A Mad-Song

Ha! what is this that on my brow
Presses with such o'erwhelming power?
My love to heaven is gone, I know;
But 'tis to fix our bridal hour;….
Then on his tomb why should I sorrow?
He's gone, but he'll return tomorrow.

Ah! then yon lofty hill I'll mount,
And seize on morning's brightest cloud;
On that I'll wait my love, and count
The moments till he leaves his shroud:
And he the rainbow's vest shall borrow,
To grace our bridal day tomorrow.

But all's not right in this poor heart,
Yet why should I his loss deplore?
It was indeed a pang to part,
But when he comes, he'll rove no more:
And all today can laugh at sorrow,
When sure of being blest tomorrow.

Then why am I in black arrayed?
And why is Henry's father pale?
And why do I, poor frantic maid,
Tell to the winds a mournful tale?
Alas! the weight I feel is sorrow
No, no…. he cannot come tomorrow.