Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
  Drain my heart’s blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
  Dance by night, or feast by day.
    My love is dead, etc.

Water-witches, crowned with reytes,
  Bear me to your lethal tide. 
I die!  I come! my true-love waits.... 
  Thus the damsel spake, and died.

THOMAS CHATTERTON.

THE PASSAGE.

Many a year is in its grave
Since I crossed this restless wave: 
And the evening, fair as ever. 
Shines on ruin, rock, and river.

Then in this same boat beside. 
Sat two comrades old and tried,—­
One with all a father’s truth,
One with all the fire of youth.

One on earth in silence wrought,
And his grave in silence sought;
But the younger, brighter form
Passed in battle and in storm.

So, whene’er I turn mine eye
Back upon the days gone by,
Saddening thoughts of friends come o’er me,
Friends that closed their course before me.

But what binds us, friend to friend,
But that soul with soul can blend? 
Soul-like were those hours of yore;
Let us walk in soul once more.

Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee,
Take, I give it willingly;
For, invisible to thee,
Spirits twain have crossed with me.

From the German of LUDWIG UHLAND. 
Translation of SARAH TAYLOR AUSTIN.

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

I’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary,
  Where we sat side by side
On a bright May mornin’ long ago,
  When first you were my bride;
The corn was springin’ fresh and green. 
  And the lark sang loud and high—­
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
  And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary;
  The day is bright as then;
The lark’s loud song is in my ear,
  And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
  And your breath, warm on my cheek;
And I still keep list’nin’ for the words
  You nevermore will speak.

’Tis but a step down yonder lane,
  And the little church stands near—­
The church where we were wed, Mary;
  I see the spire from here. 
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
  And my step might break your rest—­
For I’ve laid you, darling! down to sleep,
  With your baby on your breast.

I’m very lonely now, Mary. 
  For the poor make no new friends: 
But, oh, they love the better still
  The few our Father sends! 
And you were all I had, Mary—­
  My blessin’ and my pride! 
There’s nothing left to care for now,
  Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
  That still kept hoping on. 
When the trust in God had left my soul,
  And my arm’s young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
  And the kind look on your brow,—­
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
  Though you cannot hear me now.