The yelling Ghost before him stands,
See! she rolls her eyes around,
Now she lifts her bony hands,
Now her footsteps shake the ground.
Stranger.
165
Phantom of Theresa say,
Why to earth again you came,
Quickly speak, I must away!
Or you must bleach for aye in flame,—
Phantom.
Mighty one I know thee now,
170
Mightiest power of the sky,
Know thee by thy flaming brow,
Know thee by thy sparkling eye.
That fire is scorching! Oh! I came,
From the caverned depth of Hell,
My fleeting false Rodolph to claim,
Mighty one! I know thee well.—
Stranger.
Ghasta! seize yon wandering sprite,
Drag her to the depth beneath,
Take her swift, before ’tis light,
180
Take her to the cells of death!
Thou that heardst the trackless dead,
In the mouldering tomb must lie,
Mortal! look upon my head,
Mortal! Mortal! thou must die.
Of glowing flame a cross was there
Which threw a light around his form,
Whilst his lank and raven hair,
Floated wild upon the storm.—
The warrior upwards turned his eyes,
190
Gazed upon the cross of fire,
There sat horror and surprise,
There sat God’s eternal ire.—
A shivering through the Warrior flew,
Colder than the nightly blast,
195
Colder than the evening dew,
When the hour of twilight’s past.—
Thunder shakes th’ expansive sky,
Shakes the bosom of the heath,
‘Mortal! Mortal! thou must die’—
200
The warrior sank convulsed in death.
JANUARY, 1810.
XVII. FRAGMENT,
OR THE TRIUMPH OF CONSCIENCE
’TWAS dead of the night when I sate in my dwelling,
One glimmering lamp was expiring and low,—
Around the dark tide of the tempest was swelling,
Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling,
5
They bodingly presaged destruction and woe!
’Twas then that I started, the wild storm was howling,
Nought was seen, save the lightning that danced on the sky,
Above me the crash of the thunder was rolling,
And low, chilling murmurs the blast wafted by.—
10
My heart sank within me, unheeded the jar
Of the battling clouds on the mountain-tops broke,
Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine ear,
This heart hard as iron was stranger to fear,
But conscience in low noiseless whispering spoke.
15
’Twas then that her form on the whirlwind uprearing,
The dark ghost of the murdered Victoria strode,
Her right hand a blood reeking dagger was bearing,
She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode.—
I wildly then called on the tempest to bear me!
· · · · · · ·
· · · · · · ·
POEMS FROM ST. IRVYNE, OR, THE ROSICRUCIAN
I.—VICTORIA
[Another version of The Triumph of Conscience immediately preceding.]
I
’TWAS dead of the night, when I sat in my dwelling;
One glimmering lamp was expiring and low;
Around, the dark tide of the tempest was swelling,
Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling,—
5
They bodingly presaged destruction and woe.
II
’Twas then that I started!—the wild storm was howling,
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
10
My heart sank within me—unheeded the war
Of the battling clouds, on the mountain-tops, broke;—
Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine ear—
This heart, hard as iron, is stranger to fear;
But conscience in low, noiseless I whispering spoke.
IV
15
’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 aether the tempest is swelling,
And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal passed?
II
5
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,
10
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:
15
On the mist of the tempest which hangs o’er the fountain,
Whilst a wreath of dark vapour encircles his head.
III.—SISTER ROSA: A BALLAD
I
THE death-bell beats! —
The mountain repeats
The echoing sound of the knell;
And the dark Monk now
5
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
10
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
15
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;
20
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.—
‘Delight is in store
For her evermore;
25
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,—
30
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;
35
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,
40
And he prayed to God to dissolve the spell,
Which else must for ever remain.
VIII
And in fervent pray’r he knelt on the ground,
Till the abbey bell struck One:
His feverish blood ran chill at the sound:
45
A voice hollow and horrible murmured around—
‘The term of thy penance is done!’
IX
Grew dark the night;
The moonbeam bright
Waxed faint on the mountain high;
50
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,
55
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
60
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
65
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,
70
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,
75
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
80
More terrific and fell,
And louder pealed the thunder.
XV
And laughed, in joy, the fiendish I throng,
Mixed with ghosts of the mouldering dead:
And their grisly wings, as they floated along,
85
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 appeared,
And triumphant their gleam on the dark Monk glared,
90
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.—
95
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,
100
A deep groan was answered from hell.
IV.—ST. IRVYNE’S TOWER
I
How swiftly through Heaven’s wide expanse
Bright day’s resplendent colours fade!
How sweetly does the monbeam’s glance
With silver tint St. Irvyne’s glade!
II
5
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 gray 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 ray;
15
It gleams upon the ivied bower,
It dances in the cascade’s spray.
V
‘Ah! why do dark’ning shades conceal
The hour, when man must cease to be?
Why may not human minds unveil
20
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 hallowèd bier,
As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner,
And drops, to Perfection’s remembrance, a tear;
5
When floods of despair down his pale cheek are streaming,
When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming,
Or, if lulled for awhile, 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,
10
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,
15
Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the dower,
When woe fades away like the mist of the heath.
VI.—THE DROWNED LOVER
I
AH! 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.
5
I see her swift foot dash the dew from the whortle,
As she rapidly hastes to the green grove of myrtle;
And I hear, as she wraps round her figure the kirtle,
‘Stay thy boat on the lake,—dearest Henry, I come.’
II
High swelled in her bosom the throb of affection,
10
As lightly her form bounded over the lea,
And arose in her mind every dear recollection;
‘I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee.’
How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing,
When sympathy’s swell the soft bosom is moving,
15
And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving,
Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness flee!
III
Oh! dark lowered the clouds on that horrible eve,
And the moon dimly gleamed through the tempested air;
Oh! how could fond visions such softness deceive?
20
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.
POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS OF MARGARET NICHOLSON
Being Poems found amongst the Papers of that noted Female who attempted the life of the King in 1786. Edited by John Fitzvictor.
ADVERTI
SEMENT
THE energy and native genius of these Fragments must be the only apology which the Editor can make for thus intruding them on the public notice. The first I found with no title, and have left it so. It is intimately connected with the dearest interests of universal happiness; and much as we may deplore the fatal and enthusiastic tendency which the ideas of this poor female had acquired, we cannot fail to pay the tribute of unequivocal regret to the departed memory of genius, which, had it been rightly organized, would have made that intellect, which has since become the victim of frenzy and despair, a most brilliant ornament to society.
In case the sale of these Fragments evinces that the public have any curiosity to be presented with a more copious collection of my unfortunate Aunt’s poems, I have other papers in my possession which shall, in that case, be subjected to their notice. It may be supposed they require much arrangement; but I send the following to the press in the same state in which they came into my possession. J. F.
WAR
AMBITION, power, and avarice, now have hurled
Death, fate, and ruin, on a bleeding world.
See! on yon heath what countless victims lie,
Hark! what loud shrieks ascend through yonder sky;
5
Tell then the cause, ’tis sure the avenger’s rage
Has swept these myriads from life’s crowded stage:
Hark to that groan, an anguished hero dies,
He shudders in death’s latest agonies;
Yet does a fleeting hectic flush his cheek,
The Complete Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley: (A Modern Library E-Book) Page 126
