Though justice ever must prevail,
The tear my Kitty sheds is due;
For seldom shall she hear a tale
So sad, so tender, and so true.
WILLIAM AND MARGARET.
'Twas at the silent, solemn hour
When night and morning meet;
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost
And stood at William's feet.
Her face was like an April morn,
Clad in a wintry cloud:
And clay-cold was her lily-hand,
That held her sable shroud.
So shall the fairest face appear,
When youth and years are flown:
Such is the robe that kings must wear,
When death has reft their crown.
Her bloom was like the springing flower,
That sips the silver dew;
The rose was budded in her cheek,
Just opening to the view.
But Love had, like the canker-worm,
Consumed her early prime:
The rose grew pale, and left her cheek;
She died before her time.
"Awake!" she cried, "thy true love calls,
Come from her midnight grave;
Now let thy pity hear the maid
Thy love refused to save.
"This is the dumb and dreary hour
When injured ghosts complain;
When yawning graves give up their dead
To haunt the faithless swain.
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