long, And the cold storm has yell'd the trees among.

And now thou'rt here my fears are fled—yet speak, Why does the salt tear moisten on thy cheek? Say, what is wrong?" Now through a parting cloud The pale moon peer'd from her tempestuous shroud, And Bateman's face was seen; 't was deadly white, And sorrow seem'd to sicken in his sight. "Oh, speak! my love!" again the maid conjured, "Why is thy heart in sullen woe immured?" He raised his head, and thrice essay'd to tell, Thrice from his lips the unfinished accents fell; When thus at last reluctantly he broke His boding silence, and the maid bespoke: "Grieve not, my love, but ere the morn advance I on these fields must cast my parting glance; For three long years, by cruel fate's command, I go to languish in a foreign land. Oh, Margaret! omens dire have met my view, Say, when far distant, wilt thou bear me true? Should honours tempt thee, and should riches fee, Wouldst thou forget thine ardent vows to me, And on the silken couch of wealth reclined, Banish thy faithful Bateman from thy mind?"

"Oh! why," replies the maid, "my faith thus prove, Canst thou! ah, canst thou, then suspect my love? Hear me, just God! if from my traitorous heart My Bateman's fond remembrance e'er shall part, If, when he hail again his native shore, He finds his Margaret true to him no more, May fiends of hell, and every power of dread, Conjoin'd then drag me from my perjured bed, And hurl me headlong down these awful steeps, To find deserved death in yonder deeps!"2 Thus spake the maid, and from her finger drew A golden ring, and broke it quick in two; One half she in her lovely bosom hides, The other, trembling, to her love confides. "This bind the vow," she said, "this mystic charm No future recantation can disarm, The right vindictive does the fates involve, No tears can move it, no regrets dissolve."

She ceased. The death-bird gave a dismal cry, The river moan'd, the wild gale whistled by, And once again the lady of the night Behind a heavy cloud withdrew her light. Trembling she view'd these portents with dismay; But gently Bateman kiss'd her fears away: Yet still he felt conceal'd a secret smart, Still melancholy bodings fill'd his heart.

When to the distant land the youth was sped, A lonely life the moody maiden led. Still would she trace each dear, each well known walk, Still by the moonlight to her love would talk, And fancy, as she paced among the trees, She heard his whispers in the dying breeze.

Thus two years glided on in silent grief; The third her bosom own'd the kind relief: 

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