Henry Kirke White (Генри Керк Уайт)

A Ballad

Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds,
Ye pelting rains, a little rest;
Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts,
That wring with grief my aching breast.

Oh! cruel was my faithless love,
To triumph o'er an artless maid;
Oh! cruel was my faithless love,
To leave the breast by him betray'd.

When exiled from my native home,
He should have wiped the bitter tear;
Nor left me faint and lone to roam,
A heart-sick weary wanderer here.

My child moans sadly in my arms,
The winds they will not let it sleep:
Ah, little knows the hapless babe
What makes its wretched mother weep!

Now lie thee still, my infant dear,
I cannot bear thy sobs to see,
Harsh is thy father, little one,
And never will he shelter thee.

Oh, that I were but in my grave,
And winds were piping o'er me loud,
And thou, my poor, my orphan babe,
Wert nestling in thy mother's shroud!

1. Description of a Summer’s Eve
2. The Trent
3. Lines Written in Wilford Churchyard on Recovery from Sickness
4. To an Early Primrose
5. Athanatos

Charles Lamb (Чарльз Лэм) A Ballad ("In a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold")

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1424

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