And, southward far, with moors between,
Hill-tops, and floods, and forests green,
The bright moon sees that valley small
Where Rylstone's old sequestered hall
A venerable image yields
Of quiet, to the neighbouring fields;
While from one pillared chimney breathes
The silver smoke, and mounts in wreathes.
The courts are hushed ;-for timely sleep
The greyhounds to their kennel creep;
The peacock in the broad ash-tree
Aloft is roosted for the night,
He, who in proud prosperity
Of colours manifold and bright
Walked round, affronting the day-light;
And higher still, above the bower
Where he is perched, from yon lone tower
The hall-clock in the clear moonshine
With glittering finger points at nine.
-Ah! who could think that sadness here
Had any sway? or pain or fear?
A soft and lulling sound is heard
Of streams inaudible by day;
The garden pool's dark surface-stirred
By the night insects in their play-
Breaks into dimples small and bright;
A thousand, thousand rings of light
That shape themselves and disappear
Almost as soon as seen:-and, lo!
Not distant far the milk-white doe:
The same fair creature which was nigh
Feeding in tranquillity,
When Francis uttered to the maid
His last words in the yew-tree shade ;-
The same fair creature, who hath found
Her way into forbidden ground:
within this spacious plot
For pleasure made, a goodly spot,
With lawns, and beds of flowers, and shades
Of trellis-work in long arcades,
And cirque and crescent framed by wall
Of close-clipt foliage green and tall,
Converging walks, and fountains gay,
And terraces in trim array,-
Beneath yon cypress spiring high,
With pine and cedar spreading wide
Their darksome boughs on either side,
In open moonlight doth she lie,
Happy as others of her kind,
That, far from human neighbourhood,
Range-unrestricted as the wind-
Through park, or chase, or savage wood.
But where at this still hour is she,
The consecrated Emily?
Even while I speak, behold the maid
Emerging from the cedar shade
To open moonshine, where the doe
Beneath a cypress-spire is laid;
Like a patch of April snow,
Upon a bed of herbage green,
Lingering in a woody glade,
Or behind a rocky screen;
Lonely relic which, if seen
By the shepherd, is passed by
With an inattentive eye.
-Nor more regard doth she bestow
Upon the uncomplaining doe!
Yet the meek creature was not free, Erewhile, from some perplexity :
For thrice hath she approached, this day,
The thought-bewildered Emily;
Endeavouring, in her gentle way,
Some smile or look of love to gain,-
Encouragement to sport or play ;
Attempts which by the unhappy maid
Have all been slighted or gainsaid.
-O welcome to the viewless breeze,
'Tis fraught with acceptable feeling,
And instantaneous sympathies
Into the sufferer's bosom stealing;-
Ere she hath reached yon rustic shed,
Hung with late-flowering woodbine spread
Along the walls and overhead,
The fragrance of the breathing flowers
Revives a memory of those hours
When here, in this remote alcove,
(While from the pendant woodbine came
Like odours, sweet as if the same)
A fondly anxious mother strove
To teach her salutary fears
And mysteries above her years.
-Yes, she is soothed :—an image faint→→→
And yet not faint-a presence bright
Returns to her;-'tis that bless'd saint
Who with mild looks and language mild
Instructed here her darling child,
While yet a prattler on the knee,
To worship in simplicity
The invisible God, and take for guide
The faith reformed and purified.
'Tis gone-the vision and the sense
Of that beguiling influence!
But oh! thou angel from above,
Thou spirit of maternal love,
That stood'st before my eyes, more clear
Than ghosts are fabled to appear
Sent up on embassies of fear;
As thou thy presence hast to me
Vouchsafed-in radiant ministry
Descend on Francis:-through the air
Of this sad earth to him repair—
Speak to him with a voice, and say,
That he must cast despair away!
THERE is a lofty spot,
Visible amongst the mountains Apennine,
Where once a hermit dwelt, not yet forgot,
He or his famous miracles divine;
And there the convent of Laverna stands
In solitude, built up by saintly hands,
And deemed a wonder in the elder time.
Chasms of the early world are yawning there,
And rocks are seen, craggy, and vast, and bare;
And many a dizzy precipice sublime,
And caverns dark as death, where the wild air,
Rushes from all the quarters of the sky;
Above, in all his old regality,
The monarch eagle sits upon his throne,
Or floats upon the desert winds, alone.
There, belted 'round and 'round by forests drear,
Black pine, and giant beech, and oaks that rear
Their brown diminished heads like shrubs between,
And guarded by a river that is seen
Flashing and wandering through the dell below,
Laverna stands.—It is a place of woe,
And 'midst its cold dim aisles and cells of gloom,
The pale Franciscan meditates his doom.
ALL in the Trosach's glen was still,
Noontide was sleeping on the hill:
Sudden his guide whooped loud and high-
"Murdoch! was that a signal cry?"—
He stammered forth-"I shout, to scare
"Yon raven from his dainty fare.”—
He looked-he knew the raven's prey,
His own brave steed :-"Ah! gallant grey!
"For thee-for me perchance-'twere well
"We ne'er had seen the Trosach's dell.-
"Murdoch-move first-but silently;
"Whistle or whoop-and thou shalt die."
Jealous and sullen on they fared,
Each silent, each upon his guard.
Now wound the path its dizzy ledge,
Around a precipice's edge,
When, lo! a wasted female form
Blighted by wrath of sun and storm,
In tattered weeds and wild array,
Stood on a cliff beside the way,
And glancing round her restless eye,
Upon the wood, the rock, the sky,
Seemed nought to mark, yet all to spy.
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