"Half an hour's walk for a young man, Why then 'tis three good miles." The soldier took his knapsack off, And out his bread and cheese he took, "Old friend! in faith," the soldier says, My shoulders have been sorely prest; The old man laugh'd and moved: Still, it may help a man at need; That ever brought it there! "I wish "There's a poor girl lies buried here, The earth upon her corpse is prest; The soldier had but just leant back, "God rest her! she is still enough "I have pass'd by about that hour "I have pass'd by about that hour "There's one who like a Christian lies "A decent burial that man had; “Didst see a house below the hill, Which the winds and the rains destroy? The man in that farm house did dwell; And I remember it full well When I was a growing boy. "But she was a poor parish girl, "A man of a bad name was he; Passion made his dark face turn white; "The man was bad, the mother worse, "Twould make your hair to stand on end, If I should tell to you, my friend, The things that were told of them! "This poor girl she had served with them Some half a year or more, When she was found hung up one day, Behind the stable door. "It is a wild and lonesome place; No hut or house is near; Should one meet a murderer there alone, "Twere vain to scream, and the dying groan Could never reach mortal ear. "And there were strange reports about; That she by her own hand had died, "They carried her upon a board "They laid her where these four roads meet, The earth upon her corpse was prest; SOUTHEY. 123. HYMN OF THE HEBREW MAID. WHEN Israel, of the Lord beloved, WHEN Out from the land of bondage came, And trump and timbrel answer'd keen; And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays, With priest's and warrior's voice between. No portents now our foes amaze; Forsaken Israel wanders lone; Our fathers would not know Thy ways, And Thou hast left them to their own. But present still, though now unseen, And oh when stoops on Judah's path And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn: SIR WALTER SCOTT. 124. EVE'S LAMENT ON HER EXPULSION FROM PARADISE. 0 [From PARADISE LOST.] UNEXPECTED stroke, worse than of death! Must I thus leave thee, Paradise? thus leave Thee, native soil! these happy walks and shades, Fit haunt of gods? where I had hoped to spend, Quiet though sad, the respite of that day That must be mortal to us both. O flowers, That never will in other climate grow, My early visitation, and my last At eve, which I bred up with tender hand, |