Maiden! wrap thy mantle round thee, Cold the rain beats on thy breast: Why should Horror's voice astound thee? Death can bid the wretched rest! All under the tree Thy bed may be, And thou mayst slumber peacefully. Maiden! once gay pleasure knew thee, Now thy cheeks are pale and deep: Love has been a felon to thee, Yet, poor maiden, do not weep: There's rest for thee All under the tree, Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully. SONG. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. Softly, softly blow, ye breezes, Gently o'er my Edwy fly! Lo! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly; Softly, zephyrs, pass him by! My love is asleep, He lies by the deep, All along where the salt waves sigh. I have cover'd him with rushes, Water-flags, and branches dry. Edwy, long have been thy slumbers; Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye! My love is asleep, He lies by the deep, All along where the salt waves sigh. Still he sleeps; he will not waken, Fastly closed is his eye; Paler is his cheek, and chiller Than the icy moon on high. Alas! he is dead, He has chose his death-bed All along where the salt waves sigh. Is it, is it so, my Edwy? Will thy slumbers never fly? Couldst thou think I would survive thee? No, my love, thou bid'st me die. Thou bid'st me seek Thy death-bed bleak All along where the salt waves sigh. I will gently kiss thy cold lips, On thy breast I'll lay my head, And the winds shall sing our death dirge, And our shroud the waters spread; The moon will smile sweet, And the wild wave will beat, Oh! so softly o'er our lonely bed. THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG TO THE NIGHT. Thou, spirit of the spangled night! I woo thee from the watchtower high, Where thou dost sit to guide the bark Of lonely mariner. The winds are whistling o'er the wolds, The distant main is moaning low; Come, let us sit and weave a song-- A melancholy song! Sweet is the scented gale of morn, And sweet the noontide's fervid beam, But sweeter far the solemn calm That marks thy mournful reign. I've pass'd here many a lonely year, And never human voice have heard; I've pass'd here many a lonely year, A solitary man. And I have linger'd in the shade, From sultry noon's hot beams; and I Have knelt before my wicker door, To sing my evening song. And I have hail'd the gray morn high, On the blue mountain's misty brow, And tried to tune my little reed To hymns of harmony. But never could I tune my reed, At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet, As when upon the ocean shore I hail'd thy star-beam mild. The dayspring brings not joy to me, The moon it whispers not of peace; But oh! when darkness robes the heavens, My woes are mix'd with joy. And then I talk, and often think Aërial voices answer me; And oh! I am not then alone-- A solitary man. And when the blustering winter winds Howl in the woods that clothe my cave, I lay me on my lonely mat, And pleasant are my dreams.