Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/939

 When the one darling of our widowhead, The nursling Grief, Is dead, And no dews blur our eyes To see the peach-bloom come in evening skies, Perchance we may, Where now this night is day, And even through faith of still averted feet, Making full circle of our banishment, Amazèd meet; The bitter journey to the bourne so sweet Seasoning the termless feast of our content With tears of recognition never dry.

SYDNEY DOBELL

1824-1874

765. The Ballad of Keith of Ravelston

The murmur of the mourning ghost That keeps the shadowy kine, 'O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!'

Ravelston, Ravelston, The merry path that leads Down the golden morning hill, And thro' the silver meads;

Ravelston, Ravelston, The stile beneath the tree, The maid that kept her mother's kine, The song that sang she!