University of Virginia Library

The cloak of night invests the lofty hill
That fronts the tower of Lourde, and all is still.
From citadel aloft and town below,
Some scatter'd lights a feeble radiance throw.
As if with every breeze a foe was near,
The sentries oft to earth incline to hear:
And one, that, where the public way is barr'd,
Beneath the hill, maintains the outer guard,
Or hears, or thinks he hears, a distant sound,
Like tramp of horses, hollow on the ground.
The growing sound is now advancing nigh,
And now comes clattering plainly from on high.
Quick, clear, and loud the guard in challenge cries,
Loud, clear, and quick, the approacher's voice replies.
Sieurac, empower'd free passage to require,
Bears from the army mandate for his Sire,
A captive with him on parole entire.
Some length of jealous ceremonial done,
An officer admits them, one by one.
Their way from guard to guard an escort leads,
And each a moment their advance impedes.
All form observ'd, and every caution due,
Their progress through the town they now pursue;
And now arriving at the fortress gate,
Sieurac ascends, but there must Glenville wait.
Short was the stay of Glenville in the vale,
The veteran hasten'd down his guest to hail.
Then, leading through the small but massive port,
Conducted upward to the impending fort;
By winding steps, cut through with labour'd art,
The single way to enter or depart.

Time on this venerable warriour's head
His whitest snows, the grace of age, had shed;
But not impair'd the stately martial gait;
Or bow'd the tall thin form erect and straight;
Or made the youthfulness of laughter fly
The true mercurial Frenchman's keen grey eye;
Or marr'd the courtesy of mien and phrase
In courts acquir'd, in France's better days.
But now forgotten was all lighter part,
Nature was busy in the father's heart.
Gay as he was in customary guise,
None held more fondly strict to nature's ties.
And who may now with due expression tell
What feelings high that old man's bosom swell?
He hears Sieurac relate the former strife,
Paternal fancy gives the story life,
He sees the stubborn conflict lost and won,
The death-stroke pendent o'er an only son,
The prompt protection of a guardian foe,
The victim snatch'd from the descending blow.
He sees it all, and Glenville he repays
With all the warmth of gratitude and praise.

But not by him alone was Glenville blest:
Of all rewards, that heart's reward the best!
There was an ear the stranger's praise that caught
In all the modest sympathy of thought.
There was a heart whose secret throbbings told
More fervent thanks than coyness might unfold.
There was a breast with nascent warmth o'erflush'd,
A cheek of beauty which unbidden blush'd,
A tender eye of deep celestial blue,
Whose side-long looks unconscious favour threw,
But he on whom they glanc'd too well their augury knew.
Ah! what the wonder such recited scene
Should move a mind so ductile, young Alvine,
And fond as thine!—Her brother and her sire
To her till now were all the world entire.
No mother left to claim affection's care,
Sieurac she gave a more than brother's share.
What wonder then her gratitude o'erflow'd,
For him to whom her brother's life was ow'd;
That English youth who with a triple claim
A stranger, captive, benefactor, came!

The night was wearing, and, ere dawn awake,
Sieurac again his column must o'ertake.
To them consigning his deliverer brave,
A soldier's brief but warm adieu he gave.

Before Alvine more blissful visions rose
That night, than e'er enchanted her repose.
Her fickle dreams a thousand shapes assumed,
In various worlds, by various spheres illumed,
By heavenly music charm'd, and heavenly airs perfumed:
A thousand shapes in bright perfection each;
And worlds too beautiful for earthly speech;
And scatter'd spheres that bountifully threw
More mild rich lights, and all of separate hue,
Than e'er before e'en fairy fancy knew:
Music more soft than Æolus e'er flung
From airy harp by Elf-musician strung,
Amid the yellow bowers of mournful autumn hung:
Airs fresher far than ever woo'd the day,
Eloping after showers from lap of liberal May.
Whithersoe'er she roved, a youthful guide,
The genius of the scene, was at her side.
Whithersoe'er he led she wander'd free,
From change to change, through earth, or air, or sea.
So courteously he look'd, so kindly spoke,
His every gesture instant charm awoke.
But still the close black locks that clustering twined
O'er brow where manly candour sat defined,
The goodly form and careless easy mien,
And large dark eyes so bright yet softly keen,
Were wondrous like a youth that happy evening seen.

'Twixt broken slumbers Glenville musing lay,
On his strange fortune's unexpected sway;
His path of fame, and hope of glory crost:
Monthermer too, as well as freedom, lost.
Yet not o'erwhelming the disaster seem'd,
Not o'er-severe his destiny he deem'd,
For he had read in that young beauty's eye
Enough that might beguile captivity.

As if for him the prospect to adorn,
Exuberant in splendour rose the morn,
When, by the Sire attended and Alvine,
He first beheld the bold encircling scene.
The heavy battlement aloft that tower'd
Dark o'er the vale in sullen grandeur lower'd.
Its eastern aspect o'er the blue-roof'd town
Look'd in the pride of its protection down.
But on the west, from southern mountains roll'd,
Gave at its feet was thundering uncontrol'd;
Twisting along his proud capricious course,
He pour'd his waves, exulting in their force.
Romantic Gave! whose lucid currents strong
Foam, wheel, and whirl, and roar and rush along,
And in their desultory visits greet
All that is wild and beautiful and sweet.
And far around, where'er the lively green
Of chestnut hills allow'd a view between,
Were orchards and vine-swells in youthful promise seen.
Beyond, the Pyrennean mountains rose,
Their huge heads radiant with impassive snows;
From south and west the noble scene they crown'd,
And girt the amphitheatre around.

Weeks hasten'd on, and each succeeding day
With pleasure came, with pleasure went away.
On that old man the English stranger won,
Till scarce superior love he bore his son;
And with his love his confidence was join'd,
In all the freedom of a generous mind.
Alvine's unpractis'd heart more warmly yet,
Unconsciously, repaid her brother's debt.
Her thought on Glenville ever kindly dwelt,
Her soul for Glenville ever fondly felt:
Since he appear'd, each common object wore
A thousand charms she never mark'd before,
Each hour was golden bliss without alloy,
And every gale was redolent of joy:
And not a care upon her thought encroach'd,
Till now the eventful change for France approach'd.

The foot of Spring stole lightly o'er the land
Impurpled o'er by Battle's reeking hand,
At every step fresh leaves of verdure sprung,
To hide the blood from struggling nations wrung;
When France beheld, yet scarce could trust the view,
Her garden's boast and shame, her Lily bloom anew!
Yes, the proud hand that with so stern a blow
That shatter'd garden's royal flower laid low,
In vain essay'd, with all its power and pride,
To blast the root—the Lily never died.
Rumour grew busy; Doubt, all mute, gave ear;
Woe heard, but durst not trust a sound so dear.
“How could it be? To earth so sudden hurl'd
“The Eagle that shriek'd ruin through the world?
“How could it be? the Lion tamely give
“His claws to be wrench'd out that he might live!
“The Imperial Bandit pledge his ravening horde
“To sheath disloyalty's accursed sword,
“And swear allegiance to their rightful Lord!
“Ah no, 'twas all in mockery of despair!
“Yet why then sunk the yell of battle there?”
Death paus'd! and War relax'd into a smile!
Hope caught the beam! and Fear peep'd forth the while!
Till Truth at last the certain tidings bore—
Peace is throughout the land! the Usurper rules no more!

Not yet to Lourde those certain tidings came,
But expectation was forestalling fame.
Then, though her prayers implored that war might cease,
Alvine grew mournful at the thought of peace.
For though Sieurac 'twould set from peril free,
Yet was there One, perhaps as lov'd as He,
Whom, after that, she never more might see.
Who hath not felt how separation's fear
Makes those who share our love more fondly dear?

The wild and tender spirit of Alvine
Romantic was as her own mountain scene:
By habit too her light fine form inured
The lengthen'd ramble easily endured.
O'er slopes of vines with Glenville oft she roves,
Through shades of myrtle, and through olive groves,
Through woods that blend in many a social arch,
The Elm, and Oak, and Lime, and Beech, and Larch.
Till Eve's last blush from Morning's fragrant prime,
Oft were they wont the mountains grey to climb:
Steeds and attendants leaving far below,
To trace the lonesome regions would they go;
Mount the huge rocks o'erstriped with granite lines;
Invade the gloomy solitude of pines;
Pierce the dread womb of caves whose teeming spars
Shone through the depths a mimic vault of stars;
Bend o'er the cataract that plunging sinks
In horrid gulfs whence dizzy vision shrinks;
Reach the rude heights that bounding Ibex haunts
For russet birch and aromatic plants;
Start the light Chamois from his lone recess,
His cragged lichen-nursing wilderness;
Approach the aerial citadels of snow,
And look, sublime, on clouds and plains below.

Ascend, O Traveller! and if thy soul
Exult to spring from vulgar care's control,
If thy bold heart etherial health would share,
O come and bathe thee in the mountain air!
Here to thy limbs shall buoyant force be given,
And magic pinions lift thee half to heaven!
Or if the world thy breast have stricken sore,
If thou be one whom pleasure cheats no more;
Whom hard Affliction, in her iron rule,
Hath used and mock'd, her victim and her tool;
O come! for here new hopes shall fill thy breast,
And give, awhile at least, thy sorrows rest!
Not all the extracted medicine of fields,
Not all the balm that chymic science yields,
Like these fresh wilds thy malady shall serve,
Raise the sunk heart, and brace the shatter'd nerve,
Cool the hot passions, and subdue the strong,
Charm down the angry memory of wrong,
Induce the blest forgetfulness of pain,
And lift thy thoughts to new delight again.

Or, if the Muses' votary thou be,
O hither bring thy lyre of Poesy!
Let us the wond'rous heights together dare,
Far, far above yon love-conducted Pair.
This is a region worthy of thy lay,
And would that mine could loftier tribute pay!
O cast around thee thine enraptur'd glance:
This is the favour'd kingdom of Romance!
Lo, where the Monarch, in yon wild retreat,
Reclines on rocky blossom-tufted seat!
Round his bright brow, inweav'd in graceful wreath,
Bay, myrtle, laurel, Poet's cassia breathe.
Loose o'er his limbs etherial vestments flow,
In all the splendent colours of the bow.
See yon fir walls behind him bound the view;
Their darkness deepen'd by the immingling yew!
See at his feet, (wide flashing sheets of froth)
How thunders down that mighty torrent's wrath!
While, strange to view, in pendent clustering ranks,
A thousand bloomy shrubs adorn its banks,
And, fearless bending o'er the dreadful brink,
Life, freshness, fragrance, strength, and beauty drink.
The greensward waving in small sunny hills,
To verdure quicken'd by the scatter'd rills,
Smiles to the right. Arising on its rear,
Majestic rocks in boundary appear;
Unnumber'd plants those ramparts grey emboss,
And many a bulbous prominence of moss;
Spring from their fissures green and flowery braids,
And from their summits leap the glad cascades.
See, on his left, in glacial splendor stand
Yon crystal town, no work of human hand,
Returning to the sun his shower of light,
In richer streams of azure and of white,
Most exquisite irradiance! O survey
These scenes sublimely beautiful! and say,
Thy fancy, Poet, in its dreams of bliss,
Ne'er built an airy world magnificent as this.
Give then, O Poet, give thy lofty note
On the light wings of this pure air to float!
O strike thy lyre in salutation high!
And bid the Echoes, many voic'd, reply!
So shalt thou see, forth trooping at the sound,
Romance's Fairy subjects rally round!
Yea, all the Elves that people wood and brake,
That dwell in precipice, or sail on lake,
Myriads of fair though immaterial forms,
Thick as the bees of June, shall haste in swarms;
Here on their favourite Green shall join the ring,
And deftly dance before their wizard King,
Their small feet timed to thy melodious string.
Then shall that gracious sovereign unbind
The green regalia round his temples twin'd,
And on thy head the odorous garland place,
Thine art to honour, and thy brow to grace;
Shall then round Thee the Fairy nation dance,
And hail their Bard, the Laureate of Romance!
That mystic wreath shall to thy mind impart
Light; and thenceforward thine ennobled heart
Shall be the fanciful illumined cell
Where all the Muses shall consent to dwell.

How blest, among those mountains, Glenville stray'd,
Arm link'd in arm with Lourde's delightful maid!
How sweet to watch her glances! in her ear
To breathe the warm insinuant whispers dear,
That wake the timid blushes! To beguile
The timid blush into a rosy smile;
To fan the lurking tenderness of thought,
By all the flattering arts which Love has taught!
Arts, as each Lady fair remembers well,
That win on Beauty with resistless spell;
Teach Virgin's breast with strange delight to pant,
When first she listens to the soft Gallant.

Oft would it chance that in their devious way
Some torrent's bed or rock's projection lay.
Could courteous Soldier suffer gentle Fair
The toil or hazard of the pass to share?
Soft round her form his arms would Glenville curl,
And bear the half-reluctant blushing girl,
So slowly bear her, and so oft recoil,
A Stranger near had deem'd him faint with toil,
Nor guess'd the loiterer's amorous deceit,
Insidious lingering with a load so sweet.

Oft by the fervour of the day opprest,
Beneath a verdant umbrage would they rest;
Seated on some soft bank of turf at ease,
Where best they might enjoy the passing breeze.
There, as Alvine renew'd enquiry still,
Her deeply listening soul would Glenville thrill,
With many a tale of battle won and lost,
And many a strange adventure he had crost;
Relating all that might her bosom move—
Except his triumphs in the field of Love.
But still above his own, Monthermer's name
His modest story ever would proclaim;
Himself of meaner weight in merit's scale,
His friend was still the hero of the tale.
Her looks replying to the varied sense
Of what she heard, with feeling eloquence,
Her features pregnant with the living glow
Of joy for joy, and sympathy for woe,
Alvine would hear; and, as she heard, would oft
Monthermer's praise repeat in accents soft:
So warmly soft, so breathing of the heart,
So delicately artful without art,
That One than Glenville less expert to wind
Through the nice labyrinth of Woman's mind
Had guess'd, no youth the maiden ne'er beheld
Such touching strain of tenderness impell'd;
Had guess'd Monthermer bashfully supplied
A name for the Historian at her side;
Had pierc'd that veil of too translucent lawn,
O'er Love by virgin Innocency drawn.

In such soft moments, Glenville, for his friend,
As if to thank her that she deign'd commend,
Was wont her soft small hand of whiteness steal,
And with his lips the thanks of friendship seal.
If He forgot then, as he oft would do,
To loose her hand—Alvine forgot it too.

Oft would the youth his young companion press
To raise her voice amid the wilderness;
And she would sing some wild Romance of yore,
When Lourde's strong walls the siege of England bore,
When English Knights, with sword and soul of flame,
Brought war and love to Gascon Knight and Dame.
Rich were the tones those lips of freshness gave,
For Music dwelt within their coral cave;
And soft and tender did the Chanson ring,
For 'twas her heart that prompted her to sing.
Then, of the song, her too expressive eye
To Glenville oft the import would apply;
Where most in strain heroic rose the lay,
Where most in pathos sunk the sound away,
Then would the faltering voice, the mantling cheek,
Spite of restraint, her soul's emotion speak;
And then would Glenville from her flushing face
Delighted snatch a hurried fond embrace;
So hurried, her prevention it denied,
So fond, it robb'd her of the power to chide.

As thus they once, not far from Lourde remote,
Wiled on the hour to happiness devote,
With more than wonted warmth Alvine divulg'd,
By looks, the tender weakness she indulg'd.
Her breast in quicker palpitation heav'd,
And Glenville well the omen kind perceiv'd;
More bright and fast her colour came and flew,
And bold and bolder his advances grew;
He with endearment fond, and fonder prest,
She smil'd and blush'd, delighted and distrest.
So mildly, feebly, was his freedom check'd,
At last presumption triumph'd o'er respect;
And further yet its course had license held,
But virtue now the audacity repell'd.
As if by adder's fold insidious woke,
Swift from his clasp the indignant maiden broke;
Vain were his prayers, his protestations vain,
She homeward sped in unrelax'd disdain.

Then days crept slowly, burthen'd with regret,
While in the father's presence still they met,
With courtesy constrain'd. The aged chief
Observ'd his daughter's alter'd eye with grief;
His guest's excursions she no longer shared,
And he believ'd her plea of health impair'd.

Alvine, so warn'd, against beleaguering power
Now fortified her heart like Lourde's stern tower;
Her maiden fears, their rampart sound behind,
Watch'd through the many loop-holes of the mind;
Her firm resolves she arm'd in her defence,
And deem'd the Fort invincible to sense.
But ah! how impotent was all her care
While Love, the traitor, still was lurking there;
Still plied his art's inebriating charm
To cheat the sober garrison's alarm.
While too the appealing glances of her foe,
His soften'd voice so plaintive and so low,
And restless, cheerless, melancholy mien,
Working with busy influence unseen,
In concert join'd, like subtle miners all,
To sap the strong foundations of the wall.

In truth, that gentle soul could ill endure
Its first—its only passion to abjure;
Ill could she bear her lover's pleading sighs,
And worse the tears that started to his eyes;
(For even tears did Glenville sometimes shed,
In grief to think her tenderness was dead.)
Feelings than his more keen, though unavow'd,
Attack'd her heart, a mute but powerful crowd.
She too heav'd sighs, but those she strove to quell,
She too shed tears, but they in secret fell.
Oft when again to tempt her forth he tried
Her will consented, though her act denied.
One morn, by strong entreaty much assail'd,
Denial's rigorous power had nearly fail'd;
But when with firmness she refus'd at last,
So deep a look of misery he cast,
And then so wildly from her presence past,
She felt all fortitude that moment flown,
And wept to think him wretched and alone.

The sun is sinking; and, since hour of morn,
She hath not seen who left her so forlorn.
The sun has sunk; but all his glory's train
Has left, the twilight meek to entertain.
Thousands of clouds caparison the sky,
Refulgent masses of unnumber'd dye.
In every strange fantastic form they wreath,
And fling their hues o'er all the land beneath.
Ventures the gale but just enough to blow,
To waft them on majestically slow,
Volume devolves on volume, wave on wave,
One rich suffusion seems another's grave;
Now in abrupt collision bold they meet,
Now melt and mingle, singularly sweet.
Aloft in chasten'd pomp the moon appears,
Salutes the gale, and through the clouds careers;
And, as they pass alternate in review,
Bathes her cold cheek in every various hue.
Now in a shower of fretted gold she sinks;
Now, wanly seen, the browner vapour drinks;
Now through a sheet of scudding azure drives;
Now in a mass of deep vermillion dives;
Now in a fleecy stream her forehead steeps;
Now from behind a purple curtain peeps;
Now under billows of o'erfluent black
She hides all trace of her resplendent track;
Now o'er its startled edges sudden breaks,
So bright that vision with the contrast aches.
On such an eve the finer moulded breast
Feels each full sense deliciously opprest.
On such an eve affliction finds its grief
More sad, yet in that sadness is relief.
On such an eve the maid of gentle soul
Reflects on him her willing heart that stole.

On Lourde's high tower a pensive lady stands,
Where best her eye the nether view commands.
The moon is gleaming on that eye so bright,
Whose tear is sparkling like a gem of light.
From Lourde's high tower that lady now descends,
And now her way adown the mountain bends.
And who is she, so lovely and so lone?
Whom wandering Seraphs might for sister own?
Who but Alvine, the mountain floweret rare?
For where's the floweret might with her compare?
Now through the town like errant star she slides,
Now through the chesnut groves more slowly glides.
Irresolute she seems. As one astray,
She stops—looks round—returns—pursues her way.
And whither? That Alvine's own heart has ask'd,
Yet from itself the truth too plain has mask'd.
“Such charming robes the evening landscape wears,
“The western gale such wooing message bears,
“That she will ramble forth the air to taste,
“Far, far too odorous uninhal'd to waste.”
Fond sophistry! and is this all, Alvine,
That tempts thy timid footsteps through the green?
Does no soft thought, too dangerously sweet,
Seduce thee on, a much-loved youth to meet?
Whose distant form on Gave's romantic side,
From yonder tower thy pensive eye espied?
There was a time, till late, alas, beguiled,
When rural nature own'd thee for her child.
Then sylvan graces charm'd thee, young Alvine,
Thyself the purer Dian of the scene.
A Dian flying from the gaze of men,
But ah! no Glenville gaz'd upon thee then!

They met. How quick the alchymy and strange
By which can Love the hearts of lovers change.
They met, and anger straight dissolv'd away,
Like convoluted mist before the day,
And Love at once resumed more arbitrary sway.
The moonlight bland interpreted for each
Their looks commutual harmony of speech;
And never, or by day or moonlight walk,
Held they before such soul-subduing talk.

By windings intricate, where path was not,
They chanc'd to gain a rude sequester'd spot,
Which seem'd design'd, in nature's grave caprice,
To be the eternal residence of peace;
Where hermit Solitude his vow might keep,
And Silence, lull'd by lapsing waters, sleep.
A small deep glen it was, by rocks immur'd,
Down whose rough bosoms rills of crystal pour'd,
And which around fantastically hurl'd,
Appear'd resolv'd to shut it from the world.
Was never seen, in near or distant place,
More true epitome of rural grace
Than in this little solitary space.
Wild flowers beneath, so lavish of perfumes,
Fruit-trees aloft, so prodigal of blooms!
Twisting their branches with the shrubs that sprung
Thick from the rocks, and all imbowering hung.
The lovers fancied, as they look'd around,
Their feet unhallow'd trod forbidden bound,
It look'd by moonlight so like fairy ground.
That fancy past, a new reflection came,
More dangerous far, to thrill each glowing frame.
They were alone. In all the spacious globe,
Was not a human eye their deeds to probe.
It seem'd as universal nature slept,
And not a thing but them its vigil kept,
Save the loquacious waters, and, above,
Sole confident and priestess of their love,
Yon heart-addressing moon, whose look, so lorn,
Seem'd her own vestal loneliness to mourn.
Their thoughts, too full of pleasing melting pain,
Their slowly meeting eyes too well explain.

Ah! turn away, young Beauty, turn away
That tender deep blue eye's delicious ray!
That self-betraying loveliness conceal,
Veil those inviting lips, those features veil,
That neck, those hands, those arms, that form, that air,
O veil those flowing wreaths of hazel hair!
If peace, if virtue, to thy soul be dear,
Fly, fly, Alvine: the bane of each is here!

They sat them down, beside the plaining brook,
Upon that lone and lovely moon to look.
They sat them down, but not an accent fell;
Their hearts were full of what they durst not tell.
Her hand he took in his caressing hand;
So softly too! that how could she withstand?
He prest her hand; she turn'd her head aside—
Too warm a blush, too soft a tear to hide.
Again he prest it, and its pulse beat high—
And it return'd a tremulous reply.
Wild roses budded round—he pluck'd a stem
That scarce display'd its crimson diadem.
He held it forth—she fix'd on him her eye—
A faint smile follow'd that—and then a sigh.
She took the flower—and plac'd it in her breast;
She felt its thorn, yet suffer'd it to rest.
His glowing cheek he laid against her cheek;
She strove to chide, her tongue refused to speak.
He printed on her fragrant lips a kiss;
She felt the shame—and felt, alas, the bliss.
He clasp'd her to his heart—she feebly strove—
O guard, Alvine, that sanctuary of love!
O guard the treasure in that spotless breast!
The rose he gave—shall that be rudely prest?
And thou, Insensate! will thou then destroy
Thine own fair flower of innocence and joy?
Ah stay! ere yet the rose of beauty falls!
Ah stay—But hark! is 't heaven or hell that calls?
Whence comes that dreadful noise the earth to tear?
Why, ev'n the rocks and mountains roar—Forbear!
Sure the Omnipotent Himself hath sent
His voice, the profanation to prevent!
Again—again—harsh clashes peal on peal—
O who would feel what now those lovers feel!
Back Glenville springs, as with electric start,
Convulsive tremour striking on his heart.
Alvine is wildly shuddering—and now
The cold slow dews of death are on her brow—
Her lips are white—her pulse has ceas'd to beat—
Her eyes are fix'd—she sinks a lifeless weight.—
Forgot his very being's breathing sense,
Some stupid moments of a wild suspense
Bends Glenville o'er her—then to madness stung,
And with the strength of desperation strung,
That form of death he snatches to his arms—
(Ah! where are now the soul-respiring charms!)
O'er crag, ravine, and brake, he runs, he flies—
Roar, thunders! roar! your rage he now defies!
Though to his conscious soul your voice declares:
Lo, where the traitor his own victim bears!
Near and more near as tow'rds the fort he bounds,
Loud and more loud the bellowing din resounds;
Yet hath he now no eye, no thought, to mark
'Tis cannon firing from yon ramparts dark—
Yet less to note the white flag waving high,
And shining in the moon triumphantly.
He rushes on—he gains the town—the street—
There fifes are loud, and drums tumultuous beat!
There under arms, in glittering display,
The marshal'd garrison crowds all the way!
Monthermer too is there! he sees him not—
He rushes on—he only sees the spot
Where stands the Sire directing the parade—
Prone at his feet he lays the lifeless maid!
His bigswoln heart, that frantic effort o'er,
Seems bursting—agony's at every pore—
Obstruction chokes him, like a fiend's embrace—
A purple blackness is on all his face—
He totters and drops down—O Heaven, reprieve!
What aid, as lightning swift, may now relieve?
“Haste, surgeon, haste!” Monthermer raving cries,
“Haste, ere the brave, the noble Glenville dies!”
The summons is obey'd—Alvine he quits,
Whose pulse now answers by uncertain fits.
One only chance for Glenville's life remains—
Of either hand he quickly wounds the veins,
And forth the blood shoots gushing—thus prepared,
Now to the lancet both his arms are bared.—
O look one moment on this scene of dread!
Here is Alvine,—slow wak'ning from the dead—
Here Glenville—weltering in a sanguine flood—
A horrid prodigality of blood.
There kneels the Sire, with doubt and torment wild—
Now o'er his guest he hangs, and now his child—
Monthermer breathless over Glenville stoops—
About them closed, in anxious leaning groups,
All speechless, stand the leaders of the troops—
The troops alone in line rest motionless;
The people gathering round, with torches press—
The torches and the moon's commingling beam
Wide o'er the scene a flickering lustre stream,
And shew, more ghastly by their rival light,
Each face of wonder, pity, and affright.—
Alvine is now half rising from the ground—
How fearfully her eyeballs roll around!
And Glenville into life is writhing too—
Up springs the Sire transported at the view—
His arms high rais'd, he pays the homage ow'd
Of warm acknowledgment to mercy's God!
But lo! her eyes are fixt—on whom? on what?
Why! what a look of agony is that!
What savage demon rous'd her to explore
That scene? that figure weltering in its gore—
Her father too, exalted o'er the youth,
With sword to heaven uplifted!—O the truth
Darts in its fullest horrour on her brain—
There lies her Lover by her Father slain!
Ah, what a shrilling harrowing shriek was there?
She sinks again, the martyr of despair.—
And would that pitying Heaven her soul might take,
And give her never more on earth to wake!
But no—again she breathes—her strength returns—
Her eye's on fire—her cheek with crimson burns—
What does this frightful burst of laughter mean?—
Is this the fair, the soft, the fond Alvine!
What words are those? O bear the maniac hence!—
Let not her Glenville, whose returning sense
Now struggles into life, or see or hear—
A sight, a sound of anguish so severe.