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 | The heir of the world, and lesser poems |  |
'Tis morn upon the Alleganean heights,
And bright its earliest rays flash o'er the arms
Of conquering troops descending; loud and high
The trumpet wakes the echoes of the cliffs,
And o'er their proud array the banner waves
Of freedom and of glory. In the front
Careers a noble horseman, and a joy,
Beyond e'en battle's rapture, from his eyes
Flashes exulting as he looks below.
“'Tis the gray mist that baffles me,” he said,
As turning from the view, a sad, sick smile
Mocked secret apprehension. Now they reach
The lowest hill, and there he turns to gaze.
“I cannot see the cottage!” how his heart
Beat in its strong convulsions, as the hopes,
Long cherished, of this hour turned to despair!
In weariness and pain, in midnight watch,
And midday battle, he had looked to this—
This hour of recompense—and fondly thought
That Agnes' smile would change all wo to bliss.
He gazed as if his soul were perishing,
But the dark woods frowned in their loneliness—
No blue smoke rose—no sound of life was heard;
All—all was still and lone. How his heart shrunk
And trembled! but De Grammont hurried on,
As if his spirit fled from its own fears.
And he has gained the cottage—or the place
Where it once stood; there black and bloody ashes,
And cindered bones, and broken brands and prints
Of the assassins' footsteps gave dread note
Of the past horror. With a frenzied glare
Of agony unutterable he gazed,
And wild convulsions shook his heart; then wrath,
Deep, burning wrath, like lightning, from his eyes
Flashed balefully, and from his quivering lips
Thundered in awful accents—“Vengeance!” all
Lifted their voices in a blast of sound,
And uttered—“Vengeance!” Allegany heard
And through its wildest fastnesses and clefts
Pealed—“Vengeance! Vengeance!”
And bright its earliest rays flash o'er the arms
Of conquering troops descending; loud and high
The trumpet wakes the echoes of the cliffs,
And o'er their proud array the banner waves
Of freedom and of glory. In the front
Careers a noble horseman, and a joy,
Beyond e'en battle's rapture, from his eyes
Flashes exulting as he looks below.
“'Tis the gray mist that baffles me,” he said,
As turning from the view, a sad, sick smile
Mocked secret apprehension. Now they reach
The lowest hill, and there he turns to gaze.
“I cannot see the cottage!” how his heart
Beat in its strong convulsions, as the hopes,
Long cherished, of this hour turned to despair!
In weariness and pain, in midnight watch,
And midday battle, he had looked to this—
This hour of recompense—and fondly thought
That Agnes' smile would change all wo to bliss.
He gazed as if his soul were perishing,
But the dark woods frowned in their loneliness—
No blue smoke rose—no sound of life was heard;
All—all was still and lone. How his heart shrunk
And trembled! but De Grammont hurried on,
As if his spirit fled from its own fears.
And he has gained the cottage—or the place
Where it once stood; there black and bloody ashes,
120
Of the assassins' footsteps gave dread note
Of the past horror. With a frenzied glare
Of agony unutterable he gazed,
And wild convulsions shook his heart; then wrath,
Deep, burning wrath, like lightning, from his eyes
Flashed balefully, and from his quivering lips
Thundered in awful accents—“Vengeance!” all
Lifted their voices in a blast of sound,
And uttered—“Vengeance!” Allegany heard
And through its wildest fastnesses and clefts
Pealed—“Vengeance! Vengeance!”
Long the close pursuit,
And patient, ere De Grammont's soul had rest.
Thrice in his heart's deep core his recking blade
De Grammont buried, and a fearful smile,
The last that ever lit his features, came,
Like midnight lightning o'er an open grave,
Over his face; then forth he went and fought
His country's battles with a desperate wrath,
That kept his soul from madness, and achieved
Immortal deeds, which on the hero brought
Praises and honours manifold; but he
Recked not of them; 'twas Agnes that inspired
The warrior's daring, and his heart knew not
A moment's rest, till 'neath the ruin's dust
And ashes, brave De Grammont slept in death!
And patient, ere De Grammont's soul had rest.
Thrice in his heart's deep core his recking blade
De Grammont buried, and a fearful smile,
The last that ever lit his features, came,
Like midnight lightning o'er an open grave,
Over his face; then forth he went and fought
His country's battles with a desperate wrath,
That kept his soul from madness, and achieved
Immortal deeds, which on the hero brought
Praises and honours manifold; but he
Recked not of them; 'twas Agnes that inspired
The warrior's daring, and his heart knew not
A moment's rest, till 'neath the ruin's dust
And ashes, brave De Grammont slept in death!
| The heir of the world, and lesser poems | |