The Stranger.

A poem by Thomas Moore

Come list, while I tell of the heart-wounded Stranger
Who sleeps her last slumber in this haunted ground;
Where often, at midnight, the lonely wood-ranger
Hears soft fairy music re-echo around.

None e'er knew the name of that heart-stricken lady,
Her language, tho' sweet, none could e'er understand;
But her features so sunned, and her eyelash so shady,
Bespoke her a child of some far Eastern land.

'Twas one summer night, when the village lay sleeping,
A soft strain of melody came o'er our ears;
So sweet, but so mournful, half song and half weeping,
Like music that Sorrow had steeped in her tears.

We thought 'twas an anthem some angel had sung us;--
But, soon as the day-beams had gushed from on high,
With wonder we saw this bright stranger among us,
All lovely and lone, as if strayed from the sky.

Nor long did her life for this sphere seem intended,
For pale was her cheek, with that spirit-like hue,
Which comes when the day of this world is nigh ended,
And light from another already shines through.

Then her eyes, when she sung--oh, but once to have seen them--
Left thoughts in the soul that can never depart;
While her looks and her voice made a language between them,
That spoke more than holiest words to the heart.

But she past like a day-dream, no skill could restore her--
Whate'er was her sorrow, its ruin came fast;
She died with the same spell of mystery o'er her.
That song of past days on her lips to the last.

Not even in the grave is her sad heart reposing--
Still hovers the spirit of grief round her tomb;
For oft, when the shadows of midnight are closing,
The same strain of music is heard thro' the gloom.

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