“But, Leicester, (or I much am wrong,)
  Or ’t is not beauty lures thy vows;
Rather ambition’s gilded crown
  Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.

“Then, Leicester, why, again I plead,
  (The injured surely may repine,)—­
Why didst thou wed a country maid,
  When some fair princess might be thine?

“Why didst thou praise my humble charms,
  And, oh! then leave them to decay? 
Why didst thou win me to thy arms,
  Then leave to mourn the livelong day?

“The village maidens of the plain
  Salute me lowly as they go;
Envious they mark my silken train,
  Nor think a Countess can have woe.

“The simple nymphs! they little know
  How far more happy ’s their estate;
To smile for joy than sigh for woe
  To be content—­than to be great.

“How far less blest am I than them
  Daily to pine and waste with care! 
Like the poor plant, that, from its stem
  Divided, feels the chilling air.

“Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy
  The humble charms of solitude;
Your minions proud my peace destroy,
  By sullen frowns or pratings rude.

“Last night, as sad I chanced to stray,
  The village death-bell smote my ear;
They winked aside, and seemed to say,
  ‘Countess, prepare, thy end is near.’

“And now, while happy peasants sleep,
  Here I sit lonely and forlorn;
No one to soothe me as I weep,
  Save Philomel on yonder thorn.

“My spirits flag—­my hopes decay—­
  Still that dread death-bell smites my ear,
And many a boding seems to say,
  ‘Countess, prepare, thy end is near!’”

Thus sore 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,
  In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear,
Full many a piercing scream was heard,
  And many a cry of mortal fear.

The death-bell thrice was heard to ring,
  An aerial voice was heard to call,
And thrice the raven flapped its wing
  Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.

The mastiff bowled at village door,
  The oaks were shattered on the green;
Woe was the hour, for nevermore
  That hapless Countess e’er was seen.

And in that manor now no more
  Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball;
For ever since that dreary hour
  Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.

The village maids, with fearful glance,
  Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall,
Nor ever lead the merry dance,
  Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.

Full many a traveller oft hath sighed,
  And pensive wept the Countess’ fall,
As wandering onward they’ve espied
  The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.

WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE.

WALY, WALY.

O waly, waly, up the bank,
  O waly, waly, doun the brae,
And waly, waly, yon burn-side,
  Where I and my love were wont to gae! 
I leaned my back unto an aik,
  I thocht it was a trustie tree,
But first it bowed and syne it brak’,—­
  Sae my true love did lichtlie me.