86
WESTERN RESERVE STUDIES
LENORE
By H. J. Pye
Lenore wakes from dreams of dread
At the rosy dawn of day,
Art thou false, or art thou dead?
William, wherefore this delay?"[1]
Join'd with Frederick's host he sought,
On Praga's bloody field, the foe;
Since no tidings had been brought
Of his weal, or of his woe.
At the rosy dawn of day,
Art thou false, or art thou dead?
William, wherefore this delay?"[1]
Join'd with Frederick's host he sought,
On Praga's bloody field, the foe;
Since no tidings had been brought
Of his weal, or of his woe.
Tir'd of war, the royal foes
Bid the storm of battle cease,
And in mutual compact close
Terms of amity, and peace;
Either host with jocund strain,
Drum, and cymbals' cheering sound,
Seek their peaceful homes again,
All with verdant garlands crown'd.
Bid the storm of battle cease,
And in mutual compact close
Terms of amity, and peace;
Either host with jocund strain,
Drum, and cymbals' cheering sound,
Seek their peaceful homes again,
All with verdant garlands crown'd.
Young and old, on every side
Crowd the way, their friends to meet;
Many a mother, many a bride,
Sons, and husbands fondly greet.
Pale and cheerless mid the rest
Ah! the sad Lenore see!
None to clasp thee to his breast,
Not a glowing kiss for thee.
Crowd the way, their friends to meet;
Many a mother, many a bride,
Sons, and husbands fondly greet.
Pale and cheerless mid the rest
Ah! the sad Lenore see!
None to clasp thee to his breast,
Not a glowing kiss for thee.
Now amid the warlike train
Running swift, with tearful eye,
All she asks, but all in vain.—
See the lingering rear pass by!—
Now she rends with frantic hand
Tresses of her raven hair,
Falling breathless on the sand,
Agonizing in despair.
Running swift, with tearful eye,
All she asks, but all in vain.—
See the lingering rear pass by!—
Now she rends with frantic hand
Tresses of her raven hair,
Falling breathless on the sand,
Agonizing in despair.
Lo! with grief her mother wild:—
"Pitying heaven! look down with grace.—
O my child! my dearest child!"
And clasps her in a fond embrace.
"Ah my mother all is o'er;
Desert now the world will prove.—
Heaven no mercy has in store.
Ah my lost, my slaughter'd love!"
"Pitying heaven! look down with grace.—
O my child! my dearest child!"
And clasps her in a fond embrace.
"Ah my mother all is o'er;
Desert now the world will prove.—
Heaven no mercy has in store.
Ah my lost, my slaughter'd love!"
- ↑ In his preface Pye made a special point of having indicated the speeches of Lenore by single, the others by double quotation marks, but these have not been retained. A small number of misprints or unusual spellings have been corrected.
