And see'st thou, Richard, these rude rills, Whose gurgling waters meet, To thee, their whisp'ring waves are clear, Their banks wild odours sweet.. Yet since thy father rush'd to war, For me, shews dim yon star, whose rays For me, these rills no music wake, For I have lost the noble youth, But who, in yonder shadowy glen, See, Richard, carelessly diffus'd, The wind uplifts his raven hair, The sun-beam gilds his cheek. Perhaps, my son, ah, sick at heart, Then hie thee, Richard, thither hie, And, "hail, thou gentle Pilgrim," say, "May God's good grace be thine. "I come from yonder neighb'ring heights, "Where bides a Lady fair, "And many a welcome waits thy wish, "And many a blessing there. "For thine, O Pilgrim, thine the couch "To rest thy wearied frame, "Thine is the bath, the banquet thine, "For thine mild pity's claim." Ran Richard swift as from the bow "All hail, thou gentle Pilgrim, hail! "I come from yonder neighb'ring heights, "Where bides a Lady fair, "And many a welcome waits thy wish, "And many a blessing there. "For thine, O Pilgrim, thine the couch "To rest thy wearied frame, "Thine is the bath, the banquet thine, "For thine mild pity's claim." Now heav'n thee guard, thou lovely boy! But tell me, say, what Lady fair, Whose tender breast, with pitying care, Hath lent its aid to me. For know, good youth, near this rude dell, My heart is full-ah! know I not, But what my wife, my only child, "O think not so, thou Pilgrim sad, "I pray thee, think not so, "For the sweetest balm mild Mercy pours, "O thine that balm to know! My mother waits thy weary step, O give to winds thy care! "No toil-worn travller's wander here, "But Edith's blessings share." The Pilgrim sigh'd, the Pilgrim wept, Come to my heart, my own sweet boy, All, all my sufferings goneThen Richard knelt, and dropt the tearMy father, bless thy son." Bless thee, my boy-and now I haste I come, my youth's dear bride, I come, Now pass'd they thro' the gloomy glen, A shriek was heard the woods among, "My Arthur!-Oh my gentle Lord! "My Love, my Love! tho' dear the day "Oh! thou art all to my poor heart, All, all that heav'n can give, All, all that breathes the soul of life, "And makes it bliss to live." "And is my Arthur still so kind, "Yet can he love so well! |