THE BRIDE OF THRYBERGH. I. BRIGHT rose the morn, and many a ray, Did on the gothic casements play, The landscape dressed in kirtle green, While far along the lowly dells, In merry peal the music swells, From village fane's harmonious bells, Fit sounds to banish care! And minstrels venerably grey, Strike on their harps the joyous lay, To celebrate the bridal day Of Thrybergh's lovely heir! II. But where is she, for whom arise These joyous strains and melodies,— Edwina young and fair? Alas! to her the festive board, Can pleasure nor delight afford, Whose bosom heaves with care! Unseen by mortal eye, the maid Had passed along the neighbouring glade, To where remote mid darksome wood, An ancient oak majestic stood, The growth of ten score years: There seated on a massy stone, Deeply with velvet moss o'ergrown, Edwina, pensive, sad, and lone, Indulged her flowing tears. III. The place to her was doubly dear, |