Poetry Archives

Maiden! wrap thy mantle round thee,
  Cold the rain beats on thy breast:
Why should Horror’s voice astound thee?
  Death can bid the wretched rest!
    All under the tree
    Thy bed may be,
And thou mayst slumber peacefully.

Maiden! once gay pleasure knew thee,
  Now thy cheeks are pale and deep:
Love has been a felon to thee,
  Yet, poor maiden, do not weep:
    There’s rest for thee
    All under the tree,
Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully.