Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
From William and MargaretDavid Mallet (c. 17051765)
’T
When night and morning meet;
In glided Margaret’s grimly ghost,
And stood at William’s feet.
Clad in a wintry cloud;
And clay-cold was her lily-hand,
That held her sable shroud.
When youth and years are flown:
Such is the robe that kings must wear,
When Death has reft their crown.
That sips the silvery dew;
The rose was budded in her cheek—
Just opening to the view.
Consum’d her early prime:
The rose grew pale, and left her cheek;
She died before her time.
Come from her midnight grave;
Now let thy pity hear the maid
Thy love refused to save.’…
Where Margaret’s body lay;
And stretch’d him on the green-grass turf
That wrapt her breathless clay.
And thrice he wept full sore;
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,
And word spake never more!