Tales of Terror :: :: University of Virginia Library

Stupida, e fissa nell' incerta sabbia,
Coi cappelli disciolte, e rabbuffati,
Con le man giunte, e con immote labbia,
I languidi occhi al ciel tenea levati,
Come accusando il gran Motor, che l'abbia
Tutti inclinati nel suo damno i fati;
Immota e come attonita stè alquanto,
Poi sciolse al duol la lingua e gli occhi al pianto.
Tasso.

—“What notes faintly borne in the whispering gale,
“On Midnight's black pinion sad echoing sail?
“For whom tolls the deep-sounding bell?
“Why move the slow monks through the cloisters' thick gloom?
“Whose corse do they bear to the deep vaulted tomb?
“For whose soul do the requiems swell?

“And why do the nuns the sweet violets strew,
“More wet with their tears than the night's chilling dew?
“Why join they the funeral train?”—
—“Oh! list, and I'll tell you a story of woe,
“Which will urge the big drop of compassion to flow,
“And bind you in Sympathy's chain.

“Where yon moon-silver'd battlements frown o'er the glade,
“Near which the dark pines throw their wide-spreading shade,
“And sigh in the murmuring wind,
“Fair Adela dwelt;—for her mind's matchless grace,
“And the beauty that dawn'd in her heavenly face,
“In anguish young Theodore pined:

“He pined, but the maiden regarded his sighs,
“Responsive affection illumined her eyes,
“Nor to conquer the passion she strove;
“But a parent's harsh mandate compell'd them to part,
“Dissever'd the link which united each heart,
“And blighted the flow'ret of love.

“St. Aubin, the sire of the love-stricken maid,
“Forbad her to wed, she with anguish obey'd,
“And pour'd out in silence her woe;
“Still revenge rankled deep in her stern father's breast,
“By the Virgin he vow'd that he'd never know rest
“Till he'd laid the cursed Theodore low!

“But the youth from St. Aubin's malignity fled,
“Through a deep tangled forest's wild mazes he sped,
“While his soul bitter agony felt,
“From a convent, hard by, toll'd the evening bell,
“When he gain'd, all exhausted, a moss-cover'd cell,
“Where whilom an Anchorite dwelt!

“With his chaplet and beads, in an hermit's array,
“Here shut from the world, to keen sorrow a prey,
“His journey the wanderer closed!
“Well known to the traveller was Theodore's gate,
“When the loud-roaring tempest refused to abate,
“Here the way-weary pilgrim reposed!

“One night it was stormy, the blast howl'd amain,
“Through the thick bowering leaves dripp'd the pattering rain,
“And increas'd the swoll'n rivulet's tide;

“When, half lost in the wind that hoarse-muttering roar'd,
“A voice in sad accents for shelter implored,
“Nor was the petition denied.

“Enwrapt in a cloak a lone stranger appear'd,
“All silver'd by time was his long flowing beard,
“In silence he enter'd the cell;
“How officiously Theodore trimm'd up the fire,
“He wrung the wet drops from his rain-drench'd attire,
“And strove his deep gloom to dispel.—

“But the hermit in vain his scant viands display'd,
“The looks of the stranger his bosom dismay'd,
“For his features in sadness were dress'd;
“His mind was entranced in reflection profound,
“His eyes were in sullenness fix'd on the ground,
“And his soul's inward workings confess'd.

“‘Ah! alas!’ cried the hermit, ‘my means can afford,
“‘No high-mantling wine to enliven the board,
“‘In my fare simple plainness you find.’”—

“‘Here, drink!’ quoth the stranger, ‘this flagon behold!
“‘'Twill expel from your bosom the night's piercing cold,
“‘And your sorrow-thrall'd spirits unbind!’

“But Theodore scarce had with gratitude quaff'd,
“From the stranger's full flasket, the soul-cheering draught,
“When arose, grimly smiling, the guest;
“All changed were his features, and alter'd his mien,
“In his bright sparkling eyes exultation was seen,
“Then thus he the hermit address'd:—

“‘Dost thou know me, vile caitiff? or hath this disguise
“‘So enveloped my form as to baffle your eyes?
“‘The injured St. Aubin behold!
“‘Of a sure subtle poison the life-chilling force
“‘Now lurks in thy veins; ere the dawn thy wan corse
“‘Death's cold icy grasp shall enfold!

“‘Full gorged with revenge, now I sated depart,
“‘Yet know that the fair, who enslaved thy proud heart,
“‘In yon abbey's drear solitude pines.

“‘On the bier when to-morrow you breathless are laid,
“‘Forgetting her love and her lover, the maid
“‘Her hand to La Mauron resigns!’

“Revengefully scowling, he rush'd from the cell;
“With what pangs did the bosom of Theodore swell
“When St. Aubin's last words met his ear.
“With composure the horrors of death could he view,
“But his rival exulting! his mistress untrue!
“In his breast roused the storm of despair!

“But now he remember'd the hour it was near,
“When at Heaven's tribunal his soul must appear,
“Yet no terror the hermit betray'd.
“In his features the calm of devotion he wore,
“Low he bent to the cross, and his beads counted o'er,
“To the Virgin while fervent he pray'd.

“Soon his countenance alter'd, his looks they were wild,
“For sudden a voice his attention beguiled,
“To him were its accents address'd;
“But what words can his soul's thrilling extacy tell,
“When a maiden so lovely rush'd into his cell,
“And Adela sunk on his breast!

“‘Oh! my love,’ she exclaim'd, ‘from yon convent I've fled,
“‘Or a parent had forced me thy rival to wed,
“‘But I vow'd for my true love to die;
“‘Oh! haste thee, my Theodore, haste thee away!
“‘My escape will be known at the dawning of day,
“‘'Tis Adela begs thee to fly!’

“She spoke: but his features distraction express'd,
“While her hand in his own he in agony press'd,
“And drew with quick heavings his breath.
“With his mist-clouded eyes still her form did he view,
“While his tremulous lips faintly quiver'd ‘adieu,’
“Then closed were for ever in death!

“But, O God! what a pang rent poor Adela's heart!
“All frantic she cried, ‘No, we never will part,’
“While her eye-balls insanity fired,
“‘I remember my vow!—yes! for thee will I die!’—
“She sank on his corse with a soul-parting sigh,
“And, fast lock'd in his arms, she expired!

“Where the faint gleam of torches yon cloister illumes,
“A reverend priest the fond lovers entombs,
“While he prays that their sins be forgiven;

“But so pure were their lives, and their virtues so bright,
“Already their spirits have wing'd their glad flight,
“And are bless'd with their Maker in Heaven!

“Full oft will the grey-bearded fathers relate,
“To the way-weary pilgrim, poor Theodore's fate,
“When at eve tolls the slow passing bell!
“At the soul-chilling sound sad remembrance shall rise,
“And the pitying nuns wipe the tear from their eyes,
“As of Adela's sorrows they tell!”—