Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III Keeping festival in Ardenne, a romance. St. Alban's Abbey, a metrical tale; With some poetical pieces. By Anne Radcliffe ... To which is prefixed: A memoir of the author, with extracts from her journals. In four volumes |
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SCENE ON THE NORTHERN SHORE OF SICILY. |
 | Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III |  |
329
SCENE ON THE NORTHERN SHORE OF SICILY.
Here, from the Castle's terraced site,
I view, once more, the varied scene
Of hamlets, woods, and pastures green,
And vales far stretching from the sight
Beneath the tints of coming night;
And there is misty ocean seen,
With glancing oars and waves serene,
And stealing sail of shifting light.
Now, let me hear the shepherd's lay,
As on some bank he sits alone;
That oaten reed, of tender tone,
He loves, at setting sun, to play.
It speaks in Joy's delightful glee;
Then Pity's strains its breath obey—
Or Love's soft voice it seems to be—
And steals at last the soul away!
And now, the village bells afar
Their melancholy music sound
Mournfully o'er the waters round,
Till Twilight sends her trembling star.
Oft shall my pensive heart attend,
As swell the notes along the breeze,
And weep anew the buried friend,
In tears, that sadly, softly please;
And, when pale moonlight tips the trees,
On the dark Castle's tower ascends,
Throws o'er it's walls a silvery gleam,
And in one soft confusion blends
Forest and mountain, plain and stream,
I list the drowsy sounds, that creep
On night's still air, to soothe the soul;
The hollow moan of Ocean's roll,
The bleat and bell of wandering sheep,
The distant watch-dog's feeble bark,
The voice of herdsman pacing home
Along the leafy labyrinth dark,
And sounds, that from the Castle come
Of closing door, that sullen falls,
And murmurs, through the chambers high
Of half-sung strains from ancient halls,
That through the long, long galleries die.
And now the taper's flame I spy
In antique casement, glimmering pale;
And now 'tis vanished from my eye,
And all but gloom and silence fail.
I view, once more, the varied scene
Of hamlets, woods, and pastures green,
And vales far stretching from the sight
Beneath the tints of coming night;
And there is misty ocean seen,
With glancing oars and waves serene,
And stealing sail of shifting light.
Now, let me hear the shepherd's lay,
As on some bank he sits alone;
That oaten reed, of tender tone,
He loves, at setting sun, to play.
It speaks in Joy's delightful glee;
Then Pity's strains its breath obey—
Or Love's soft voice it seems to be—
And steals at last the soul away!
330
Their melancholy music sound
Mournfully o'er the waters round,
Till Twilight sends her trembling star.
Oft shall my pensive heart attend,
As swell the notes along the breeze,
And weep anew the buried friend,
In tears, that sadly, softly please;
And, when pale moonlight tips the trees,
On the dark Castle's tower ascends,
Throws o'er it's walls a silvery gleam,
And in one soft confusion blends
Forest and mountain, plain and stream,
I list the drowsy sounds, that creep
On night's still air, to soothe the soul;
The hollow moan of Ocean's roll,
The bleat and bell of wandering sheep,
The distant watch-dog's feeble bark,
The voice of herdsman pacing home
Along the leafy labyrinth dark,
And sounds, that from the Castle come
Of closing door, that sullen falls,
331
Of half-sung strains from ancient halls,
That through the long, long galleries die.
And now the taper's flame I spy
In antique casement, glimmering pale;
And now 'tis vanished from my eye,
And all but gloom and silence fail.
Once more, I stand in pensive mood,
And gaze on forms, that Truth delude;
And still, 'mid Fancy's flitting scene,
I catch the streaming cottage-light,
Twinkling the restless leaves between,
And Ocean's flood, in moonbeams bright.
And gaze on forms, that Truth delude;
And still, 'mid Fancy's flitting scene,
I catch the streaming cottage-light,
Twinkling the restless leaves between,
And Ocean's flood, in moonbeams bright.
| Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III | |