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And with her lily hands so pale

About her William clung.

And hurry-skurry forth they go,

Unheeding wet or dry;
And horse and rider snort and blow,

And sparkling pebbles fly.

How swift the flood, the mead, the wood, .

Aright, aleft, are gone !
The bridges thunder as they pass,

But earthlie swoone is none.

Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede ;

Splash, splash, across the see: · Hurrah ! the dead can ride apace:

Dost feare to ride with mee?

The moone is bryghte, and blue the nyghte;

Dost quake the blast to stem?-
Dost shudder, mayde, to seek the dead ?'

No, no, but what of them ?'

How glumlie sownes yon dirgye song!

Night-ravens flappe the wing.
What knell doth slowlie toll ding-dong ?

The psalmes of death who sing ?

It creeps, the swarthie funeral traine,

The corse is onn the beere ;
Like croke of todes from lonely moors,

The chaunte doth meet the eere.

Go, bear her corse, when midnight's past, With song, and tear, and wayle ;

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I've got my wife, I take her home,

My howre of wedlocke hayl.

• Lead forth, O clarke, the chaunting quire,

To swell our nuptial song: Come, preaste, and reade the blessing soone;

For bed, for bed we long.'

They heede his calle, and husht the sowne;

The biere was seen no more ;
And followde him ore feeld and flood

Yet faster than before.

Halloo ! halloo! away they goe,

Unheeding wet or drye ;
And horse and rider snort and blowe,

And sparkling pebbles flye.

How swifte the hill, how swifte the dale,

Aright, aleft, are gone ?
By hedge and tree, by thorpe and towne,

They gallop, gallop on.

Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede;

Splash, splash, acrosse the see: · Hurrah! the dead can ride apace;

Dost fear to ride with me?

Look up, look up, an airy crewe

In roundel daunces reele : The moone is bryghte, and blue the nyghte,

Mayst dimlie see them wheele.

Come to, come to, ye ghostlie crewe,

Come to, and follow mee,
And daunce for us the wedding daunce,

When we in bed shall be.'

And brush, brush, brush, the ghostlie crewe

Come wheeling ore their heads, All rustling like the wither'd leaves

That wyde the wirlwind spreads.

Halloo ! halloo ! away they goe,

Unheeding wet or drye ;
And horse and rider snort and blowe,

And sparkling pebbles flye.

And all that in the moonshyne lay,

Behynde them fled afar ;
And backwarde scudded overhead

The sky and every star.

Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede ;

Splash, splash, across the see: · Hurrah ! the dead can ride apace;

Dost fear to ride with mee?

'I weene the cock prepares to crowe :

The sand will soon be runne;
I snuffe the earlye morning aire :

Downe, downe! our work is done.

· The dead, the dead can ride apace !

Our wed-bed here is fit; Oure race is ridde, our journey ore, · Our endlesse union knitt.'

And lo! an yren-grated gate

Soon biggens to their viewe: He crackte his whyppe ; the clangynge boltes,

The doores asunder flewe.

They pass, and 'twas on graves they trode ;

" 'Tis hither we are bounde :'

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And many a tombstone ghostlie white

Lay in the moonshyne round.

And when hee from his steede alytte,

His armour, black as cinder, Did moulder, moulder all awaye,

As were it made of tinder.

His head became a naked scull;

Nor haire nor eyne had hee: His body grew a skeleton,

Whilome so blythe of blee.

And att his drye and boney heele

Nor spur was left to be ;
And inn his witherde hande you might

The scythe and houre-glasse see.

And lo! his steede did thin to smoke,

And charnel fires outbreathe; And pald, and bleach'd, then vanish'd quite

The mayde from underneathe.

And hollow howlings hung in aire,

And shrekes from vaults arose.
Then knew the mayde she mighte no more

Her living eyes unclose.

But onwarde to the judgment-seat,

Thro' myste and moonlight dreare,
The ghostlie crewe their flyghte persewe,

And hollowe inn her eare :

* Be patient ; tho' thyne herte shoulde breke,

Arrayne not Heaven's decree; Thou nowe art of thie bodie refte,

Thie soule forgiven bee !

: “ It is said,” resumed the Nymph, “ that when Bürger first wrote this poem, he was a very young man, and read it to his companions with such spirit and vehemence, that they started from their seats in horror at the impassioned accent with which he uttered the expression in the original, which is so happily rendered by · he crackte his whyppe.' I have also heard it stated, that he is considered among his countrymen as Coleridge and Wordsworth are among us, not so much for genius as for rejecting what is called the conventual phraseology of regular poetry, in favour of popular forms of expression, gathered from the simple and energetic utterance of the common people. Imitative harmony he pursues almost to excess,—the onomatopæia is his prevailing figure,—the interjection his favourite part of speech,-arrangement, rhythm, sound, rhyme, are always with him an echo to the same. The hurrying vigour of his poetical diction is unrivalled, yet it is so natural, even in its sublimity, that his poetry is singularly fitted to become national with the people. Of these two ballads some prefer · The Parson's Daughter' to Lenora. It has been no less happily translated than the other, under the title of”

THE LASS OF FAIR WONE.
Beside the parson's bower of yew,

Why strays a troubled spright,
That peaks and pines, and dimly shines

Thro' curtains of the night?

Why steals along the pond of toads

A gliding fire so blue,
That lights a spot where grows no grass,

Where falls no rain nor dew.?

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