England :: :: University of Virginia Library

------ Whence is that knocking?
How is't with me, when every noise appals me?
What hands are here? Ha! they pluck out mine eyes!
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No; this hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnardine.
—Macbeth.

Love is omnipotent to blight or save—
To lift the soul, or sink it in the mire.
Now bright as sea-bird, skimming o'er the wave—
Now frowning as the storm-cloud, in its ire—
Now clad in darkness, and now robed in fire.
Its brow is wet with dews from seraph's wing,
And fed with music from a seraph's lyre;
Yea, angels, sent from heaven, do come and sing
Within its chamber'd ear, and round its clear robes cling.

Hark! how the clarion rings along the ground!
Hark! how the haughty charger neighs afar!
And how loud cheers send forth their stormy sound!
A thousand banners flout the adoring air—
A thousand swords, and spears, and helmets, glare;
And hark! from out that tent, all snowy white,
And glittering in the sun-light, fresh and fair,

Break forth high merriment, and fresh delight:
A hundred chieftains quaff the wine-cup, ruby bright.

Hush! hush!—and who is she—that stately form?
The Danish falcon slumbers in that eye,
Where, spite of love's sweet sunshine, broods a storm!
Yet, is she beautiful, and calm, and high.
Barbaric pearls amid her dark locks lie;
Silks, won from tropic seas, her limbs adorn,
And scarce conceal their queenly majesty.
She seems a shape new waken'd from the morn—
A heavenly spirit she, in heavenly regions born.

O, but she is indeed exceeding fair!—
Those eyes imperial—that lofty brow—
The sunlit splendour of that burnish'd hair—
That neck, and gorgeous bosom, beating low—
Those parted lips, and cheek of evening's glow.
She might have made a savage monarch's bride,
And trod the deserts with his spear and bow:
The tiger would have crouched at her side,
And the rude nations knelt, to see her move in pride.

Alas! that on the splendour of such light
The midnight cloud and tempest soon shall rest;
That what doth seem so pure, and glad, and bright,
With smouldering fires shall be so much opprest;
That death is grinning 'neath that snow-white breast!
And now each chieftain rises from his seat,

And to the maiden, reverent, dons his crest:
Then knelt the lady at her monarch's feet,
Bearing the golden cup: and thus she spake most sweet:—

“Be of good cheer, lord king.” “The same to thee,”
Spake Vortigern—“the same, celestial maid.”
And he, whose stubborn heart long wander'd free,
At Cupid's feet was now in bondage laid:
Who, from such lovely shape, and so array'd,
Might e'er his love restrain? The chain of fire
Was o'er him: eyes that could the world persuade.
And now Rowena walks in bride's attire,
And thousands shout for joy, as king and queen retire.

And thousands shout for joy:—oh, treachery
Most foul!—oh, cold and cruel-hearted Dane!
The white moon, wandering nun-like o'er the sky—
The white stars and blue heavens, that bore no stain,
Gaz'd down upon their bridal bed in vain:
The heart of passion beat not on that night:
Love flapp'd his wings against the window pane
In grief, and wept—and sheath'd his arrows bright;
And murder shriek'd aloud, with terror and affright.

Not unreveng'd!—Woman, by day and night
Remorse shall haunt thee still, in every place;
The murder'd ghost shall shriek with voice of might,
Glare on thy eye-balls, creep along thy face;
Thy brain shall feel the red blood's fiery trace!
Bed, board, and bower, shall view it on the air.

Around thy foot-prints horrid fiends will race:
The healing hand of time shall not repair
The savage deed: thy soul shall rest not anywhere!

Thou shalt not slumber at a lover's breast;
The clay-cold fingers even shall reach thee there:
Where'er thy feet shall move—thy forehead rest,
Still shall the phantom haunt thee everywhere:
'Twill spoil thy food, and every aspect fair;
'Twill mingle with thy life—thy every deed,
And be thy constant guest, and, smiling fair;
Mock thee, and vex thee, and in greatest need
No soul shall soothe thy pangs—bear up the broken reed.

Even from the heavens, where angels have their home—
Even from the vaults of hell, the murder'd go;
And, in night's silent watches, earthward, roam
The cavern'd hollows of the mountain's brow—
The rocky caves, beneath the ocean's flow:
Nor desert wilds, nor the untrodden pole,
Can shield the murderer from his constant foe:—
Swift as the storm—strong as the billow's roll,
Remorse and conscience hunt the murderer's sleepless soul.