It is a lovely shade, but shun the place—
Mark what a red taint is upon the heath!
The very harebells have caught that one hue:
Look how they gleam beneath the pale moonlight!
Oh, blood is on their bloom—a crimson dye—
Which has been and which will be there for years.
Those larches, with their graceful sweep, once made
A gentle maiden’s bower, and ’tis her blood
That gives the flowers their unnatural stain.
’Tis a sad history:—The maid was slain
By one who was her lover; for his heart
Was dark with jealousy: and then he fled
To the fierce battle, as if outward strife
Could kill the strife within; yet home he came
At last—death spares the wretched—then he heard
How innocent, how true, his Ellen was.
He sought the spot where she was murdered, made
Atonement with his blood; and it is told,
When the moon lights the midnight, comes a sound
Of melancholy music, and a shape
Like that poor maiden, with the golden hair
Stain’d from the bosom’s wound; and by its side,
Another phantom of a dark-brow’d chief,
Who seems, with bended head and outstretch’d arms,
To ask forgiveness; these flit o’er the turf,
And make the place so fearful.
