EYES How eloquent are eyes! Not the rapt poet's frenzied lay That your look may light a waste of years, POEMS FROM ST. IRVYNE, OR THE ROSICRUCIAN I VICTORIA I 'Twas dead of the night, when I sat in my dwelling; One glimmering lamp was expiring and low; Eyes. Published by Rossetti, 1870, dated 1810. 10 light, Esdaile MS., 1890 || lighten, Rossetti, 1870. Poems from St. Irvyne, or the Rosicrucian. Published by Shelley, 1810, and dated 1808-1810. Victoria, Rossetti || without title, Shelley. Around, the dark tide of the tempest was swelling, Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yell Nought was seen save the lightning which danced in the sky; Above me the crash of the thunder was rolling, And low, chilling murmurs the blast wafted by. III My heart sank within me Of the battling clouds on the mountain-tops broke; Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine This heart, hard as iron, is stranger to fear; But conscience in low, noiseless whispering spoke. IV 'Twas then that, her form on the whirlwind upholding, The ghost of the murdered Victoria strode ; In her right hand a shadowy shroud she was holding; She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode. V I wildly then called on the tempest to bear me II "ON THE DARK HEIGHT OF JURA" I GHOSTS of the dead! have I not heard your yelling Rise on the night-rolling breath of the blast, When o'er the dark ether the tempest is swelling, And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal passed? II For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura, Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath; Oft have I braved the chill night-tempest's fury, Whilst around me, I thought, echoed murmurs of death. III And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling, O father! thy voice seems to strike on mine ear; In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is rolling, It breaks on the pause of the elements' jar. IV On the wing of the whirlwind which roars o'er the mountain Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire who is dead, — On the mist of the tempest which hangs o'er the fountain, Whilst a wreath of dark vapor encircles his head. "On the Dark Height of Jura," Dowden || The Father's Spectre, Rossetti, without title, Shelley. The mountain repeats The echoing sound of the knell ; Wraps the cowl round his brow, II And the cold hand of death Chills his shuddering breath, As he lists to the fearful lay, Which the ghosts of the sky, As they sweep wildly by, Sing to departed day. And they sing of the hour When the stern fates had power To resolve Rosa's form to its clay. But that hour is past; III And that hour was the last Of peace to the dark monk's brain; Bitter tears from his eyes gushed silent and fast; And he strove to suppress them in vain. Sister Rosa, Rossetti || Ballad, Shelley. IV Then his fair cross of gold he dashed on the floor, When the death-knell struck on his ear, For her evermore ; But for me is fate, horror, and fear." V Then his eyes wildly rolled, And the ice of despair VI Chilled the wild throb of care, And he sate in mute agony still; Till the night-stars shone through the cloudless air, And the pale moonbeam slept on the hill. VII Then he knelt in his cell, And the horrors of hell Were delights to his agonized pain; And he prayed to God to dissolve the spell, Which else must forever remain. VIII And in fervent prayer he knelt on the ground, |