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Poor Ida ceas'd—for through her shudd'ring frame The blood ran cold, the pulse forgot to play;O'er her dim closing eyes dark shadows came, And pale in death the lovely victim lay.
Beneath this turf poor Ida's form is laid— Stop, gentle fair! the pitying tear is due;For know, that once the broken-hearted maid Was happy, fair, and innocent as you!
THE SPECTRE OF THE LAKE.
The moon-beams shone on the silent lake, The night was deadly still;Not a breath of wind made the tall trees shake,Not a sound was heard the echoes to wake, As the mist crept over the hill.
Sir Gerald, a knight from the Holy Land, Journeying his course alone,Led his weary horse o'er the moonlight sand;Since last he had trod the well-known strand, Full seven long years were gone.
