« PredošláPokračovať »
Rise on the night-rolling breath of As he lists to the fearful lay the blast,
When o'er the dark ether the tempest is
Which the ghosts of the sky,
And on eddying whirlwind the
And they sing of the hour
For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura,
Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath;
Oft have I brav'd the chill nighttempest's fury,
Whilst around me, I thought, echo'd
murmurs of death.
On the wing of the whirlwind which
On the mist of the tempest which hangs
Whilst a wreath of dark vapour encircles his head.
III. SISTER ROSA: A BALLAD
And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling,
Then his fair cross of gold he dash'd on the floor,
O father! thy voice seems to strike When the death-knell struck on his ear.
on mine ear;
Delight is in store
For her evermore;
In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is rolling,
But for me is fate, horror, and fear.
It breaks on the pause of the elements'
THE death-bell beats!-
The echoing sound of the knell;
And the cold hand of death
But that hour is past;
And that hour was the last
And he strove to suppress them in vain.
Then his eyes wildly roll'd,
And he stamp'd on the ground,-
And the ice of despair
Chill'd the wild throb of care,
Till the night-stars shone through the
And the pale moonbeam slept on the hill.
Then he knelt in his cell:-
Were delights to his agonis'd pain,
And he pray'd to God to dissolve the spell,
Which else must for ever remain.
And in fervent pray'r he knelt on the ground,
Till the abbey bell struck One: His feverish blood ran chill at the sound:
A voice hollow and horrible murmur'd around
"The term of thy penance is done!"
Grew dark the night;
Went a voice cold and still,"Monk! thou art free to die."
And the wild midnight storm
To the wind, bleak and high,
And forms, dark and high,
The Monk call'd on God his soul to save,
And, in horror, sank on the ground.
Half-seen shadows did fall,
And the storm-fiend's wild rave
Then despair nerv'd his arm
And he burst Rosa's coffin asunder.
Then he rose on his feet,
And his heart loud did beat,
And his limbs they were palsied with And her skeleton form the dead Nun
Whilst the grave's clammy dew
rear'd Which dripp'd with the chill dew of hell.
O'er his pale forehead grew;
And he shudder'd to sleep with the In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale
And laugh'd, in joy, the fiendish throng, Mix'd with ghosts of the mouldering dead:
And their grisly wings, as they floated along,
Whistled in murmurs dread.
And triumphant their gleam on the dark
As he stood within the cell.
And her lank hand lay on his shuddering brain;
But each power was nerv'd by fear."I never, henceforth, may breathe
Death now ends mine anguish'd pain.
And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound,
So deadly, so lone, and so fell, That in long vibrations shudder'd the ground;
And as the stern notes floated around,
"The keenness of the world hath torn The heart which opens to its blast ; Despis'd, neglected, and forlorn,
Sinks the wretch in death at last."
As enanguish'd he turns from the laugh of the scorner,
As he bends in still grief o'er the hallowed bier,
And drops, to perfection's remembrance, a tear;
When floods of despair down his pale cheek are streaming,
When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming,
Or, if lull'd for awhile, soon he starts from his dreaming,
And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear.
Ah! when shall day dawn on the night of the grave,
Or summer succeed to the winter of death?
Rest awhile, hapless victim, and Heaven will save
The spirit, that faded away with the
Eternity points in its amaranth bower,
When woe fades away like the mist
VI. THE DROWNED LOVER
Though the tempest is stern, and the mountain is dreary,
She must quit at deep midnight her
I see her swift foot dash the dew from
How stern are the woes of the desolate And I hear, as she wraps round her figure the kirtle,
AH! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is weary,
Yet far must the desolate wanderer
"Stay thy boat on the lake,-dearest Henry, I come."
truding them on the public notice.
High swell'd in her bosom the throb of first I found with no title, and have left it affection, It is intimately connected with the dearest interests of universal happiness; and much as we may deplore the fatal and enthusiastic tendency which the ideas of this poor female had acquired, we cannot fail to pay the tribute of unequivocal regret to the departed memory of genius, which, had it been rightly organised, would have made that intellect, which has since become the victim of
As lightly her form bounded over the lea,
And arose in her mind every dear recollection;
"I come, dearest Henry, and wait
but for thee. How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing, When sympathy's swell the soft bosom is moving,
And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving,
Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness flee!
frenzy and despair, a most brilliant ornament to society.
In case the sale of these Fragments evinces that the public have any curiosity collection of my unfortunate Aunt's poems, to be presented with a more copious I have other papers in my possession which shall, in that case, be subjected to their notice. require much arrangement; but I send It may be supposed they the following to the press in the same state in which they came into my posJ. F.
POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS AMBITION, power, and avarice, now have hurl'd
Death, fate, and ruin, on a bleeding world.
See! on yon heath what countless victims lie,
Hark! what loud shrieks ascend thro' yonder sky;
Tell then the cause, 'tis sure the avenger's rage
Has swept these myriads from life's crowded stage:
Hark to that groan, an anguish'd hero dies,
He shudders in death's latest agonies; Yet does a fleeting hectic flush his cheek,
Yet does his parting breath essay to speak
"Oh God! my wife, my children— Monarch thou
THE energy and native genius of these Fragments must be the only apology For
which the Editor can make for thus in
whose support this fainting frame lies low;
For whose support in distant lands I Ah! when will come the sacred fated bleed,
Let his friends' welfare be the warrior's
When man unsullied by his leaders'
He hears me
For passion's voice has dull'd their Will stretch him fearless by his foemen's listless ear.
To thee, then, mighty God, I lift my Ah! when will come the time, when o'er the plain
Thou wilt not scorn a suppliant's No more shall death and desolation
Oh! now I die-but still is death's When will the sun smile on the blood. less field,
God hears my prayer-we meet, we And the stern warrior's arm the sickle
He spake, reclin'd him on death's Not whilst some King, in cold ambition's bloody bed,
And with a parting groan his spirit fled.
For you how many a mother weeps her And one frail mortal's mandate governs
Plans for the field of death his plodding schemes;
Not whilst for private pique the public fall,
Snatch'd from life's course ere half his Swell'd with command and mad with race was run! dizzying sway; For you how many a widow drops a Who sees unmov'd his myriads fade
In silent anguish, on her husband's Careless who lives or dies-so that he bier!
"Is it then thine, Almighty Power," Some trivial point for which he took she cries, the pains. "Whence tears of endless sorrow dim What then are Kings?—I see the these eyes? trembling crowd,
Is this the system which thy powerful sway,
I hear their fulsome clamours echoed loud;
Their stern oppressor pleas'd appears
Which else in shapeless chaos sleeping
'Tis not-he never bade the war-note swell,
But April's sunshine is a Monarch's smile
Kings are but dust-the last eventful day
Will dash the sceptre from the Monarch's He never triumph'd in the work of hellhand, Monarchs of earth! thine is the baleful And from the warrior's grasp wrest the deed, Thine are the crimes for which thy subjects bleed.
ensanguin'd brand. Oh! Peace, soft peace, art thou for ever gone,