George Darley

Ailene Astore, or The Glen of the Grave

Lay me down, lay me down by the stream,
Where the willow droops over the wave,
And the heavy-headed daffodils dream,—
There I'll make my last couch in the grave.

And the winds a soft chorus shall keep
With the robin that sings me my dirge.
While the streamlet shall lull me to sleep
With the noise of its own little surge.

Pretty flow'rets above me shall grow,
Breathing softly, to break not my rest;
And each dewy morn, as they blow,
Drop a tear, bright and pure, on my breast!

Upon a still and breathless night,
When Heav'n was hush'd and Earth was sleeping,
The green hills wet with dewy light,
And silver tears fresh flowerets weeping;

Young Ellinore sped forth to meet
In the still moon-lit vale her lover;
The turf scarce gush'd beneath her feet
As she ran up the hill and over.

Lovely and lonely vale it was,
One hollow glade of glimmering bowers.
And winding alleys smooth with moss,
The green repose of humble flowers.

A shallow stream roved through the dell.
With small discourse and rimpling laughter,
Wooing the reeds:—then wept farewell!
And mourn' d and murmured ever after.

Soft mossy hanks and rushy beds
Border'd this slow delaying river;
Too perilous a place for maids
When they are seized with love's sweet fever!

Young Ellinore look'd up the glen,
Young Ellinore look'd down the valley,
Young Ellinore look'd homeward,—when
A youth sprung o'er the greenwood alley.

The moonbeams kissed the sleeping trees,
The moonbeams kissed the sleeping flowers;
"Oh!" said the youth, "shall lips like these
Kiss,—and not kiss such lips as ours?"

He strewed his couch of rush and reed.
He strewed it o'er with bough and blossom,
He lay that night upon that bed,—
Young Ellinore lay in his bosom.

Ah! luckless night! Ah, luckless hour!
Oh, had she loved less well, or never!
She blooms no more, a stainless flower,—
Young Ellinore is lost for ever!