Thou wilt lead not again in the field or the chase,
Nor clasp thy dear Janet in loving embrace.
Ah! dreary and barren life's desert to me!
Kind heavenly Father, O take me to Thee.
*****
And, O heaven for strength! And my mother!—Thy hand
Too is cold, and discoloured with death's pallid brand;
And thine eye, which had beamed with thy love as thou smiled,
Is fixed on the welkin both wanly and wild.
And hushed are the tones of that motherly voice,
In whose kind commendation I used to rejoice.
Alas! I am lonely without thee to cheer;
Do thou, gentle Mother of Jesus, be near!
*****
I am fatherless, motherless—Ronald!—my God!—
Thy sepulchre too is the snow-covered sod!
My Ronald, my hero, the king of my heart!
O Christ, Thou hast power, do Thou life re-impart!
The sisters of old were made glad at Thy will,
But my lover lies breathless and motionless still.
Can naught else restore warmth to the frame of the dead?
Not my passion's embrace, nor the hot tears I shed?
But, alas! my Narcissus is lifeless at length,
For ever laid low his Herculean strength,
And that manly bosom, that throbbed with the sway
Of a heart true and noble, is silent for aye.
Yet he looks like a prince, as he lies in repose
On his marble-white tomb, and o'er-wreathed with snows.
The snow too is thy shroud, and thy funeral chant
Is the wail of a maiden lamenting thy want.
O Ronald, so generous, noble, and true,
How unworthy thy loved one! how deeply I rue
My pride, my caprice, and the preference shown—
But now thou art dead, and the damned one is flown.