The Isle of Devils A Historical Tale, Funnded on an Anecdote in the Annals of Portugal. (From an unpublished Manuscript.) By M. G. Lewis |
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 | The Isle of Devils |  |
VIII.
Three months had past; still lived the Monster brat,Its Sire had sought the wood—alone she sat.
She sheds no tears—no tears are left to shed,
Unmoistened burn her eyes—her heart seems dead.
Her form seems marble; Lo! from far the sound
Of Music steals and fills the caves around.
She starts!—scarce breathing—trembling—“oh! for wings”—
But hark! for nearer now the Minstrel sings,
“He! He!” That love-lorn dirge—that heavenly tongue,
That air she taught him—'twas Rosalvo's song;
Rosalvo whom the waves which wrecked their bark,
Had borne like her (for purpose sad and dark),
To that strange Isle; tho' far remote the beach,
From Irza's Grot, which fate ordained him reach.
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Those rude and slippery crags and distant shores;
And while he treads his dangerous path, the strains
Which Irza taught him, sooth her lover's pains.
She hears his steps, and hears them soon more near,
And loud she cries—“Rosalvo! hear! oh hear!
“'Tis Irza calls!”—and now more quick, more nigh,
Down the steep rock she hears those footsteps fly.
Again she calls—he comes! he searches round,
He seeks the gate, and soon the gate is found;
Alas! 'twas found in vain; the marble guard,
Seemed rooted as the rock whose mouth it barr'd.
Yet still with laboring nerves to move the stone—
He struggles; now he stops, and hark! a groan!
But one, then all was hushed—a death-like chill
Seized Irza's heart, and seemed her veins to thrill.
Fain had she called her youthful bridegroom's name,
Her tongue, fear's numbing fingers seemed to lame.
Footsteps—more near they drew—slow rolled the stone—
The infernal Gaoler came—but came alone;
With anxious glance his eye explored the cell,
But when it fixed on hers, abashed it fell.
He knelt and seemed to fear her frown—he bore
His club—'twas splashed with brains!—'twas red with gore.
She feared,—she guessed,—she ran, she rushed, she flew,
Nor did the Fiend her frantic course pursue:
“Rosalvo! speak! Rosalvo!” shrill, yet sweet,
She wakes the echoes—what obstructs her feet.
'Tis he, the young, the good, the kind, the fair,
As some frail lilly which the passing share,
Or wanton boy hath wounded, droops his head,
Its whiteness withered, and its fragrance fled.
Low lay the youth, and from his temple's wound
With precious streams bedewed the ensanguined ground;
Then reason fled its seat, she shrieks, she raves,
And fills with hideous yell the ocean caves;
Rends her bright locks, and laughs to see them fly,
And bids them seek Rosalvo in the sky.
To dig his grave she fiercely ploughs the ground,
Loud shouts his name, nor feels the flints that wound:
Her bosom's globes, and stain their snow with gore,
As wild she dashes down and beats the rocky floor.
Now fail her strength, her spirits—mute she sits,
Sullen and sad, then laughs and sings by fits;
A statue now she seems, or one just dead,
Her looks all gloom, her eyes two balls of lead.
Then simply smiles, and sings with idiot glee,
“Ave Maria! Benedicite!”;
Till nature's powers revived by rest again,
The fury passion riots in her brain,
And all is rage, and helpless, hopeless, pain.
| The Isle of Devils | |