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The Maiden Of Rhine Post by :brseminars Category :Poems Author :Charles Mackay Date :September 2011 Read :3501

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The Maiden Of Rhine

At sunset a maid was roaming
Alone by the banks of Rhine,
Whose stream to the dark sea foaming,
Was bright in the red sunshine:
And she wept in bitter sorrow,
As faded the sun's last ray,
And sadly she thought of the morrow,
For her love was far away!

They've bartered the maid and sold her
For empty and pitiless pride,
And morning's first beam must behold her
A cold and unwilling bride.
With the white rose wreath they've bound her,
She shines in her fairest trim,
And cold-hearted friends surround her,
To banish her thoughts of him.

O! leave her alone to her sorrow!
The true heart can never forget;
O! leave her alone till the morrow!
She mourns for her loved one yet.
From her chamber, the maiden, weeping,
Looks out on the lordly Rhine,
"There's a boat o'er the light wave sweeping--
"My Rudolph!--O! were it thine!"

Away, o'er the foaming water,
'Tis he!--and thy sire in vain
Shall seek for his blooming daughter,
When the morning comes again!
Away, with thy loved one, maiden!
Away, e'er thy sire pursue!
---She's gone, and the bark is laden---
God favour the bold and true!

(The end)
Charles MacKay's poem: Maiden Of Rhine

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The Hunters The Hunters

The Hunters
In valleys where the white man's foot Ne'er treads the early dew, By mighty streams, whose waters deep Ne'er bear his light canoe; In wild woods the settler's axe Ne'er fells the ancient tree, There the Great Spirit wings our feet To roam the forest free. When points the shadow to the west, We string the ready bow; Hark!--the wild stag is in the woods, His foot is on the snow. The deer are in the forest path, Their speed outstrips the gale, And through our pleasant hunting grounds We follow on their trail. Far from the white man's corn

The Days Of Yore The Days Of Yore

The Days Of Yore
Deep in the shade of the wild woods free, There standeth alone an old oak tree; And ever at night, 'mong its branches dead, The cold wind mourneth its glories fled, And the nightingale singeth her saddest tune, To think that its strength should have died so soon; And the old oak droopeth its branches hoar, And maketh a moan for the days of yore. Alas! alas! for that old oak tree, And alas! O maiden, alas for thee! Thy loved one sleeps in his quiet bed, And thy grief, though pure, cannot wake the dead. Vainly, alas, shall the spring