Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1834/A Legend of Teignmouth

A story of the olden time, when hearts
Wore truer faith than now—a carved stone
Is in a little ancient church which stands
Mid yonder trees, ’tis now almost defaced;
But careful eye may trace the mould’ring lines,
And kind tradition has preserv’d the tale;
I tell it nearly in the very words
Which are the common legend.

The white cliffs like his mirrors show
    Their native land is won.

And gladly from the tall ship’s side,
    Sir Francis hailed the land,
And gladly in his swiftest boat,
    Row’d onward to the strand.

"I see my father’s castle walls
    Look down upon the sea;
The red wine will flow there to-night,
    And all for love of me.

"I left a gentle maiden there:
    For all the tales they say
Of woman’s wrong and faithlessness
    To him who is away;

"I’ll wager on her lily hand,
    Where’s still a golden ring;
But, lady, ’tis a plainer one
    That o’er the seas I bring."

His bugle sound the turret swept
    They meet him in the hall;
But ’mid dear faces where is here,
    The dearest of them all!
 
Ah! every brow is dark and sad,
    And every voice is low;
His bosom beats not as it beat
    A little while ago.

They lead him to a darkened room.
    A heavy pall they raise;
A face looks forth as beautiful
    As in its living days.

A ring is yet upon the hand,
    Sir Francis, worn for thee.
Alas! that such a clay-cold hand,
    Should true love’s welcome be!

He kissed that pale and lovely mouth,
    He laid her in the grave;
And then again Sir Francis sailed
    Far o’er the ocean wave.

To east and west, to north and south,
    That mariner was known;
A wanderer bound to many a shore,
    But never to his own.

At length the time appointed came,
    He knew that it was come;
With pallid brow and wasted frame,
    That mariner sought home.

The worn-out vessel reached the shore,
    The weary sails sank down;
The seamen cleared her of the spoils
    From many an Indian town.
 
And then Sir Francis fired the ship;
    Yet tears were in his eyes,
When the last blaze of those old planks
    Died in the midnight skies.

Next morning, ’twas a Sabbath morn
    They sought that church, to pray;
And cold beside his maiden's tomb
    The brave Sir Francis lay.

Oh, Death! the pitying that restor'd
    The lover to his bride;
Once more the marble was unclosed,
    They laid him at her side.

And still the evening sunshine sheds
    Its beauty o’er that tomb;
Like heaven’s own hope, to mitigate
    Earth’s too unkindly doom.