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ORIGINAL POEMS.
105
A TALE OF BRISTOL.
TO love and leave one’s love afar,
Another lover near her,
And know within the heart of hearts
She loves that other dearer,
It is a woeful woeful lot,
It is a fate of sorrow,
Of wishing morn were eventide,
And ev’ry day its morrow;
And bitter tears steal down amain,
And sighs half choke the breath,
And then a man would gladly feel
The welcome hand of Death.
But evil is the wind that blows
With nought of good below,
And worthless is the heart, whose good
Affliction cannot shew.
Far other tales by Avon’s bank
An old man told to me,
Far other tales of promis’d brides,
That brides refus’d to be.
