Oh ! heard ye not the sighing gale,
That fans the twilight grove!
And heard ye not the plaintive wail,
That tells of blighted love !
'Tis Edith, who at blushing morn
Still seeks her lover's tomb;
Who there will weep and sigh forlorn
Till day is lost in gloom.
And now as swells the rising gale
The love-notes come more nigh;
The breeze, enamoured of the tale,
Repays it with a sigh.

'Why is the hand of death so strong ?
'So deep my Love's repose ?
'Thy sleep, my Owen, hath been long,
'And long thy Edith's woes.
'Twelve moons have poured their silver light
'Since I began to weep;
'Another moon shall rise to night,
'And yet will Owen sleep ?
'And if, as sacred lore has said,
'So long we watch and pray,
'Shall virgin hymns awake the dead,
'And call them back to day.
'And now- but ah! what sounds arise,
'And load the sullen blast!
'Does Owen hear his Edith's cries ?
'Oh ! comes my Love at last ?'

'I come,' exclaimed a voice of woe,
While deeper hung the gloom;
'But who with fatal haste would know
'The secrets of the tomb ?
'And does not Owen know that voice ?
'Oh ! once to him how dear!
'Or does he not approve the choice
'That called his Edith here?
'I come to share thy loved embrace,
'And to thy heart be prest;
'Once more to view thy manly face,
'And, gazing, die- how blest!
'Oh! is not love as strong as death ?
'And does not fate allow ?
'Then on thy lips my hallowed breath
'Shall seal my virgin vow.'

''Tis thine, the dire mysterious boon,'
Replied the dreadful voice:
'When night has gained her solemn noon,
'Then take thy desperate choice.'
Long the moist turf in deep despair
The frantic Edith prest;
And long the night-dews gemmed her hair,
And chilled her aching breast.
The thunder pealed, and from below
A sullen murmur stole,
And, more than mortal plaint of woe,
Appalled the maiden's soul.
Red darts the lightning through the gloom,
The blast of midnight blows,
Whilst slowly from the yawning tomb
Its shrouded tenant rose.

His lip was pale, and cold his cheek,
Where roses wont to move;
And his fixed eyes no longer speak
The eloquence of love.
''Tis thine, (he cried,) ill fated Maid,
'To break the sleep of death;
'The spell that calls thy Lover's shade,
'The same demands thy breath.
'The flash of phrenzy comes too late,
'That fires thy starting eye;
'A kiss you sought- that kiss is fate- ,
'To feel it, is to die.'
His shadowy arms he opened wide,
And clasped the trembling Maid;
Freezing she feels life's crimson tide,
Her cheek's scared roses fade.

She tried to speak- the Spectre frowned,
And waved his grisly arm;
Beneath him yawned the rocking ground,
While Fate fulfilled the charm.
The lightning flashed- the thunder rolled-
While sunk the beckoning shade;
And minstrel legends since have told,
No more was seen the Maid.