IX. DIRGES AND PATHETIC POEMS. "For when sad thoughts possess the mind of man, There is a plummet in the heart that weighs And pulls us living to the dust we came from."-BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. THE NYMPH MOURNING HER FAWN. THE wanton troopers, riding by, Them any harm, alas! nor could And nothing may we use in vain; Even beasts must be with justice slain, Else men are made their deodands. Though they should wash their guilty hands In this warm life-blood which doth part From thine, and wound me to the heart, Yet could they not be clean, their stain Is dyed in such a purple grain. It is a wondrous thing how fleet For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod as if on the four winds. I have a garden of my own, Among the beds of lilies I Yet could not, till itself would rise, I was the Queen o' bonnie France, Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, As blythe lay down at e'en: And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, And mony a traitor there; Yet here I lie in foreign bands, And never ending care. But as for thee, thou false woman, My sister and my fae, Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword That through thy soul shall gae: The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee; Nor the balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying e'e. |