One eve, when Autumn loaded every breeze With the fallen honours of the mourning trees, The maiden waited at the accustom'd bower. And waited long beyond the appointed hour, Yet Bateman came not;--o'er the woodland drear, Howling portentous did the winds career; And bleak and dismal on the leafless woods The fitful rains rush'd down in sullen floods; The night was dark; as, now and then, the gale Paused for a moment--Margaret listen'd pale; But through the covert to her anxious ear No rustling footstep spoke her lover near. Strange fears now fill'd her breast,--she knew not why, She sigh'd, and Bateman's name was in each sigh. She hears a noise,--'t is he,--he comes at last,-- Alas! 't was but the gale which hurried past: But now she hears a quickening footstep sound, Lightly it comes, and nearer does it bound; 'T is Bateman's self,--he springs into her arms, 'T is he that clasps, and chides her vain alarms. "Yet why this silence?--I have waited long, And the cold storm has yell'd the trees among. And now thou'rt here my fears are fled--yet speak, Why does the salt tear moisten on thy cheek? Say, what is wrong?" Now through a parting cloud The pale moon peer'd from her tempestuous shroud, And Bateman's face was seen; 't was deadly white, And sorrow seem'd to sicken in his sight. "Oh, speak! my love!" again the maid conjured, "Why is thy heart in sullen woe immured?" He raised his head, and thrice essay'd to tell, Thrice from his lips the unfinished accents fell; When thus at last reluctantly he broke His boding silence, and the maid bespoke: "Grieve not, my love, but ere the morn advance I on these fields must cast my parting glance; For three long years, by cruel fate's command, I go to languish in a foreign land. Oh, Margaret! omens dire have met my view, Say, when far distant, wilt thou bear me true? Should honours tempt thee, and should riches fee, Wouldst thou forget thine ardent vows to me, And on the silken couch of wealth reclined, Banish thy faithful Bateman from thy mind?" "Oh! why," replies the maid, "my faith thus prove, Canst thou! ah, canst thou, then suspect my love? Hear me, just God! if from my traitorous heart My Bateman's fond remembrance e'er shall part, If, when he hail again his native shore, He finds his Margaret true to him no more, May fiends of hell, and every power of dread, Conjoin'd then drag me from my perjured bed, And hurl me headlong down these awful steeps, To find deserved death in yonder deeps!"[2] Thus spake the maid, and from her finger drew A golden ring, and broke it quick in two; One half she in her lovely bosom hides, The other, trembling, to her love confides. "This bind the vow," she said, "this mystic charm No future recantation can disarm, The right vindictive does the fates involve, No tears can move it, no regrets dissolve."