their hands and hearts beheld them plight,
Long held yon towers, with ivy crowned,
The beauteous dame and gallant knight.
Alas! the hour of bliss is past,
For hark! the din of discord rings;
War's clarion sounds, Joy hears the blast,
And trembling plies his radiant wings.
And must sad Eva lose her lord?
And must he seek the martial plain?
Oh! see, she brings his casque and sword!
Oh! hark, she pours her plaintive strain!
"Blest is the village damsel's fate,
"Though poor and low her station be;
"Safe from the cares which haunt the great,
"Safe from the cares which torture me!
"No doubting fear, no cruel pain,
"No dread suspense her breast alarms;
"No tyrant honour rules her swain,
"And tears him from her folding arms.
"She, careless wandering 'midst the rocks,
"In pleasing toil consumes the day;
"And tends her goats, or feeds her flocks,
"Or joins her rustic lover's lay.