ADELINE:

An Elegy.

WHY do the maidens look so pale? Why in their beauty do they pine? Ah, know you not the bitter tale? They mourn their sister Adeline.

Oh, she is gone, the sweetest fair
That e'er in bloom of youth appear'd;
What damsel could with her compare,
By gentle graces so endear'd!

And she can never more return,
Cold in the tomb the maid must sleep;
And therefore does the village mourn,
And therefore does the village weep.

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To the dark grave with worms to dwell,
We saw her borne beneath the pall;

And heard, as toll'd the passing bell,
The earth upon her coffin fall.

We rais'd her tomb with many a sigh,
Under a willow it appears;

And sympathy is often nigh,

To consecrate the sod with tears.

And still with each returning Spring,
To deck her lowly sod be ours;
And often thither will we bring,

Sweet wreaths of newly-gather'd flowers.

With summer garlands too we'll twine
The simple stone that tells her name;
This tribute does poor Adeline
From all her village sisters claim.

And ever when the Sabbath-bell

Invites us to the house of pray'r,

Passing her grave, each breast shall swell With sighs of undissembled care.

Nor will we leave the humble urn,
Till recollection shall restore

Th' endearing virtues which we mourn,
That pleas'd so oft, but please no more.

Light be the earth upon thy breast,
And green the turf, thou lovely maid;
Nor let one ruder breeze molest
The flow'rets on thy bosom laid!

Thy name shall dwell in ev'ry heart,
That purest worth has learn'd to prize;
And though on earth no more thou art,
Thy fond remembrance never dies.

LADY ROSABEL.

"TWAS night, and cold breezes were dismally

blowing,

And the heav'ns were moonless and starless too;
When fair Rosabel, her tears fast flowing,
Did mark with light footstep the forest dew.

That lady's dim eye did her anguish betoken,
That lady's dim eye did her grief bespeak,
As she sigh'd from a heart by sorrow broken,
And as tear-drops bedew'd her beautiful cheek.

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Alas, alas," said the sorrowful maiden, "There is none to pity poor Rosabel,

"Nor feel for the woes with which she is laden,

"The woes which no tongue but her own can tell.

"In the glen, by many a sharp spear wounded, "These eyes have imagin'd the fatal spot,

By the toils of a treach'rous foe surrounded,

"In the sleep of death lies Sir Launcelot.

"I saw my true knight, when the new day was dawning,

"All lovely in youth, like a hunter drest,

But the sun that beheld him so gay in the morning,

"Saw, at eve, the death-wound of his manly breast.

"He left me thus blithsome, with rapture I listen'd,

"While fondly he promis'd a speedy return; Yet at parting the tear-drop of agony glisten'd, Sad presage that soon o'er his fate I should mourn."