George Borrow Poems

Perhaps ‘t is folly, but still I feel
My heart-strings quiver, my senses reel,
Thinking how like a fast stream we range
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Late at eve they were toiling on Harribee bank,
For in harvest men ne’er should be idle:
Towards them rode Waldemar, meagre and lank,
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Love, with rosy fetter,
Held us firmly bound;
Pure unmix’d enjoyment
Grateful here we found.
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“Is luaimnach mo chodal an nochd.”

Oh restless, to night, are my slumbers;
Life yet I retain, but not gladness;
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Though tall the oak, and firm its stem,
Though far abroad its boughs are spread,
Though high the poplar lifts its head,
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O the force of Runic verses,
O the mighty strength of song
Cannot baffle all the curses
Which to mortal state belong.
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Lo, a pallid fleecy vapour
Far along the East is spread;
Every star has quench’d its taper,
Lately glimmering over head.
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St. Oluf was a mighty king,
Who rul’d the Northern land;
The holy Christian faith he preach’d,
And taught it, sword in hand.
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Observe ye not yon high cliff’s brow,
Up which a wanderer clambers slow,
‘T is by a hoary ruin crown’d,
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Sir Lave to the island stray'd;
He wedded there a lovely maid:
'I'll have her yet,' said John.
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