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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 vapour encircles his head.

NUMBER 3.-BALLAD.

I.

THE death-bell beats!

The mountain repeats

The echoing sound of the knell;
And the dark monk now

Wraps the cowl round his brow,
As he sits in his lonely cell.

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.

III.

But that hour is past;

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.

IV.

Then his fair cross of gold he dashed on the floor,

When the death-knell struck on his ear.

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Delight is in store

For her evermore;

But for me is fate, horror, and fear."

V.

Then his eyes wildly rolled,
When the death-bell tolled,
And he raged in terrific woe.
And he stamped on the ground,—
But when ceased the sound,
Tears again began to flow.

VI.

And the ice of despair

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 moon-beam 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 for ever remain.

VIII.

And in fervent prayer he knelt on the ground, Till the abbey bell struck One:

His feverish blood ran chill at the sound:

A voice hollow and horrible murmured around

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The term of thy penance is done!"

IX.

Grew dark the night;

The moon-beam bright

Waxed faint on the mountain high;
And, from the black hill,

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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; Whilst the grave's clammy dew

O'er his pale forehead grew;

And he shuddered to sleep with the dead.

XI.

And the wild midnight storm
Raved around his tall form,
As he sought the chapel's gloom:
And the sunk grass did sigh

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-fiend's 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
To dispel the charm,

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 griesly wings, as they floated along,
Whistled in murmurs dread.

XVI.

And her skeleton form the dead Nun reared,
Which dripped with the chill dew of hell.
In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale flames ap-
peared,

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;
But each power was nerved by fear.-
"I never, henceforth, may breathe again;
Death now ends mine anguished pain.—
The grave yawns,we meet there."

XVIII.

And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound,

So deadly, so lone, and so fell,

That in long vibrations shuddered the ground;
And as the stern notes floated around,
A deep groan was answered from hell.

NUMBER 4.-SONG.

I.

How swiftly through heaven's wide expanse Bright day's resplendent colours 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!

III.

Yon dark grey turret glimmers white,
Upon it sits the mournful owl;
Along the stillness of the night,
Her melancholy shriekings roll.

IV.

But not alone on Irvyne's tower,
The silver moonbeam pours her
It gleams upon the ivied bower,
It dances in the cascade's spray.

V.

ray;

"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?

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