David Mallet (c. 1705–1765)

’TWAS at the silent, solemn hour

When night and morning meet;

In glided Margaret’s grimly ghost,

And stood at William’s feet.

Her face was like an April-morn

Clad in a wintry cloud;

And clay-cold was her lily-hand,

That held her sable shroud.

So shall the fairest face appear

When youth and years are flown:

Such is the robe that kings must wear,

When Death has reft their crown.

Her bloom was like the springing flower,

That sips the silvery dew;

The rose was budded in her cheek—

Just opening to the view.

But love had, like the canker-worm,

Consum’d her early prime:

The rose grew pale, and left her cheek;

She died before her time.

‘Awake!’ she cried, ‘thy true-love calls,

Come from her midnight grave;

Now let thy pity hear the maid

Thy love refused to save.’…

He hied him to the fatal place

Where Margaret’s body lay;

And stretch’d him on the green-grass turf

That wrapt her breathless clay.

And thrice he called on Margaret’s name,

And thrice he wept full sore;

Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,

And word spake never more!