 | The bridal of Vaumond |  |
108
II.
Darkness, ruin, now surround;Tottering in that fearful stound,
On a trembling mass that hung
O'er that gulf of horror swung,
Down the knight his knee hath bent—
I will not say but his cheek was blent
With terror's ashen hue,
While the hoarse voice of earth was roaring,
And her secret chambers' depths exploring,
Round him the masses flew—
Ever leaving that frail stone
That now bears his frame alone,
Tottering to its destin'd wreck!
Pale was then the warrior's cheek—
But in his heart devotion glow'd
As his lips it taught to pray
To the holy mother of our God
And to Saint Agatha.
| The bridal of Vaumond | |