There is no mercye, sure, above! Knell downe, thy paternoster saye, "Twill calm thy troubled spright; The Lord is wyse, the Lord is good: What hee hath done is right.' 'O mother, mother! say not so; Most cruel is my fate: I prayde, and prayde; but watt avayl'd! alas! too late.' "Tis now, Our Heavenly Father, if we praye, So shall thy grief grow milde.' 'O mother, what I feel within, 'May be, among the heathen folk C Then wherefore sorrow for his loss? And when his soul and body parte, ́ O mother, mother! gone is gone: My hope is all forlorne ; The grave mie only safeguard is- 'Go out, go out, my lampe of life: Almighty God! O do not judge She knows not what her lips pronounce, 'My girl, forget thine earthly woe, 'O mother, mother! what is blisse, 'Go out, go out, my lampe of life; And so despaire did rave and rage She bet her breaste, and wrung her hands, And rollde her tearlesse eye, From rise of morne, till the pale stars Again did freeke the skye. When, harke! abroade she hearde the trampe Of nimble-hoofed steed; She hearde a knighte with clank alighte, And soon she herde a tinkling hande, And thro' her door, that open'd not, These words were breathed in. 'What ho! what ho! thy dore undoe; My love, dost yet remember mee, 'Ah! William, here so late at night! 'At midnight only we may ride ; 'O William, enter first my bowre, And give me one embrace: The blasts athwarte the hawthorn hiss; Awayte a little space.' 'The blasts athwarte the hawthorn hiss, I may not harboure here; My spurre is sharpe, my courser pawes, 'All as thou lyest upon thy couch, Aryse, and mount behinde; To-night we'le ride a thousand miles, The bridal bed to finde.' 'How! ride to-night a thousand miles? Thy love thou dost bemocke: Eleven is the stroke that still Rings on within the clocke.' 'Looke up; the moone is bright, and we Outstride the earthlie men : I'll take thee to the bridal bed, 'And where is, then, thy house and home? And where thy bridal bed?' "Tis narrow, silent, chilly, dark; Far hence I rest my head.' 'And is there any room for mee, Wherein that I may creepe?' 'There's room enough for thee and mee, Wherein that wee may sleepe. 'All as thou ly'st upon thy couch, The wedding guests thy coming waite, All in her sarke, as there she lay, Upon his horse she sprung; And with her lily hands so pale And hurry-skurry forth they go, Unheeding wet or dry; And horse and rider snort and blow, 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! What knell doth slowlie toll ding-dong? 'It creeps, the swarthie funeral traine, Like croke of todes from lonely moors, Go, bear her corse, when midnight's past, |