University of Virginia Library

Though now the Minstrel's tones are hushed,
His sweep of feeling is unstayed:
The torrent from that bosom rushed,
As there he trembled, self-dismayed,
And poured his rage down every ear;—
Dire threats the spirit's channel tracking
He held all listeners in fear,
As in a fiery ring that burned
Round all, while on themselves they turned,
As with a serpent-sting their bosoms racking.
And speedily Volupsa fled;
Her rest was in her brother's hall;
There her afflicted heart she read,
Bodings of evil only to recal.
She had the patient gift that dwells
On thought as deeply as on deeds,
And now her heart the meaning tells
Of all that on its quiet feeds.
She looks not forward only, but within
Where ills that are to be so oft begin.
Those records, now, that many deem
The vapid verse of false tradition,
Haunt her as some unusual dream
That glares on her through bars of superstition.
What dare she think? Is he indeed a bard,
Whose songs so on her spirit jarred,
Or but a man of mysteries?
Yet goodness glistened in his eyes!
What semblance sees she, be it dim,
Between the wily Snake and him?
Doth one within the other lurk,
That both such power o'er Cœlis work,
Trailing through bliss his phrenzied aspiration,
While spirits tune some choral hymn,
With stolen notes of seraphim,
And hold his soul in fascination?
She dares not think and but pours forth a prayer,
That God may take her to his care.

‘O help of the helpless! who ever art nigh;
The Shepherd on whom in our need we rely,
In whose light are the tears of the wretched made dry;
Look down on this heart, thy poor suppliant behold;
For her sake the loved Lamb to thy bosom enfold!’