And shatter’d the casements, and clos’d is the door,
And the nettle now waves, where the wild KID is playing,
And the neat little garden with weeds is grown o’er!
The Owl builds its nest in the thatch, and there, shrieking,
(A place all deserted and lonely bespeaking)
Salutes the night traveller, wandering near it,
And makes his faint heart, sicken sadly to hear it.
Then Youth, for thy habit, henceforth, thou should’st borrow
The Raven’s dark colour, and mourn for thy dear:
Thy AGNES for thee, would have cherish’d her Sorrow,
And drest her pale cheek with a lingering tear:
For, soon as thy steps to the Battle departed,
She droop’d, and poor Maiden! she died, broken hearted;
And the turf that is bound with fresh garlands of roses,
Is now the cold bed, where her sorrow reposes!
The gay and the giddy may revel in pleasure,—
May think themselves happy, their short summer-day;
May gaze, with fond transport, on fortune’s rich treasure,
And, carelessly sporting,—drive sorrow away:
But the bosom, where feeling and truth are united—
From folly’s bright tinsel will turn, undelighted—
And find, at the grave where thy AGNES is sleeping,
That the proudest of hours, is the lone hour of weeping!
The Youth now approach’d the long branch of the willow,
And stripping its leaves, on the turf threw them round.
“Here, here, my sweet AGNES! I make my last pillow,
“My bed of long slumber, shall be the cold ground!
“The Sun, when it rises above thy low dwelling,
“Shall gild the tall Spire, where my death-toll is knelling.
“And when the next twilight its soft tears is shedding,
“At thy Grave shall the Villagers—witness _our_ WEDDING!
Now over the Hills he beheld a group coming,
Their arms glitter’d bright, as the Sun slowly rose;
He heard them their purposes, far distant, humming,
And welcom’d the moment, that ended his woes!—
And now the fierce Comrade, unfeeling, espies him,
He darts thro’ the thicket, in hopes to surprize him;
But EDMUND, of Valour the dauntless defender,
Now _smiles_, while his CORPORAL bids him—“SURRENDER!”
Soon, prov’d a DESERTER, Stern Justice prevailing,
HE DIED! and his Spirit to AGNES is fled:—
The breeze, on the mountain’s tall summit now sailing
Fans lightly the dew-drops, that spangle their bed!
The Villagers, thronging around, scatter roses,
The grey wing of Evening the western sky closes,—
And Night’s sable pall, o’er the landscape extending,
Is the mourning of Nature! the SOLEMN SCENE ENDING.
_The ALIEN BOY._
’Twas on a Mountain, near the Western Main
An ALIEN dwelt. A solitary Hut
Built on a jutting crag, o’erhung with weeds,
Mark’d the poor Exile’s home. Full ten long years
The melancholy wretch had liv’d unseen
By all, save HENRY, a lov’d, little Son
The partner of his sorrows. On the day
When Persecution, in the sainted guise
Of Liberty, spread wide its venom’d pow’r,
The brave, Saint HUBERT, fled his Lordly home,
And, with his baby Son, the mountain sought.
Resolv’d to cherish in his bleeding breast
The secret of his birth, Ah! birth too high
For his now humbled state, from infancy
He taught him, labour’s task: He bade him chear
The dreary day of cold adversity
By patience and by toil. The Summer morn
Shone on the pillow of his rushy bed;
The noontide, sultry hour, he fearless past
On the shagg’d eminence; while the young Kid
Skipp’d, to the cadence of his minstrelsy.
At night young HENRY trimm’d the faggot fire
While oft, Saint HUBERT, wove the ample net
To snare the finny victim. Oft they sang
And talk’d, while sullenly the waves would sound
Dashing the sandy shore. Saint HUBERT’s eyes
Would swim in tears of fondness, mix’d with joy,
When he observ’d the op’ning harvest rich
Of promis’d intellect, which HENRY’s soul,
Whate’er the subject of their talk, display’d.
Oft, the bold Youth, in question intricate,
Would seek to know the story of his birth;
Oft ask, who bore him: and with curious skill
Enquire, why he, and only one beside,
Peopled the desart mountain? Still his Sire
Was slow of answer, and, in words obscure,
Varied the conversation. Still the mind
Of HENRY ponder’d; for, in their lone hut,
A daily journal would Saint HUBERT make
Of his long banishment: and sometimes speak
Of Friends forsaken, Kindred, massacred;—
Proud mansions, rich domains, and joyous scenes
For ever faded,—lost!
One winter time,
’Twas on the Eve of Christmas, the shrill blast
Swept o’er the stormy main. The boiling foam
Rose to an altitude so fierce and strong
That their low hovel totter’d. Oft they stole
To the rock’s margin, and with fearful eyes
Mark’d the vex’d deep, as the slow rising moon
Gleam’d on the world of waters. ’Twas a scene
Would make a Stoic shudder! For, amid
The wavy mountains, they beheld, _alone_,
A LITTLE BOAT, now scarcely visible;
And now not seen at all; or, like a buoy,
Bounding, and buffetting, to reach the shore!
Now the full Moon, in crimson lustre shone
Upon the outstretch’d Ocean. The black clouds
Flew swiftly on, the wild blast following,
And, as they flew, dimming the angry main
With shadows horrible! Still, the small boat
Struggled amid the waves, a sombre speck
Upon the wide domain of howling Death!
Saint HUBERT sigh’d! while HENRY’s speaking eye
Alternately the stormy scene survey’d
And his low hovel’s safety. So past on
The hour of midnight,—and, since first they knew
The solitary scene, no midnight hour
E’er seem’d so long and dreary.
While they stood,
Their hands fast link’d together, and their eyes
Fix’d on the troublous Ocean, suddenly
The breakers, bounding on the rocky shore,
Left the small wreck; and crawling on the side
Of the rude crag,—a HUMAN FORM was seen!
And now he climb’d the foam-wash’d precipice,
And now the slip’ry weeds gave way, while he
Descended to the sands: The moon rose high—
The wild blast paus’d, and the poor shipwreck’d Man
Look’d round aghast, when on the frowning steep
He marked the lonely exiles. Now he call’d
But he was feeble, and his voice was lost
Amid the din of mingling sounds that rose
From the wild scene of clamour.
Down the steep
Saint HUBERT hurried, boldly venturous,
Catching the slimy weeds, from point to point,
And unappall’d by peril. At the foot
Of the rude rock, the fainting mariner
Seiz’d on his outstretch’d arm; impatient, wild,
With transport exquisite! But ere they heard
The blest exchange of sounds articulate,
A furious billow, rolling on the steep,
Engulph’d them in Oblivion!
On the rock
Young HENRY stood; with palpitating heart,
And fear-struck, e’en to madness! Now he call’d,
Louder and louder, as the shrill blast blew;
But, mid the elemental strife of sounds,
No human voice gave answer! The clear moon
No longer quiver’d on the curling main,
But, mist-encircled, shed a blunted light,
Enough to shew all things that mov’d around,
Dreadful, but indistinctly! The black weeds
Wav’d, as the night-blast swept them; and along
The rocky shore the breakers, sounding low
Seem’d like the whisp’ring of a million souls
Beneath the green-deep mourning.
Four long hours
The lorn Boy listen’d! four long tedious hours
Pass’d wearily away, when, in the East
The grey beam coldly glimmer’d. All alone
Young HENRY stood aghast: his Eye wide fix’d;
While his dark locks, uplifted by the storm
Uncover’d met its fury. On his cheek
Despair sate terrible! For, mid the woes,
Of poverty and toil, he had not known,
’Till then, the horror-giving chearless hour
Of TOTAL SOLITUDE!
He spoke—he groan’d,
But no responsive voice, no kindred tone
Broke the dread pause: For now the storm had ceas’d,
And the bright Sun-beams glitter’d on the breast
Of the green placid Ocean. To his Hut
The lorn Boy hasten’d; there the rushy couch,
The pillow still indented, met his gaze
And fix’d his eve in madness.—From that hour
A maniac wild, the Alien Boy has been;
His garb with sea-weeds fring’d, and his wan cheek
The tablet of his mind, disorder’d, chang’d,
Fading, and worn with care. And if, by chance,
A Sea-beat wand’rer from the outstretch’d main
Views the lone Exile, and with gen’rous zeal
Hastes to the sandy beach, he suddenly
Darts ’mid the cavern’d cliffs, and leaves pursuit
To track him, where no footsteps but his own,
Have e’er been known to venture! YET HE LIVES
A melancholy proof that Man may bear
All the rude storms of Fate, and still suspire
By the wide world forgotten!
_The GRANNY GREY_,
_A LOVE TALE_.
DAME DOWSON, was a granny grey,
Who, three score years and ten,
Had pass’d her busy hours away,
In talking of the Men!
They were her theme, at home, abroad,
At wake, and by the winter fire,
Whether it froze, or blew, or thaw’d,
In sunshine or in shade, her ire
Was never calm’d; for still she made
Scandal her pleasure—and her trade!
A Grand-daughter DAME DOWSON had—
As fair, as fair could be!
Lovely enough to make Men mad;
For, on her cheek’s soft downy rose
LOVE seem’d in dimples to repose;
Her clear blue eyes look’d mildly bright
Like ether drops of liquid light,
Or sapphire gems,—which VENUS bore,
When, for the silver-sanded shore,
She left her native Sea!
ANNETTA, was the damsel’s name;
A pretty, soft, romantic sound;
Such as a lover’s heart may wound;
And set his fancy in a flame:
For had the maid been christen’d JOAN,
Or DEBORAH, or HESTER,—
The little God had coldly prest her,
Or, let her quite alone!
For magic is the silver sound—
Which, often, in a NAME is found!
ANNETTA was belov’d; and She
To WILLIAM gave her vows;
For WILLIAM was as brave a Youth,
As ever claim’d the meed of truth,
And, to reward such constancy,
Nature that meed allows.
But Old DAME DOWSON could not bear
A Youth so brave—a Maid so fair.
The GRANNY GREY, with maxims grave
Oft to ANNETTA lessons gave:
And still the burthen of the Tale
Was, “Keep the wicked Men away,
“For should their wily arts prevail
“You’ll surely rue the day!”
And credit was to GRANNY due,
The truth, she, by EXPERIENCE, knew!
ANNETTA blush’d, and promis’d She
Obedient to her will would be.
But LOVE, with cunning all his own,
Would never let the Maid alone:
And though she dar’d not see her Lover,
Lest GRANNY should the deed discover,
She, for a woman’s weapon, still,
From CUPID’s pinion pluck’d a quill:
And, with it, prov’d that human art
Cannot confine the Female Heart.
At length, an assignation She
With WILLIAM slily made,
It was beneath an old Oak Tree,
Whose widely spreading shade
The Moon’s soft beams contriv’d to break
For many a Village Lover’s sake.
But Envy has a Lynx’s eye
And GRANNY DOWSON cautious went
Before, to spoil their merriment,
Thinking no creature nigh.
Young WILLIAM came; but at the tree
The watchful GRANDAM found!
Straight to the Village hasten’d he
And summoning his neighbours round,
The Hedgerow’s tangled boughs among,
Conceal’d the list’ning wond’ring throng.
He told them that, for many a night,
An OLD GREY OWL was heard;
A fierce, ill-omen’d, crabbed Bird—
Who fill’d the village with affright.
He swore this Bird was large and keen,
With claws of fire, and eye-balls green;
That nothing rested, where she came;
That many pranks the monster play’d,
And many a timid trembling Maid
She brought to shame
For negligence, that was her own;
Turning the milk to water, clear,
And spilling from the cask, small-beer;
Pinching, like fairies, harmless lasses,
And shewing Imps, in looking-glasses;
Or, with heart-piercing groan,
Along the church-yard path, swift gliding,
Or, on a broomstick, witchlike, riding.
All listen’d trembling; For the Tale
Made cheeks of Oker, chalky pale;
The young a valiant doubt pretended;
The old believ’d, and all attended.
Now to DAME DOWSON he repairs
And in his arms, enfolds the Granny:
Kneels at her feet, and fondly swears
He will be true as any!
Caresses her with well feign’d bliss
And, _fearfully_, implores a Kiss—
On the green turf distracted _lying_,
He wastes his ardent breath, in sighing.
The DAME was silent; for the Lover
Would, when she spoke,
She fear’d, discover
Her envious joke:
And she was too much charm’d to be
In haste,—to end the Comedy!
Now WILLIAM, weary of such wooing,
Began, with all his might, hollooing:—
When suddenly from ev’ry bush
The eager throngs impatient rush;
With shouting, and with boist’rous glee
DAME DOWSON they pursue,
And from the broad Oak’s canopy,
O’er moonlight fields of sparkling dew,
They bear in triumph the Old DAME,
Bawling, with loud Huzza’s, her name;
“A witch, a witch!” the people cry,
“A witch!” the echoing hills reply:
’Till to her home the GRANNY came,
Where, to confirm the tale of shame,
Each rising day they went, in throngs,
With ribbald jests, and sportive songs,
’Till GRANNY of her spleen, repented;
And to young WILLIAM’s ardent pray’r,
To take, for life, ANNETTA fair,—
_At last_,—CONSENTED.
And should this TALE, fall in the way
Of LOVERS CROSS’D, or GRANNIES GREY,—
Let them confess, ’tis made to prove—
_The wisest heads_,—TOO WEAK FOR LOVE!
_GOLFRE_,
_A GOTHIC SWISS TALE_.
IN FIVE PARTS.
Where freezing wastes of dazzl’ing Snow
O’er LEMAN’s Lake rose, tow’ring;
The BARON GOLFRE’s Castle strong
Was seen, the silv’ry peaks among,
With ramparts, darkly low’ring!—
Tall Battlements of flint, uprose,
Long shadowing down the valley,
A grove of sombre Pine, antique,
Amid the white expanse would break,
In many a gloomy alley.
A strong portcullis entrance show’d,
With ivy brown hung over;
And stagnate the green moat was found,
Whene’er the Traveler wander’d round,
Or moon-enamour’d Lover.
Within the spacious Courts were seen
A thousand gothic fancies;
Of banners, trophies, armour bright,
Of shields, thick batter’d in the fight,
And interwoven lances.
The BARON GOLFRE long had been
To solitude devoted;
And oft, in pray’r would pass the night
’Till day’s vermillion stream of light
Along the blue hill floated.
And yet, his pray’r was little mark’d
With pure and calm devotion;
For oft, upon the pavement bare,
He’d dash his limbs and rend his hair
With terrible emotion!
And sometimes he, at midnight hour
Would howl, like wolves, wide-prowling;
And pale, the lamps would glimmer round—
And deep, the self-mov’d bell would sound
A knell prophetic, tolling!
For, in the Hall, three lamps were seen,
That quiver’d dim;—and near them
A bell rope hung, that from the Tow’r
Three knells would toll, at midnight’s hour,
Startl’ing the soul to hear them!
And oft, a dreadful crash was heard,
Shaking the Castle’s chambers!
And suddenly, the lights would turn
To paly grey, and dimly burn,
Like faint and dying embers.
Beneath the steep, a Maiden dwelt,
The dove-eyed ZORIETTO;
A damsel blest with ev’ry grace—
And springing from as old a race—
As Lady of LORETTO!
Her dwelling was a Goatherd’s poor;
Yet she his heart delighted;
Their little hovel open stood,
Beside a lonesome frowning wood,
To travellers—benighted.
Yet oft, at midnight when the Moon
Its dappled course was steering,
The Castle bell would break their sleep,
And ZORIETTO slow would creep—
To bar the wicket—fearing!
What did she fear? O! dreadful thought!
The Moon’s wan lustre, streaming;
The dim grey lamps, the crashing sound,
The lonely Bittern—shrieking round
The roof,—with pale light gleaming.
And often, when the wintry wind
Loud whistled o’er their dwelling;
They sat beside their faggot fire
While ZORIETTO’s aged Sire
A dismal Tale was telling.
He told a long and dismal Tale
How a fair LADY perish’d;
How her sweet Baby, doom’d to be
The partner of her destiny
Was by a peasant cherish’d!
He told a long and dismal Tale,
How, from a flinty Tow’r
A Lady wailing sad was seen,
The lofty grated bars between,
At dawnlight’s purple hour!
He told a Tale of bitter woe,
His heart with pity swelling,
How the fair LADY pin’d and died,
And how her Ghost, at Christmas-tide—
Would wander,—near her dwelling.
He told her, how a lowly DAME
The LADY, lorn, befriended—
Who chang’d her own dear baby, dead,
And took the LADY’s in its stead—
And then—“_Forgive her Heav’n!_” He said,
And so, his Story ended.
_GOLFRE_,
_PART SECOND_.
As on the rushy floor she sat,
Her hand her pale cheek pressing;
Oft, on the GOATHERD’s face, her eyes
Would fix intent, her mute surprize—
In frequent starts confessing.
Then, slowly would she turn her head,
And watch the narrow wicket;
And shudder, while the wintry blast
In shrilly cadence swiftly past
Along the neighb’ring thicket.
One night, it was in winter time,
The Castle bell was tolling;
The air was still, the Moon was seen,
Sporting, her starry train between,
The thin clouds round her rolling.
And now she watch’d the wasting lamp,
Her timid bosom panting;
And now, the Crickets faintly sing,
And now she hears the Raven’s wing
Sweeping their low roof, slanting.
And, as the wicket latch she clos’d,
A groan was heard!—she trembled!
And now a clashing, steely sound,
In quick vibrations echoed round,
Like murd’rous swords, assembled!
She started back; she look’d around,
The Goatherd Swain was sleeping;
A stagnate paleness mark’d her cheek,
She would have call’d, but could not speak,
While, through the lattice peeping.
And O! how dimly shone the Moon,
Upon the snowy mountain!
And fiercely did the wild blast blow,
And now her tears began to flow,
Fast, as a falling fountain.
And now she heard the Castle bell
Again toll sad and slowly;
She knelt and sigh’d: the lamp burnt pale—
She thought upon the dismal Tale—
And pray’d, with fervour holy!
And now, her little string of beads
She kiss’d,—and cross’d her breast;
It was a simple rosary,
Made of the Mountain Holly-tree,
By Sainted Father’s blest!
And now the wicket open flew,
As though a whirlwind fell’d it;
And now a ghastly figure stood
Before the Maiden—while her blood
Congeal’d, as she beheld it!
His face was pale, his eyes were wild,
His beard was dark; and near him
A stream of light was seen to glide,
Marking a poniard, crimson-dyed;
The bravest soul might fear him!
His forehead was all gash’d and gor’d—
His vest was black and flowing
His strong hand grasp’d a dagger keen,
And wild and frantic was his mien,
Dread signs of terror, showing.
“O fly me not!” the BARON cried,
“In HEAV’N’s name, do not fear me!”
Just as he spoke the bell thrice toll’d—
Three paly lamps they now behold—
While a faint voice, cried,—“HEAR ME!”
And now, upon the threshold low,
The wounded GOLFRE, kneeling,
Again to HEAV’N address’d his pray’r;
The waning Moon, with livid glare,
Was down the dark sky stealing.
They led him in, they bath’d his wounds,
Tears, to the red stream adding:
The haughty GOLFRE gaz’d, admir’d!
The Peasant Girl his fancy fir’d,
And set his senses, madding!
He prest her hand; she turn’d away,
Her blushes deeper glowing,
Her cheek still spangled o’er with tears;
So the wild rose more fresh appears
When the soft dews are flowing!
Again, the BARON fondly gaz’d;
Poor ZORIETTO trembled;
And GOLFRE watch’d her throbbing breast
Which seem’d, with weighty woes oppress’d,
And softest LOVE, dissembled.
The GOATHERD, fourscore years had seen,
And he was sick and needy;
The BARON wore a SWORD OF GOLD,
Which Poverty might well behold,
With eyes, wide stretch’d, and greedy!
The dawn arose! The yellow light
Around the Alps spread chearing!
The BARON kiss’d the GOATHERD’s child—
“Farewell!” she cried,—and blushing smil’d—
No future peril fearing.
Now GOLFRE homeward bent his way
His breast with passion burning:
The Chapel bell was rung, for pray’r,
And all—save GOLFRE, prostrate there—
Thank’d HEAV’N, for his returning!
_GOLFRE_,
_PART THIRD_.
Three times the orient ray was seen
Above the East cliff mounting,
When GOLFRE sought the Cottage Grace
To share the honours of his race,
With treasures, beyond counting!
The Ev’ning Sun was burning red
The Twilight veil spread slowly;
While ZORIETTO, near the wood
Where long a little cross had stood,
Was singing Vespers holy.
And now she kiss’d her Holly-beads,
And now she cross’d her breast;
The night-dew fell from ev’ry tree—
It fell upon her rosary,
Like tears of Heav’n twice bless’d!
She knelt upon the brown moss, cold,
She knelt, with eyes, mild beaming!
The day had clos’d, she heard a sigh!
She mark’d the clear and frosty sky
With starry lustre gleaming.
She rose; she heard the drawbridge chains
Loud clanking down the valley;
She mark’d the yellow torches shine
Between the antique groves of Pine—
Bright’ning each gloomy alley.
And now the breeze began to blow,
Soft-stealing up the mountain;
It seem’d at first a dulcet sound—
Like mingled waters, wand’ring round
Slow falling from a fountain.
And now, in wilder tone it rose,
The white peaks sweeping, shrilly:
It play’d amidst her golden hair
It kiss’d her bosom cold and fair—
And sweet, as vale-born Lily!
She heard the hollow tread of feet
Thridding the piny cluster;
The torches flam’d before the wind—
And many a spark was left behind,
To mock the glow-worm’s lustre.
She saw them guard the Cottage door,
Her heart beat high with wonder!
She heard the fierce and Northern blast
As o’er the topmost point it past
Like peals of bursting thunder!
And now she hied her swift along
And reach’d the guarded wicket;
But O! what terror fill’d her soul,
When thrice she heard the deep bell toll—
Above the gloomy thicket.
Now fierce, the BARON darted forth,
His trembling victim seizing;
She felt her blood, in ev’ry vein
Move, with a sense of dead’ning pain,
As though her heart were freezing.
“This night,” said he, “Yon castle tow’rs
“Shall echo to their centre!
“For, by the HOLY CROSS, I swear,”—
And straight a cross of ruby glare
Did through the wicket enter!
And now a snowy hand was seen
Slow moving, round the chamber!
A clasp of pearl, it seem’d to bear—
A clasp of pearl, most rich and rare!
Fix’d to a zone of amber.
And now the lowly Hovel shook,
The wicket open flying,
And by, the croaking RAVEN flew
And, whistling shrill, the night-blast blew
Like shrieks, that mark the dying!
But suddenly the tumult ceas’d—
And silence, still more fearful,
Around the little chamber spread
Such horrors as attend the dead,
Where no Sun glitters chearful!
“Now JESU HEAR ME!” GOLFRE cried,
“HEAR ME,” a faint voice mutter’d!
The BARON drew his poniard forth—
The Maiden sunk upon the earth,
And—“Save me Heav’n!” she utter’d.
“Yes, Heav’n will save thee,” GOLFRE said,
“Save thee, to be MY bride!”
But while he spoke a beam of light
Shone on her bosom, deathly white,
Then onward seem’d to glide.
And now the Goatherd, on his knees,
With frantic accent cried,
“O! God forbid! that _I_ should see
“The beauteous ZORIETTO, be
“The BARON GOLFRE’s bride!
“Poor Lady! she did shrink and fall,
“As leaves fall in September!
“Then be not BARON GOLFRE’s bride—
“Alack! in yon black tow’r SHE died—
“Full well, I do remember!”
“Oft, to the lattice grate I stole
“To hear her, sweetly singing;
“And oft, whole nights, beside the moat,
“I listen’d to the dying note—
“’Till matin’s bell was ringing.
“And when she died! Poor Lady dear!
“A sack of gold, she gave,
“That masses every Christmas day
“Twelve bare-foot Monks should sing, or say,
“Slow moving round her Grave.
“That, at the Holy Virgin’s shrine
“Three Lamps should burn for ever—
“That, ev’ry month, the bell should toll,
“For pray’rs to save her Husband’s soul—
“I shall forget it, never!”
While thus he spoke, the BARON’s eye
Look’d inward on his soul:
For He the masses _ne’er_ had said—
_No_ lamps, their quiv’ring light had shed,
_No_ bell, been taught to toll!
And yet, the bell _did_ toll, self-mov’d;
And sickly lamps were gleaming;
And oft, their faintly wand’ring light
Illum’d the Chapel aisles at night,
’Till MORN’s broad eye, was beaming.
_GOLFRE_,
_PART FOURTH._
The Maid refus’d the BARON’s suit,
For, well she lov’d another;
The angry GOLFRE’s vengeful rage
Nor pride nor reason could assuage,
Nor pity prompt to smother.
His Sword was gone; the Goatherd Swain
Seem’d guilty, past recalling:
The BARON now his life demands
Where the tall Gibbet skirts the lands
With black’ning bones appalling!
Low at the BARON’s feet, in tears
Fair ZORIETTO kneeling,
The Goatherd’s life requir’d;—but found
That Pride can give the deepest wound
Without the pang of feeling.
That Pow’r can mock the suff’rer’s woes
And triumph o’er the sighing;
Can scorn the noblest mind oppress’d,
Can fill with thorns the feeling breast
Soft pity’s tear denying.
“Take me,” she cried, “but spare his age—
“Let me his ransom tender;
“I will the fatal deed atone,
“For crimes that never were my own,
“My breaking heart surrender.”
The marriage day was fix’d, the Tow’rs
With banners rich were mounted;
His heart beat high against his side
While GOLFRE, waiting for his bride,
The weary minutes counted.