Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree._

Black his hair as the winter night,
White his neck as the summer snow,
Ruddy his face as the morning light;
Cold he lies in the grave below.
_My love is dead_, etc.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note;
Quick in dance as thought can be;
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O, lie lies by the willow-tree!
_My love is dead_, etc.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the briered dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares as they go.
_My love is dead_, etc.

See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my-true-love's shroud,
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud.
_My love is dead_, etc.

Here, upon my true-love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid,
Nor one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid.
_My love is dead_, etc.

With my hands I'll bind the briers
Round his holy corse to gre;
Ouphant fairy, light your fires;
Here my body still shall be.
_My love is dead_, etc.

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