Rosabelle.
283
With ray sad eyes and my rich attire,
Lifting the latch, should I enter there,
Old Raoul, the bloodhound, that dreams by the fire,
Would rouse him to threaten my pale despair.
Lifting the latch, should I enter there,
Old Raoul, the bloodhound, that dreams by the fire,
Would rouse him to threaten my pale despair.
Early in March, ere the spring winds blow,
Ere the hill-snows melt or the skies look bland,
On the lone white shore where the tide is low
They shall hollow my grave in the sloping sand.
Ere the hill-snows melt or the skies look bland,
On the lone white shore where the tide is low
They shall hollow my grave in the sloping sand.
