 | Redwald |  |
Oh! faithless sleep! too like the world, unkind,
Thou giv'st no comfort to the tortur'd mind,
The long—long night of solitude and woe
Thou wilt not let the wretched suff'rer know
The balm thou can'st so freely yield to those
Who tir'd with happiness seek thy repose!
Vainly did Edith close her tearful eyes
Before her sight would fearful visions rise,
Then would she start, and 'midst the stillness round
Hear the deep bell, with sad and hollow sound,
Proclaim each passing hour;—the time was near
When shadowy morning's earliest tints appear,
Ere pitying slumber would its pow'r bestow,
And yield a blest forgetfulness of woe.
Not her's the only eye that did not close—
Not her's alone the soul o'ercome with woes!
Can love unrecompens'd in calmness rest,
And flies not slumber from the guilty breast?
Redwald that fatal night severely felt
That with the guilty peace has never dwelt;
Stern, restless, conscience every deed recals,
And the sad mind with madd'ning thought appals!
He could not—dar'd not—still in Mona stay,
Fear'd e'en to linger till returning day;
His servants, ready at the hasty word,
In silence wonder'd, yet obey'd their lord,
And ere the morning streak'd the sky with gold
'Twixt him and Edith Ocean's billows roll'd!
Thou giv'st no comfort to the tortur'd mind,
The long—long night of solitude and woe
Thou wilt not let the wretched suff'rer know
The balm thou can'st so freely yield to those
Who tir'd with happiness seek thy repose!
Vainly did Edith close her tearful eyes
Before her sight would fearful visions rise,
30
Hear the deep bell, with sad and hollow sound,
Proclaim each passing hour;—the time was near
When shadowy morning's earliest tints appear,
Ere pitying slumber would its pow'r bestow,
And yield a blest forgetfulness of woe.
Not her's the only eye that did not close—
Not her's alone the soul o'ercome with woes!
Can love unrecompens'd in calmness rest,
And flies not slumber from the guilty breast?
Redwald that fatal night severely felt
That with the guilty peace has never dwelt;
Stern, restless, conscience every deed recals,
And the sad mind with madd'ning thought appals!
He could not—dar'd not—still in Mona stay,
Fear'd e'en to linger till returning day;
His servants, ready at the hasty word,
In silence wonder'd, yet obey'd their lord,
And ere the morning streak'd the sky with gold
'Twixt him and Edith Ocean's billows roll'd!
| Redwald | |