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267
THE EVE OF ST. JOHN.
She waiteth by the forest stream,—
She sitteth on the ground;
While the moonlight, like a mantle,
Wraps her tenderly around!
She sitteth through the cold, cold night,
But not a step draws near,
Though his name is on her trembling lips,
His voice meets not her ear!
She sitteth on the ground;
While the moonlight, like a mantle,
Wraps her tenderly around!
She sitteth through the cold, cold night,
But not a step draws near,
Though his name is on her trembling lips,
His voice meets not her ear!
Hist! was't the haunted stream that spoke?
What droning sound swept there?
She listens!—still no human tone
O'erhears she anywhere!—
Oh! was't the forest bough that took
That sad and spectral mien?
She looketh round distractedly,
But there is nothing seen!
What droning sound swept there?
She listens!—still no human tone
O'erhears she anywhere!—
Oh! was't the forest bough that took
That sad and spectral mien?
She looketh round distractedly,
But there is nothing seen!
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Dark, in the quiet moonlight,
Her shadowy form is thrown;
With a strange and lonely mournfulness,
It seems not like her own!
She glanceth o'er her shoulder fair,
The moon is gleaming wide;
She turneth—Jesu! what is there
Pale sitting by her side?
Her shadowy form is thrown;
With a strange and lonely mournfulness,
It seems not like her own!
She glanceth o'er her shoulder fair,
The moon is gleaming wide;
She turneth—Jesu! what is there
Pale sitting by her side?
She pauseth for a single breath—
She hearkens for a tone;
And terror pains her chilling veins,
For breath or sound—is none!
The silence—oh, it racks her brain,
It binds it like a chord!
She'd given worlds though but to hear
The chirping of a bird!
She hearkens for a tone;
And terror pains her chilling veins,
For breath or sound—is none!
The silence—oh, it racks her brain,
It binds it like a chord!
She'd given worlds though but to hear
The chirping of a bird!
The shadow rose before her—
It stood upon the stream:
“O blessed shadow, ease my soul,
And tell me 'tis a dream!
Thou tak'st the form of one they vow'd
Mine eyes should see no more!”
The shadow stood across the stream,
And beckon'd pale before.
It stood upon the stream:
“O blessed shadow, ease my soul,
And tell me 'tis a dream!
Thou tak'st the form of one they vow'd
Mine eyes should see no more!”
The shadow stood across the stream,
And beckon'd pale before.
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The shadow beckon'd on before,
Yet deign'd her no reply;
The ladye rose, and straight the stream
To its pebbly breast was dry!
It pass'd the wood—it cross'd the court—
The gate flew from its chain—
The gentle ladye knew she stood
Within her own domain!
Yet deign'd her no reply;
The ladye rose, and straight the stream
To its pebbly breast was dry!
It pass'd the wood—it cross'd the court—
The gate flew from its chain—
The gentle ladye knew she stood
Within her own domain!
And still the awful shadow glid,
Without or breath or tone,
Until it came to a sullen sluice
'Mid yellow sand and stone,
But the rock and sand disdain'd to stand,
The water scorn'd to flow;
Thus blood was seen down the rift between,
And the dead reveal'd below.
Without or breath or tone,
Until it came to a sullen sluice
'Mid yellow sand and stone,
But the rock and sand disdain'd to stand,
The water scorn'd to flow;
Thus blood was seen down the rift between,
And the dead reveal'd below.
The dead was seen, in the space between,
And the ladye knew it well!
She kiss'd its cheek with a piercing shriek,
With a woe no tongue may tell,
The gory shadow beckon'd on,
And still her steps implored;
But she follow'd not, for on that spot
She found a shiver'd sword.
And the ladye knew it well!
She kiss'd its cheek with a piercing shriek,
With a woe no tongue may tell,
The gory shadow beckon'd on,
And still her steps implored;
But she follow'd not, for on that spot
She found a shiver'd sword.
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She grasp'd the hilt—its silken thread
Her own fair skill had wove;
A brother's hand had struck the dead—
His sword had slain her love!
She took the corpse upon her knees,
Its cheek lay next her own;
Like sculpture fair, in the moonlight there,
Like misery turn'd to stone!
Her own fair skill had wove;
A brother's hand had struck the dead—
His sword had slain her love!
She took the corpse upon her knees,
Its cheek lay next her own;
Like sculpture fair, in the moonlight there,
Like misery turn'd to stone!
No food to seek for the raven's beak—
The gibbet serves them true,
With young, and sweet, and dainty meat,
As e'er the ravens knew;
And few they see near the gibbet-tree,
For a bleeding form glides on,
From the haunted stream, in the moon's cold beam,
On the Eve of good Saint John!
The gibbet serves them true,
With young, and sweet, and dainty meat,
As e'er the ravens knew;
And few they see near the gibbet-tree,
For a bleeding form glides on,
From the haunted stream, in the moon's cold beam,
On the Eve of good Saint John!
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