“For angry spirits of the night
  Ride in the troubled air,
And to their dens, in wild affright,
  The beasts of prey repair.

“But oh! my love! where do’st thou rest? 
  What shelter covers thee? 
O, may this cold and wint’ry blast
  But only beat on me!

“Some friendly dwelling may’st thou find,
  Where, undisturb’d with care,
Thou shalt not feel the chilly wind
  That ruffles Marg’ret’s hair.

“Ah, no! for thou did’st give thy word
  To meet me on the way;
Nor friendly roof, nor coastly board
  Will tempt a lover’s stay.

“O, raise thy voice, if thou art near! 
  Its weakest sound were bliss: 
What other sound my heart can cheer
  In such a gloom as this?

“But from the hills with stunning sound
  The dashing torrents fall;
Loud is the raging tempest round,
  And mocks a lover’s call.

“Ha! see across the dreary waste
  A gentle form appears! 
It is my love, my cares are past,
  How vain were all my fears?”

The form approach’d, but sad and slow,
  Nor with a lover’s tread;
And from his cheek the youthful glow,
  And greeting smile was fled.

Dim sadness hung upon his brow;
  Fix’d was his beamless eye: 
His face was like the moon-light bow
  Upon a win’try sky.

And fix’d and ghastly to the sight,
  His strengthen’d features rose;
And bended was his graceful height,
  And bloody were his clothes.

“O Marg’ret, calm thy troubled breast! 
  Thy sorrow now is vain: 
Thy Edward from his peaceful rest
  Shall ne’er return again.

“A treach’rous friend has brought me low,
  And fix’d my early doom;
And laid my corpse, with feigned woe,
  Beneath a vaulted tomb

“To take thee to my home I sware,
  And here we were to meet: 
Wilt thou a narrow coffin share,
  And part my winding-sheet?

“But late the lord of many lands,
  And now a grave is all: 
My blood is warm upon his hands
  Who revels in my hall.

“Yet think thy father’s hoary hair
  Is water’d with his tears;
He has but thee to sooth his care,
  And prop his load of years.

“Remember Edward when he’s gone,
  He only liv’d for thee;
And when thou’rt pensive, and alone,
  O Marg’ret call on me!

“Yet deep beneath the mould’ring clod
  I rest my wounded head: 
And terrible that call, and loud,
  Which shall awake the dead.”

“No, Edward, I will follow thee,
  And share thy hapless doom: 
Companions shall our spirits be,
  Tho’ distant is thy tomb.

“O! never to my father’s tower
  Will I return again! 
A bleeding heart has little power
  To ease another’s pain.

“Upon the wing my spirit flies,
  I feel my course is run;
Nor shall these dim and weary eyes
  Behold to-morrow’s sun.”