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 Have sought it oft, where it should lie, Yet could not, till itself would rise, Now laverocks wake the merry morn, Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae; The hawthorn's budding in the glen, And milk-white is the slae: The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amang: But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison strang. 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. |