"Evan's Ancient Ballads," and ascribed it to Mickle: The dews of summer night did fall, The moon (sweet regent of the sky) And many an oak that grew thereby. Now nought was heard beneath the skies Save an unlucky lady's sighs, That issued from that lonely pile. "Leicester," she cried, "is this thy love No more thou com'st with lover's speed, But be she alive, or be she dead, I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee. Not so the usage I received When happy in my father's hall; No faithless husband then me grieved, No chilling fears did me appal. I rose up with the cheerful morn, If that my beauty is but small, Among court ladies all despised, Why did'st thou rend it from that hall, Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized. And when you first to me made suit, Thus lone and sad that lady grieved In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear; And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, And let fall many a bitter tear. And ere the dawn of day appeared, * Full many a traveller has sighed, SUGGESTED BY PAYNE'S PICTURE OF "THE AVE MARIA." Ave Maria, from yon convent gray, The evening bell is calling us to prayer, Its mellowed chimes in distance fade away, Parting the stillness of the summer air. Ave Maria at this holy hour, When the deep fountains of the heart are stirred, 'Tis sweet to feel the plentitude of power, Which God on thee conferred. Oh holy mother, by thy blessed aid, We hope on earth to do our Saviour's will, Oh light the shadows on our path-way laid, And holy confidence with peace instil; Then shall that watchful care, that brooding love, Prevail to save us when the tempter's nigh, Blessed in thy guidance ne'er again we'll rove, But mount successive to thy throne on high. That bell hath warned us like some gentle tone, A voice of pleading ne'er to be forgot, Who to thy summons answers not? Oh favored land, no Protean faith is thine, That tells of Calvary alone is there. And now, though parted from thy deep blue main, Thy sun-lit hills, thy far-off sounding sea, Visions are flitting through my busy brain, Which stir the magic chords of memory. The spells of home are deep within my heart, Of my lone life, they are the only part O'er which a sunbeam glimmers on. |