 | Landscapes in verse |  |
Ev'n in this self-same spot, (by memory hung
With deepest glooms)—this melancholy spot—
Now many a variegated year elaps'd,
On autumn's verge and at the evening hour,
Such were the accents bursting on my ear,
As from a void—for no apparent form
Th'astonish'd eye that search'd the scene around
Could trace—“O frail mortality!”
The breeze resum'd, in repetition strong,
Distinct and aweful—“Frail mortality!”
Re-echo'd thro' the hollow of the grove,
That grove, of late so redolent of bliss,
Whisp'ring the voice of love.—At length I saw,
From the surrounding foliage rushing forth
Into the darkest path, a sable form
In mourning garments—his disorder'd locks
Half veil'd his visage—vehement and loud,
Temperate and sad, by turns, he wept, or rav'd;
Ev'n as some ghost had burst th'unquiet vault
Haunting the murderer. Oft he quicker strode,
Spurning the ground; and as he swept along
Would rend th'opposing branches—lash the air
With the torn boughs, then throw them as in scorn
Upon the sounding earth—then raise his arms—
Then clench his hands in horror; till his grief,
Like some vast bed of waters, fathomless,
Flow'd silent, in the depths of agony
For clamour too profound:—'Twas dumb despair.
Anon the passing bell with sullen tone
Knoll'd thro' the firs:—the falling shades of night
Began to thicken round:—the swelling winds
Bore the dead notes upon their viewless wings
Piercing the man of sorrow, who aghast
Broke short his step, and, as by light'ning smote,
Stood fix'd, with palms uplifted:—with soft voice
I spake—he heard not—with a gentle step
I cross'd his path—his eyes were bent on heav'n:—
He saw me not—his vision was above!—
And next appear'd, winding th'eventful avenue,
Nearest the church-way, a sepulchral train
Amidst the torches light; which to the view
Disclos'd a coffin, whose deep-folded pall
Six weeping damsels held, while six sad youths
Beneath, in sable robes, their burthen bent,
Noting the funeral of some gentle maid,
Like the sweet snow-drop, earliest child of spring,
By the first gale, untimely swept away.
The man of sorrow saw, and shudd'ring fell.
Ev'n at the bare foot of yon aged tree,
The wither'd monument that marks the scene.
The stranger lay, cold as the corpse he mourn'd,
That corpse so lov'd, so honour'd, so deplor'd!
With deepest glooms)—this melancholy spot—
30
On autumn's verge and at the evening hour,
Such were the accents bursting on my ear,
As from a void—for no apparent form
Th'astonish'd eye that search'd the scene around
Could trace—“O frail mortality!”
The breeze resum'd, in repetition strong,
Distinct and aweful—“Frail mortality!”
Re-echo'd thro' the hollow of the grove,
That grove, of late so redolent of bliss,
Whisp'ring the voice of love.—At length I saw,
From the surrounding foliage rushing forth
Into the darkest path, a sable form
In mourning garments—his disorder'd locks
Half veil'd his visage—vehement and loud,
31
Ev'n as some ghost had burst th'unquiet vault
Haunting the murderer. Oft he quicker strode,
Spurning the ground; and as he swept along
Would rend th'opposing branches—lash the air
With the torn boughs, then throw them as in scorn
Upon the sounding earth—then raise his arms—
Then clench his hands in horror; till his grief,
Like some vast bed of waters, fathomless,
Flow'd silent, in the depths of agony
For clamour too profound:—'Twas dumb despair.
Anon the passing bell with sullen tone
Knoll'd thro' the firs:—the falling shades of night
Began to thicken round:—the swelling winds
Bore the dead notes upon their viewless wings
32
Broke short his step, and, as by light'ning smote,
Stood fix'd, with palms uplifted:—with soft voice
I spake—he heard not—with a gentle step
I cross'd his path—his eyes were bent on heav'n:—
He saw me not—his vision was above!—
And next appear'd, winding th'eventful avenue,
Nearest the church-way, a sepulchral train
Amidst the torches light; which to the view
Disclos'd a coffin, whose deep-folded pall
Six weeping damsels held, while six sad youths
Beneath, in sable robes, their burthen bent,
Noting the funeral of some gentle maid,
Like the sweet snow-drop, earliest child of spring,
By the first gale, untimely swept away.
33
Ev'n at the bare foot of yon aged tree,
The wither'd monument that marks the scene.
The stranger lay, cold as the corpse he mourn'd,
That corpse so lov'd, so honour'd, so deplor'd!
| Landscapes in verse | |