Poetry Archives

Be hush’d, be hush’d, ye bitter winds,
  Ye pelting rains, a little rest;
Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts,
  That wring with grief my aching breast.

Oh! cruel was my faithless love,
  To triumph o’er an artless maid;
Oh! cruel was my faithless love,
  To leave the breast by him betray’d.

When exiled from my native home,
  He should have wiped the bitter tear;
Nor left me faint and lone to roam,
  A heart-sick weary wanderer here.

My child moans sadly in my arms,
  The winds they will not let it sleep:
Ah, little knows the hapless babe
  What makes its wretched mother weep!

Now lie thee still, my infant dear,
  I cannot bear thy sobs to see,
Harsh is thy father, little one,
  And never will he shelter thee.

Oh, that I were but in my grave,
  And winds were piping o’er me loud,
And thou, my poor, my orphan babe,
  Wert nestling in thy mother’s shroud!