'Lenore' - Gottfried August Burger

https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Lenora_(Taylor)#cite_ref-1

At break of day, with frightful dreams
⁠Lenora struggled sore:
—“My William, art thou slaine,” say’d she,
⁠“Or dost thou love no more?”—

He went abroade with Richard’s host,
⁠The Paynim foes to quell;
But he no word to her had writt,
⁠An he were sick or well.

With sowne of trump and beat of drum,
⁠His fellow soldyers come;
Their helmes bydeckt with oaken boughs,
⁠They seeke their long’d-for home.

And ev’ry roade, and ev’ry lane
⁠Was full of old and young,
To gaze at the rejoicing band,
⁠To hail with gladsome toung.

—“Thank God!” their wives and children saide,
⁠“Welcome!”—the brides did saye:
But greete or kiss Lenora gave
⁠To none upon that daye.

She askte of all the passing traine,
⁠For him she wisht to see:
But none of all the passing traine
⁠Could tell if lived he.

And when the soldyers all were bye,
⁠She tore her raven haire,
And cast herself upon the growne
⁠In furious despaire.

Her mother ran and lyfte her up,
⁠And clasped in her arme,
—“My child, my child, what dost thou ail?
⁠God shield thy life from harm!”—

—“O mother, mother! William’s gone!
⁠“What’s all besyde to me?
“There is no mercye, sure, above!
⁠“All, all were spar’d but hee!”—

—“Kneel downe, thy paternoster saye,
⁠“’Twill calm they 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 watte avayl’d?
⁠“’Tis now, alas! Too late."

—“Our Heavenly Father, if we praye,
⁠“Will help a suff’ring childe:
“Go take the holy sacrament;
⁠“So shall they grief grow milde.”—

—“O mother, what I feel within,
⁠“No sacrament can staye;
“No sacrament can teche the dead
⁠“To bear the light of daye.”—

—“May be, among the heathen folk
⁠“Thy William false doth prove,
“And puts away his faith and troth,
⁠“And takes another love.”

“Then wherefore sorrow for his loss?
⁠“Thy moans are all in vain:
“And when his soul and body parte,
⁠“His falsehode brings him paine.”—

—“O mother, mother! Gone is gone:
⁠“My hope is all forlorn;
“The grave mie onlye safeguarde is—
⁠“O, had I ne’er been borne!

“Go out, go out, my lampe of life;
⁠“In grislie darkness die:
“There is no mercye, sure, above!
⁠“For ever let me lie.”—

—“Almighty God! O do not judge
⁠“My poor unhappy childe;
“She knows not what her lips pronounce,
⁠“Her anguish makes her wilde.

“My girl, forget thine earthly woe,
⁠“And think on God and bliss;
“For so, at least, shall not thy soule
⁠“Its heavenly bridegroom miss.”—

—“O mother, mother! what is blisse,
⁠“And what the infernal celle?
“With him ’tis heaven any where,
⁠“Without my William, helle.

—“Go out, go out, my lamp of life;
⁠“In endless darkness die:
“Without him I must loathe the earth,
⁠“Without him scorne the skye.”—

And so despaire did rave and rage
⁠Athwarte her boiling veins;
Against the Providence of God
⁠She hurlde her impious strains.

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 climb the staire in speede.

And soon she herde a tinkling hande,
⁠That twirled at the pin;
And thro’ her door, that open’d not,
⁠These words were breathed in.

—“What ho! what ho! thy dore undoe;
⁠“Art watching or asleepe?
“My love, dost yet remember mee,
⁠“And dost thou laugh, or weep?”—

—“Ah! William here so late at night!
⁠“Oh! I have watchte and wak’d:
“Whence dost thou come? for thy return
⁠“My herte has sorely aked.”—

—“At midnight only we may ride;
⁠“I come o’er land and sea:
“I mounted late, but soone I go;
⁠“Aryse, and come with me.”—

—“O William, enter first my bowre,
⁠“And give me one embrace:
“The blasts athwarte the hawthorne hiss;
⁠“Awayte a little space.”—

—“Tho’ blasts athwarte the hawthorne hiss,
⁠“I may not harboure here;
“My spurre is sharpe, my courser pawes,
⁠“My houre of flighte is nere.

“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 night shall end but then.”—

—“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 we may sleepe.

“All as thou ly’st upon thy couch,
⁠“Aryse, no longer stop;
“The wedding guests thy coming waite,
⁠“The chamber dore is ope.”—

All in her sarke, as there she lay,
⁠Upon his horse she sprung;
And with her lilly 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 flye.

How swift the flood, the mead, the wood,
⁠Aright, aleft, are gone;
The bridges thunder as they pass,
⁠But earthly sowne 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 seeke 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 moores,
⁠“The chaunte doth meet the eere.”—

—“Go, bear her corse when midnight’s past,
⁠“With song, and tear, and wayle;
“I’ve gott my wife, I take her home,
⁠“My bowre 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 seene 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, and airy crewe
⁠“In roundel daunces reele:
“The moone is bryghte, and blue the nyghte,
⁠“Mayst dimlie see them wheele.

“Come to, some to, ye gostlie crew,
⁠“Come to, and follow mee,
“And daunce for us the wedding daunce,
⁠“When we in bed shall be.”—

And brush, brush, brush, the gostlie crew
⁠Come wheeling ore their heads,
All rustling like the wither’d leaves
⁠That wyde the whirlwind spreads.

Halloo! halloo! away they go,
⁠Unheeding wet or dry;
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 lande they speede;
⁠Splash, splash, across the see:
—“Hurrah! the dead can ride apace;
⁠“Dost fear to ride with me?

“I weene the cock prepares to crowe;
⁠“The sand will soone be runne:
“I snuffe the earlye morning aire;
⁠“Downe, downe! our worke is done.

“The dead, the dead can ryde apace;
⁠“Oure wed-bed here is fit:
“Our race is ridde, oure journey ore,
⁠“Our endlesse union knit.”—

And lo! an yren-grated grate
⁠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:”—
And many a tombstone gostlie white
⁠Lay inn the moonshyne round.

And when he from his steede alytte,
⁠His armour, black as cinder,
Did moulder, moulder all awaye,
⁠As were it made of tinder.^[1]

His head became a naked skull;
⁠Nor haire nor eyne had hee:
His body grew a skeleton,
⁠Whilome so blythe of blee.

And att his dry and boney heele
⁠No spur was left to be;
And inn his witherde hand you might
⁠The scythe and hour-glasse see.

And lo! his steede did thin to smoke,
⁠And charnel fires outbreathe;
And pal’d, 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 judgement seat,
⁠Thro’ myste and moonlight dreare,
The gostlie crewe their flyghte persewe,
⁠And hollowe inn her eare:—

—“Be patient; tho’ thyne herte should breke,
⁠“Arrayne not heavn’s decree;
“Thou nowe art of thie bodie refte,
⁠“Thie soule forgiven bee!”

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1. ↑ Alternatively:
   And when he from his steede alytte,
   ⁠His armour, green with rust,
   Which damps of charnel vaults had bred,
   ⁠Straight fell away to dust.