Tales of Terror :: :: University of Virginia Library

Why tarries yon palmer? why haunts he that shrine?
The monks have retired, and the bell hath told nine!
The wind through the cloister howls dismal and drear,
His prayers are in secret, no gazer is near!

Now riddle me quickly, and riddle me right,
In penance and prayer will he waste the long night?
Full oft from the shrine a side glance doth he cast,
And he listens and starts at each gust of the blast!

But hear'st thou a footstep move swift through the aisle?
The faint echoes die in the lengthening pile!
He raises his head, and looks anxiously round,
And his eye brightens glad, as grows nearer the sound.

O'er the pavement treads softly a female in white!
The aisles they are many, and dark frowns the night!
She careful each turn and each winding explores,
Oft she kisses her cross, and the Virgin implores!

See! he raises his knee, and all eager he stands,
Soft he breathes forth a name, and outstretches his hands;
See! she flies to his arms, she has sunk on his breast,
In half-stifled whispers their joy is express'd.

By their tears and embraces their love's now reveal'd,
—“Oh! thanks to the night which my passage conceal'd!”—
She pants on his bosom, and faintly is heard,
—“Oh! thanks to my pilgrim, so true to his word!”—

—“Dear maid check your transports,” now softly he spoke,
“I have brought from Valencia a palmer's grey cloak;

“A brown beard for your face, and a staff for your hand,
“Thus disguised you may safely escape through the land!

“At dawn-light we'll haste from this dreary old pile,
“Till the morn we lie hid in the gloom of the aisle;
“Our signal for flight, when the dull matin bells
“To prayer calls the fathers and nuns from their cells.”—

—“My heart now misgives me, how awful this gloom!
“My parents sleep near in yon dark vaulted tomb!
“Ah! where bides my brother so fierce and severe,
“Who, to blight our attachment, has buried me here?

“When he made me a nun, oft his friends would he tell,
“That Love's flow'ret would wither in solitude's cell;
“But my heart is so warm, and my tears flow'd so fast,
“That I've nourish'd the bud till all danger is past.”—

—“Oh! cheer up, sweet maid, you no longer need fear
“The threats of your brother, so harsh and severe;
“Full lately I've seen him, his hate it is o'er,
“And his wrath will oppose our fond wishes no more.”—

Her eye flashes rapture, a tear wets her cheeks,
As these tidings so joyous her lover he speaks;
O'er her bosom the palmer's grey cloak does he fold,
For through the dark aisles the keen night-air blows cold.

Each object, each sound, breathes a soul-numbing fear,
All amid the lone tomb-stones and cloisters so drear;
And, though lock'd in her love's warm embraces the maid,
She feels a cold horror her bosom invade!

The clock now struck midnight, with thundering sound,
Echo roars through the high Gothic arches around;
Why tremble the lovers? deep tolls a death-bell!
Terror speaks in the note of the heart-chilling knell!

New dangers surround them, new horrors arise,
Tears of agony pour from pale Leonore's eyes;
Still deeper and deeper the peal strikes the ear,
And faint torches afar 'mongst the cloisters appear!

—“Oh! hear'st thou, my Carlos, the dismal death-bell!
“And seest thou yon torches the darkness dispel?

“Hark! the monks' chaunting voices to Heaven aspire!
“The music grows stronger, they lead to the choir!”—

—“Haste, conceal thee, my love, in yon pillar's black shade,
“I'll lie hid near the tomb where your parents are laid!”—
—“Oh! my eye-sight is dazzled, my heart sinks with fear,
“See! the fathers approach with a corse on the bier!”—

DIRGE.

—“O, Source of life! whose power bestows
“The strength that nerves the arm of truth;
“Who givest to age its lingering woes,
“And check'st the ardent course of youth,

“The veil from murderous guilt remove,
“Let earthly justice seal his doom;
“Then he thy righteous wrath shall prove,
“The vengeance of the world to come!”—

Now pauses the requiem: the deep organ's breath
Breaks the silence of night with the mournings of death;

A shriek of despair soon bursts sad on the ear,
And see! Leonore frantic approaches the bier.

“Speak! speak! cruel fathers! oh! grant this request!
“Who stabb'd the sharp sword in my brother's pale breast?
“Ah! how cold is his hand, and how dim is his eye!
“Now my heart it is steel'd, I your vengeance defy!

“But, oh! tell me, old Bertrand, thou vassal so true!
“Where fell your loved lord, the foul deed didst thou view?”—
—“Yester eve through the forest, fair lady, he rode,
“And a black-mask'd assassin he met in the wood.”—

She has fall'n on his bosom, she kisses the wound,
Her groans and her shrieks through the chancel resound;
—“Oh! Heaven arrest the foul murderer's flight,
“And drag, from concealment, the villain to light!”—

Straight the glare of red lightning disperses the gloom,
Her father's pale statue now points from the tomb;
And the voice of the grave from its lips meets the ear,
—“Draw the faulchion of Justice! the murderer is here!”—

The monks in amazement now rush through the shade,
Pale Leonore, shuddering, their passage survey'd;
Despair lights her eye-balls, unmoisten'd by tears,
When her brother's assassin in Carlos appears!

His footsteps they faulter'd, his features were wild,
He turn'd from the corse in its dark blood defiled;
With an agonized glance the wan maiden he view'd,
While the cold damps of horror his forehead bedew'd.

—“Oh! speak, injured virgin, thy curse I demand,
“The sword is unsheath'd, and why lingers thy hand?
“I have proved what keen torments strong passions impart,
“Then silence these scorpions that rage in my heart!

“What brought me this night to Saint Ursula's shrine?
“Love urged me, Love whisper'd, Make Leonore thine!
“What mark'd in thy brother my deadliest foe?
“Revenge raised the poniard, and pointed the blow!”—

The maid answers nothing, her closed eye-lids prove,
That her spirit is fled to the regions above;
On her brother's pale bosom she sigh'd forth her breath,
And the cause that divided, unites them in death.

No longer can Carlos love's impulse withstand,
He bursts from the monks, and he seizes her hand;
When he feels it dead-cold, all dismay'd does he start,
And ere force can prevent, his blade reaches his heart.

—“The anguish of guilt, and the pang of despair,
“The ling'ring of justice, my soul cannot bear;
“The impatience of madness has prompted the blow,
“For love turns to madness when goaded by woe.”—

At the feet of his mistress he groan'd forth his soul,
Now the heralds of Death, the deep abbey bells toll;
The monks try each balm and each balsam in vain,—
Then their voices renew the sad funeral strain!