MAUD. I. 1. I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood red heath, The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood, And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers 'Death.' F 2. For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found, His who had given me life-O father! O God! was it well?— Mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, and dinted into the ground: There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell. 3. Did he fling himself down? who knows? for a vast speculation had fail'd, And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and ever wann'd with despair, And out he walk'd when the wind like a broken worldling wail'd, And the flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove thro' the air. |