The Isle of Devils A Historical Tale, Funnded on an Anecdote in the Annals of Portugal. (From an unpublished Manuscript.) By M. G. Lewis |
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 | The Isle of Devils |  |
V.
She is alone; she breaths again—Fly! Fly!—Ah! wretched Girl, too late—with frenzied eye,
(Scarce gone the master Fiend)—his Imps she sees,
Pour from the rocks and drop from all the trees.
With yell and squeak, and many a horrid sound,
And form a living fence to ring her round!
“Now then,” she cried, “All's over! oh! farewell,
Farewell, Rosalvo!” On her knee she fell,
And told her beads with trembling hands, yet still—
On came the Dwarfs; and soon with wanton skill,
(Lured by its coral glow, and cross of gold),
One snatched her chaplet, nor forsook his hold,
Tho' hard she struggled! While more bold, more fierce,
Another seized her arm, and dared to pierce
Its white with his sharp teeth; the pure blood streamed
Fast from the wound, and loud the Virgin screamed.
And straight again was heard that strange sad groan,
And instant all the Imps again were flown!
Scarce knowing that she lived—scarce conscious why,
Half grieved, half grateful, Irza raised her eye;
Still on the rock (nor dared he down to spring),
Dark and majestic stoed the Demon King;
Then lowly knelt and raised his arm to wave,
An Orange branch, and court her to his cave.
Lost are her friends; no help, no hope is nigh,
What shall she do? and whither can she fly?
To him already twice her life she owes,
And but his presence, now restrains her foes.
On wings of flame the sun had fled the main,
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The Imps dart rage from their green globes of sight,
She heard their gibberings, and she marked their spite.
And as they eyed her form, their care she saw,
To grind their teeth and whet each cruel claw;
Dæmons alike, the Monarch Dæmon's breast,
Appeared less fierce—of ills she chose the least.
Sought where profaned her coral rosary lay,
Then slowly mounted where he showed the way;
Cautious he led her towards his lone abode,
And cleared each stone which might impede her road.
With pain she trod, she reached his cave; but there
No more their weight her wearied limbs could bear;
Exhausted—fainting—anguish—terror—thirst—
Fatigue o'erpower'd her frame—her heart must burst!
Her eyes grew dim! sunk on the rock she lies,
And sinking prays, she never more may rise.
| The Isle of Devils | |