His feverish blood ran chill at the sound; A voice hollow and horrible murmured around "The term of thy penance is done!" Grew dark the night; The moonbeam bright IX Waxed faint on the mountain high; And from the black hill Went a voice cold and still, — "Monk! thou art free to die." X Then he rose on his feet, And his heart loud did beat, And his limbs they were palsied with dread; O'er his pale forehead grew; And he shuddered to sleep with the dead. XI And the wild midnight storm To the wind, bleak and high, As he searched for the new-made tomb. XII And forms, dark and high, Seemed around him to fly, And mingle their yells with the blast, — And on the dark wall Half-seen shadows did fall, As, enhorrored, he onward passed. XIII And the storm-fiends wild rave O'er the new-made grave, And dread shadows linger around; The Monk called on God his soul to save, And, in horror, sank on the ground. XIV Then despair nerved his arm And he burst Rosa's coffin asunder; And the fierce storm did swell More terrific and fell, And louder pealed the thunder. XV And laughed in joy the fiendish throng, Mixed with ghosts of the mouldering dead; And their grisly wings, as they floated along, Whistled in murmurs dread. XVI And her skeleton form the dead Nun reared, In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale flames appeared, And triumphant their gleam on the dark Monk glared, As he stood within the cell. XVII And her lank hand lay on his shuddering brain, The grave yawns, we meet there." XVIII And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound, That in long vibrations shuddered the ground; IV ST. IRVYNE'S TOWER I How swiftly through heaven's wide expanse Bright day's resplendent colors fade! How sweetly does the moonbeam's glance With silver tint St. Irvyne's glade ! II No cloud along the spangled air, Is borne upon the evening breeze; How solemn is the scene! how fair The moonbeams rest upon the trees! St. Irvyne's Tower, Rossetti || Song, Shelley. III Yon dark gray turret glimmers white, IV But not alone on Irvyne's tower It gleams upon the ivied bower, V "Ah! why do darkening shades conceal The hour when man must cease to be? Why may not human minds unveil The dim mists of futurity? VI "The keenness of the world hath torn The heart which opens to its blast; Despised, neglected, and forlorn, Sinks the wretch in death at last." V BEREAVEMENT I How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner, As he bends in still grief o'er the hallowed bier, Bereavement, Rossetti || Song, Shelley. As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner, 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 lulled for a while, soon he starts from his dreaming, And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear. II 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 breath. Eternity points in its amaranth bower, Where no clouds of fate o'er the sweet prospect lower, Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the dower, When woe fades away like the mist of the heath. VI THE DROWNED LOVER I АH! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is weary, Yet far must the desolate wanderer roam; Though the tempest is stern, and the mountain is dreary, She must quit at deep midnight her pitiless home. The Drowned Lover, Dowden || The Lake-Storm, Rossetti, Song, Shelley. |