Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/390
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THE HAUNTED LAKE.
God save our gracious King,
And send him long to live;
Lord, mischief on them bring,
That will not their alms give;
But seek to rob the poor,
Of that which is their due:
This was not in time of yore,
When this old cap was new.
And send him long to live;
Lord, mischief on them bring,
That will not their alms give;
But seek to rob the poor,
Of that which is their due:
This was not in time of yore,
When this old cap was new.
The Haunted Lake.
There is a wood which few dare tread,
So gloomy are the hoary trees:
The vaulted chambers of the dead
Scarce fill the soul with half the dread
You feel while standing under these.
So gloomy are the hoary trees:
The vaulted chambers of the dead
Scarce fill the soul with half the dread
You feel while standing under these.
Deep in its centre stands a lake,
Which the o'erhanging umbrage darkens;
No roaring wind those boughs can shake,
Ruffle the water's face, or break
The silence there which ever hearkens.
Which the o'erhanging umbrage darkens;
No roaring wind those boughs can shake,
Ruffle the water's face, or break
The silence there which ever hearkens.
No flowers around that water grow,
The birds fly over it in fear,
The antique roots about it bow,
The newt and toad crawl deep below,
The black snake also sleepeth there.
The birds fly over it in fear,
The antique roots about it bow,
The newt and toad crawl deep below,
The black snake also sleepeth there.
Few are the spots so deathly still,
So wrapt in deep eternal gloom:
No sound is heard of sylvan rill,
A voiceless silence seems to fill
The air around that liquid tomb.
So wrapt in deep eternal gloom:
No sound is heard of sylvan rill,
A voiceless silence seems to fill
The air around that liquid tomb.
The ivy creepeth to and fro,
Along the arching boughs which meet;
The fir and dark-leaved mistletoe
Hang o'er the holly and black-sloe,
In darkness which can ne'er retreat.
Along the arching boughs which meet;
The fir and dark-leaved mistletoe
Hang o'er the holly and black-sloe,
In darkness which can ne'er retreat.
For there the sunbeams never shine,
That sullen lake beholds no sky;
No moonbeam drops its silvery line
No star looks down with eye benign:
Even the white owl hurries by.
That sullen lake beholds no sky;
No moonbeam drops its silvery line
No star looks down with eye benign:
Even the white owl hurries by.