Poems (Campbell)/The Willow-Grove
THE WILLOW-GROVE;A BALLAD.
"The dew hangs on my yellow hair, While wearily I pace the grove;—Cold, cold, and chilly is the air; Ah! me, what can detain my love!
Oh! linger in the dark-blue sky, Thou lovely orb, to lovers true;For loud the torrent rushes by, And slipp'ry is the path with dew.
Yet oft we steal us to this grove, Remote from folly's noisy throng,Sacred to virtue and to love! And breathe our vows these wilds among.
Oh! what can make my lover stay? He is not wont to linger long:Sweet angels! guide him on his way— His dang'rous way, yon cliffs along!
As this fair Isabella said, The wind sigh'd hollow through the wood;And mournfully its deep green shade Waved o'er the darkly rushing flood.
Tumbling the yawning chasm through, The torrent burst its headlong way,And down the steep path damp with dew Her Edward's dang'rous footing lay.
The low'ring clouds, with angry sweep, Obscur'd by fits the lunar beam,And echoing down the sullen steep, The bird -of night was heard to scream.
The storm was up—the lightnings glare— The thunder groans with hollow sound,The dark grove heav'd its branches bare, The trembling mountains rock'd the ground.
And ever and anon was borne The wail of anguish on the air;And the groves deepest echoes torn With the wild laughter of despair.
'Twas Isabella, luckless maid! Who wildly urg'd her desp'rate way,Till the emerging moon display'd Where Edward's mangled body lay.
The storm was o'er, the wind was still, The moon shed wide her wat'ry beam,O'er drenched valley, vap'rous hill, O'er drooping grove, and rushing stream.
There Edward lay, his bosom gored, And mangled all his beauteous face;And there the maiden he adored, Enfolds him in her cold embrace.
Her hands were cold, her lips were pale, Her heart had ceas'd its frenzied throb:And o'er her fair form, in the gale, Stream'd her dark hair and blood-stain'd robe.
In yonder urn, the torrent near, Where darkly waves the willow-grove,They sepulchred the hapless pair— Yon marble stone records their love.
And still the willow's drooping head, O'er the lone spot, is seen to wave;And still the peasant's tears are shed At the true lovers' mournful grave.