Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/300



Spirits of Light! Spirits of Shade! Hearken once more to your love-stricken maid For, oh, she is sad as sad may be, Pining all night underneath this tree, Yet lacking thy goodly company. She is left self-alone, While the old forests groan, As they hear, down rushing from the skies, The embattled squadrons of the air, Pealing o'er ridgy hills their cries Of battle, and of fierce despair. Through sunless valleys, deep and drear, Hark, to their trumpets' brassy blare, The tramp of steed, and crash of spear! Nearer yet the strife sweeps on, And I am left thus self-alone, With never a guardian spirit near, To couch for me a generous lance, When the Storm-fiends madly prance On their steeds of cloud and flame, To work a gentle maiden shame, Oh, misery! I die; and yet I scorn to blame Inconstancy.