The bridal of Vaumond A Metrical Romance |
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The bridal of Vaumond | ||
XII.
My idly measur'd prose must hieRight onward in my tale—
And on the chief's uncertainty,
Tumultuous, may not dwell.
Suffice it, he no more might mark
One glimmering, through that cavern dark;
His narrow prison-house, the care
That bore him from his castle there
Had stor'd with oil, within his view,
His waning taper to renew.
And ever at the midnight tide
His food a hand unseen supplied;
From the central rock above a chain
Let down his daily store,
But voice or tread of man again
Heard Lodowick no more.
The bridal of Vaumond | ||