1808. 1808. IV. Omne quod moestis habuit miserto V. Longius sed tu fuge curiosus VI. Spe tremescentes recubant in illâ LATIN VERSES: IN HOROLOGIUM. Inter marmoreas Leonora pendula colles Quas manibus premit illa duas insensa papillas VICTORIA. I. 'Twas dead of the night when I sat in my dwelling; II. 'Twas then that I started! The wild storm was howling ; Nought was seen save the lightning that danced in the sky; Above me the crash of the thunder was rolling ; III. My heart sank within me ;-unheeded the war But conscience in low noiseless whispering spoke. IV. 'Twas then that, her form on the whirlwind upholding, In her right hand a shadowy shroud she was holding: V. I wildly then called on the tempest to hear me 1808. SISTER ROSA. 1. 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 Bitter tears from his eyes gushed silent and fast, IV. Then his fair cross of gold he dashed on the floor When the death-knell struck on his ear. "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; 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 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; And a voice-hollow, horrible-murmured around "The term of thy penance is done!" IX. Grew dark the night-the moonbeam bright 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, Whilst the grave's clammy dew o'er his pale forehead grew, 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 the 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 to dispel the charm, And he burst Rosa's coffin asunder; And the fierce storm did swell more terrific and fell, 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, 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: 1808. A deep groan was answered from Hell. THE LAKE-STORM. AH! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is weary, Though the tempest is stern, and the mountain is dreary, High swelled in her bosom the throb of affection, "I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee!" Oh! dark loured the clouds on that horrible eve, And the moon dimly gleamed through the tempested air. Oh! how could false visions such softness deceive? Oh! how could false hope rend a bosom so fair? Thy love's pallid corse the wild surges are laving; O'er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving. But fear not, parting spirit! Thy goodness is saving In eternity's bowers a seat for thee there. |