The Ingoldsby Legends or, Mirth and Marvels. By Thomas Ingoldsby [i.e. R. H. Barham] |
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 | The Ingoldsby Legends |  |
222
Within that cell, so dark and deep,
Lies One, as in a tranquil sleep,
A sight to make the sternest weep!—
—That little heart is pulseless now,
And cold that fair and open brow,
And closed that eye that beam'd with joy
And hope—“Oh, God! my Boy!—my Boy!”
Lies One, as in a tranquil sleep,
A sight to make the sternest weep!—
—That little heart is pulseless now,
And cold that fair and open brow,
And closed that eye that beam'd with joy
And hope—“Oh, God! my Boy!—my Boy!”
Enough!—I may not,—dare not,—show
The wretched Father's frantic woe,
The Mother's tearless, speechless—No!
I may not such a theme essay—
Too bitter thoughts crowd in and stay
My pen—sad memory will have way!
Enough !—at once I close the lay,
Of fair Maud's fatal Wedding-day!
The wretched Father's frantic woe,
The Mother's tearless, speechless—No!
I may not such a theme essay—
Too bitter thoughts crowd in and stay
My pen—sad memory will have way!
Enough !—at once I close the lay,
Of fair Maud's fatal Wedding-day!
It has a mournful sound,
That single, solemn Bell!
As to the hills and woods around,
It flings its deep-toned knell;
That measured toll!—alone—apart,
It strikes upon the human heart!
—It has a mournful sound!—
That single, solemn Bell!
As to the hills and woods around,
It flings its deep-toned knell;
That measured toll!—alone—apart,
It strikes upon the human heart!
—It has a mournful sound!—
| The Ingoldsby Legends | |