When Fortune to all thy warm hopes was unkind,
And the morn of thy youth was o'erclouded with woe,
In me, not a stranger to grief, thou should'st find,
All that friendship and kindness and truth could bestow.
Yes, the time it has been, when my soul was oppressed,
But no longer this heart would for heaviness pine,
Could I lighten the load of an innocent breast,
And steal but a moment of sadness from thine.
He paused, then with a starting tear, 24
And trembling accent, cried,
O lady, hide that look severe,—
The voice of love, of friendship hear,
And be again a bride.
Mourn not thy much-loved Hoel lost,— 25
Lady, he is dead, is dead,—
Far distant wanders his pale ghost,—
His bones by the white surge are tossed,
And the wave rolls o'er his head.
She said, Sev'n years their course have rolled, 26
Since thus brave Hoel spake,
When last I heard his voice, Behold,
This ring,—it is of purest gold,—
Then, keep it for my sake.
When summers seven have robed each tree, 27
And decked the coombs with green,
If I come not back, then thou art free,
To wed or not, and to think of me
As I had never been.
Those seven sad summers now are o'er, 28
And three I yet demand;
If in that space I see no more
The friend I ever must deplore,
Then take a mourner's hand.
The time is passed:—the laugh, the lay, 29
The nuptial feast proclaim;
From many a rushing torrent gray,
From many a wild brook's wandering way,
The hoary minstrels came.
From Kymin's crag, with fragments strewed; 30
From Skirid, bleak and high;
From Penalt's shaggy solitude;
From Wyndcliff, desolate and rude,
That frowns o'er mazy Wye.
With harps the gallery glittered bright,— 31
The pealing rafters rung;
Far off upon the woods of night,
From the tall window's arch, the light
Of tapers clear was flung.