'Twas at the silent,solemn hour When night and morning meet;
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost And stood at William's feet.
Her face was like an April morn,Clad in a wintry cloud:
And clay-cold was her lily-hand,That held her sable shroud.
So shall the fairest face appear,When youth and years are flown:
Such is the robe that kings must wear,When death has reft their crown.
Her bloom was like the springing flower,That sips the silver dew;
The rose was budded in her cheek,Just opening to the view.
But Love had,like the canker-worm,Consumed her early prime:
The rose grew pale,and left her cheek;
She died before her time.
"Awake!"she cried,"thy true love calls,Come from her midnight grave;
Now let thy pity hear the maid Thy love refused to save.
"This is the dumb and dreary hour When injured ghosts complain;
When yawning graves give up their dead To haunt the faithless swain.
"Bethink thee,William,of thy fault,Thy pledge and broken oath:
And give me back my maiden vow,And give me back my troth.
"Why did you promise love to me,And not that promise keep?
Why did you swear my eyes were bright,Yet leave those eyes to weep?