University of Virginia Library

III. PART III.

I.

Black was the night—the choaking air
Breath'd heavy and infernal gloom;
Low, deep, as moan of slave's despair,
Within his smother'd living tomb:
But, lull'd upon the couch of dreams,
Dunluce's reckless household lay;
Their souls illum'd with fairy beams,
From Fancy's artificial day:
There was but one that fled from sleep,
The night was kindred with his soul;
He wander'd forth beside the deep,
To hear the dismal breezes roll;
And far away did Owen steal;
But now, as he retrac'd his roaming,
As if beneath a furrowing keel,
He thought he heard the waters foaming.
He listened: no it could not be;
At such a storm-portending season,
No bark would trust that pitching sea,
Whose very calm was treason.
It pass'd away, the mimic sound;
And Owen on his course proceeded;
While winds began to howl around,
Undreaded and unheeded.
And now the clouds began to clash,
And nearer now and nearer:
Then came a momentary flash;
And darkness then was drearer.

II.

The sea-dash'd cavern's far extent,
That wound beneath Dunluce,
Possess'd an unsuspected vent;
Unknown to public use.
It join'd a lonely avenue,
Remote, behind the Castle slanting,
Where evergreens uncultur'd grew,
And shrubs of every name were flaunting.
One veteran oak, whom years had sunk,
Here shew'd his broad dismember'd trunk,
That could but one unriven branch
Of all its ancient honours launch;
Yet might afford its hollow breast
A shelter to a casual guest.
Such shelter Owen lov'd to seek,
When storms were dark, and loud, and fierce;
For there he'd hark their horrid shriek
The loudly echoing cavern pierce.
He sought it now; in hour so dire
It any other heart had aw'd;
He sought it by the lightening fire,
That flash'd its angry eye abroad.

III.

But now as he approach'd, a form
That seem'd no nursling of the storm,
But rather some seraphic thing,
That in the storm had bruis'd its wing,
And underneath the crashing wood,
As if in fearful shelter, stood;
A moment glitter'd on his sight;
And then again was lost in night,
As lent a flitting coruscation
Its momentary scintillation!
“What may this be! I know it well;
'Tis Marion's spectre come to tell:”
He paus'd—he durst not tell his heart,
The madness that would cheat his brain;
But, lo! the tempest's visage swart
Is lighted with a flash again;
A vast and widely flaring blaze,
That right athwart him flings its rays;
And there! O God! it is indeed,
No idle shape of Fancy's breed!
'Tis Marion's self is standing there!
On Owen's eyes, with wondering glare,
Her eyes an instant dwelling;
And now on his her cheek is sobbing;
Her breast upon his breast is throbbing,
Its pang of rapture telling!

IV.