'This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain; But she shall bloom in winter snow Ere we two meet again.' He turn'd his charger as he spake Upon the river shore, He gave the bridle-reins a shake, Said 'Adieu for evermore My Love! And adieu for evermore.' _Sir W. Scott_ CCXXXIX _THE FLIGHT OF LOVE_ When the lamp is shatter'd The light in the dust lies dead-- When the cloud is scatter'd, The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remember'd not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot. As music and splendour Survive not the lamp and the lute, The heart's echoes render No song when the spirit is mute-- No song but sad dirges, Like the wind through a ruin'd cell, Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seaman's knell. When hearts have once mingled, Love first leaves the well-built nest; The weak one is singled To endure what it once possesst. O Love! who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier? Its passions will rock thee As the storms rock the ravens on high; Bright reason will mock thee Like the sun from a wintry sky. From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come. _P. B. Shelley_ CCXL _THE MAID OF NEIDPATH_ O lovers' eyes are sharp to see, And lovers' ears in hearing; And love, in life's extremity, Can lend an hour of cheering. Disease had been in Mary's bower And slow decay from mourning, Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower To watch her Love's returning. All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, Her form decay'd by pining, Till through her wasted hand, at night, You saw the taper shining. By fits a sultry hectic hue Across her cheek was flying; By fits so ashy pale she grew Her maidens thought her dying. Yet keenest powers to see and hear Seem'd in her frame residing; Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear She heard her lover's riding; Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd She knew and waved to greet him, And o'er the battlement did bend As on the wing to meet him. He came--he pass'd--an heedless gaze As o'er some stranger glancing; Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase, Lost in his courser's prancing-- The castle-arch, whose hollow tone Returns each whisper spoken, Could scarcely catch the feeble moan Which told her heart was broken. _Sir W. Scott_ CCXLI Earl March look'd on his dying child, And, smit with grief to view her-- The youth, he cried, whom I exiled Shall be restored to woo her.