Keen blows the piercing midnight gale
On this sad cheek, with grief so pale;
Chill rain-drops on my bosom fall,
Yet still I seek yon castle wall.
Ah! could its Lord my anguish see,
Would he not breathe one sigh for me ?
Fond memory, cease that form to trace,
That gentle look, that winning grace:
Still, still he wears the same sweet smile,
That did my foolish heart beguile;
But sadly now that smile I see,
For ah! it beams no more on me.

He weds a lady rich and great,
And thinks not of his Ellen's fate,
Heeds not the blight that chills her heart,
And bids her hopes, her life depart:
Yet, lovely lady, happy be
With him who thinks no more of me.
The church-yard's lonely path I seek,
Pale Fear no more can blanch my cheek:
There, where my father's ashes sleep,
Alone I love to muse and weep.
I love to think yon midnight moon,
With waning ray, may light me soon
To that calm spot, where yet shall be
A long, long night of rest for me.
I dread no more-the baleful dew,
Fast falling from the deadly yew,

The ' mourner yew,' whose branches bend
O'er thy low grave, my only friend.
Oh could it cool the feverish pain
That racks the heart and burns the brain,
Spring's perfumed showers would never be
So welcome or so sweet to me.