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She stood upon the castle wall,

Oriana:

She watched my crest among them all,
Oriana:

She saw me fight, she heard me call,
When forth there stept a foeman tall,
Oriana,

Atween me and the castle wall,
Oriana.

The bitter arrow went aside,

Oriana:

The false, false arrow went aside,
Oriana:

The damned arrow glanced aside,

And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride,

Oriana!

Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride,
Oriana !

Oh! narrow, narrow was the space,

Oriana.

Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays,
Oriana.

Oh! deathful stabs were dealt apace,
The battle deepened in its place,

Oriana;

But I was down upon my face,

Oriana!

They should have stabbed me where I lay,

Oriana!

THE BALLAD OF ORIANA

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How could I rise and come away,

Oriana?

How could I look upon the day?

They should have stabbed me where I lay,

Oriana,

They should have trod me into clay,

Oriana.

O breaking heart that will not break,
Oriana!

O pale, pale face so sweet and meek,
Oriana!

Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak,
And then the tears run down my cheek,

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Up from

my heart unto my eyes,
Oriana.

Within thy heart my arrow lies,
Oriana.

O cursed hand! O cursèd blow!
Oriana!

O happy thou that liest low,

Oriana!

All night the silence seems to flow
Beside me in my utter woe,
Oriana.

A weary, weary way I go,
Oriana.

When Norland winds pipe down the sea,
Oriana,

I walk, I dare not think of thee,
Oriana.

Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree,
I dare not die and come to thee,

Oriana.

I hear the roaring of the sea,

Oriana.

Alfred Tennyson.

BARTHRAM'S DIRGE

THEY shot him dead on the Nine-Stone Rig,

Beside the Headless Cross,

And they left him lying in his blood,
Upon the moor and moss.

They made a bier of the broken bough,
The sauch and the aspin gray,

And they bore him to the Lady Chapel,
And waked him there all day.

A lady came to that lonely bower,
And threw her robes aside;

BARTHRAM'S DIRGE

She tore her ling (long) yellow hair,
And knelt at Barthram's side.

She bathed him in the Lady-Well
His wounds so deep and sair,

And she plaited a garland for his breast,
And a garland for his hair.

They rowed him in a lily sheet,
And bare him to his earth,

And the Gray Friars sung the dead man's mass
As they passed the Chapel Garth.

They buried him at the mirk midnight,
When the dew fell cold and still,
When the aspin gray forgot to play,
And the mist clung to the hill.

They dug his grave but a bare foot deep,
By the edge of the Nine-Stone Burn,

227

And they covered him o'er with the heather-flower, The moss and the Lady fern.

A Gray Friar stayed upon the grave,

And sang till the morning tide,

And a friar shall sing for Barthram's soul,

While Headless Cross shall bide.

Surtees.

THE YOUNG MAY MOON

THE Young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love;
How sweet to rove

Through Morna's grove

When the drowsy world is dreaming, love! Then awake! the heavens look bright, my dear ; 'Tis never too late for delight, my dear;

And the best of all ways

To lengthen our days

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear.

Now all the world is sleeping, love,

But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,
And I, whose star,

More glorious far,

Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.
Then awake! - till rise of sun, my dear,
The Sage's glass we 'll shun, my dear,
Or, in watching the flight

Of bodies of light,

He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.

Thomas Moore.

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