Thus frantic and fearless, at midnight she goes O'er the grass-covered graves of the dead; And under the green willow vented her woes, Where the tomb of poor Allen before her arose, With wild blooming tansy o'erspread." Religiously, thrice had she bended her knee, And moistened the mould with her tears; Then raising her eyes to the stars, loudly she Proclaimed, "If the souls of true lovers ye be, My Allen's the brightest appears. "Ye spirits convened on the wings of the wind, Has the ghost of my Allen your company join'd, "Yes, yes, he is with you; I hear from on high The sound of his sorrow for me; There, there flies the bright killing glance of his eye, I feel his cold tears as they fall from the sky; Q Allen! I will follow thee." As morning approaches, with prospect serene, of flowers that grow on his grave, Entwining love-garlands, she always is seen; But sadly sequester'd, she scuds o'er the green, When loud is the blast on the wave. If any one meet her, a moment she'll stay Before the rude blast then, she hurries away, Crying out, as she grasps at the moon's feeble ray, "Heaven's rampart I'll scale to my swain !" This is the poor mortal, with countenance pale, Who o'er the wild common doth flee; Whose sighs are augmenting the murmuring gale, As she tells the traveller a heart-rending tale, Of the tomb by the green willow tree. THE GHOST OF LOUIS SIXTEENTH, TO THE FRENCH ARMY, ENCAMPED ON THE HEIGHTS OF BOLOGNE. THE red sun was set, and the evening gun Had smoked o'er the camp-covered green; The night-roll was answer'd, the tattoo was done, In slumber the soldiers were seen; Unbraced was the guard-drum, and laid on the ground, The bugle was hung in the bell; Nor word of command was there heard, nor a sound, Till round the lines echo'd, "All's Well!" As died the report of the warders away, A spectre that hover'd on high, Its hands on its breast seem'd in sorrow to lay, And mournfully made this reply : My kinsmen, my subjects, the shade of your King, Who by a base banditti fell, And manes of martyrs that round you do wing, "How can ye rejoice in our family's fall, Will Frenchmen, whose forefathers fought for our crown, The deeds of their fathers repel ? And at this dread hour, when we stalk up and down, Insult us by saying, All's Well ??, "Will ye for an alien, my countrymen, dare Bid farewell to friends, and adieu to the fair, If these islanders take you upon th' dark waves, If you land, they victorious will vaunt o'er your graves, And your dirges will be, All is Well.' "Ah! how can ye pray for success to our God? His crimes are the register stained with blood And when the fiend's flush'd with his butch'ry abroad, His effigy there, with a red iron rod, They flog, and roar round it, 'All's Well.' "This foe of mankind, from our sanctified seat, Then call home the far scatter'd sheep to their dam, Your King and your holy confessors will then Assist you in saying All's Well.' A cock crew, the spirit dispersed in the air, |