Part 2 (1/2)
”To take thee to my home I sware, And here we were to meet: Wilt thou a narrow coffin share, And part my winding-sheet?
”But late the lord of many lands, And now a grave is all: My blood is warm upon his hands Who revels in my hall.
”Yet think thy father's h.o.a.ry hair Is water'd with his tears; He has but thee to sooth his care, And prop his load of years.
”Remember Edward when he's gone, He only liv'd for thee; And when thou'rt pensive, and alone, O Marg'ret call on me!
”Yet deep beneath the mould'ring clod I rest my wounded head: And terrible that call, and loud, Which shall awake the dead.”
”No, Edward, I will follow thee, And share thy hapless doom: Companions shall our spirits be, Tho' distant is thy tomb.
”O! never to my father's tower Will I return again!
A bleeding heart has little power To ease another's pain.
”Upon the wing my spirit flies, I feel my course is run; Nor shall these dim and weary eyes Behold to-morrow's sun.”
Like early dew, or h.o.a.ry frost, Spent with the beaming day, So shrunk the pale and wat'ry ghost, And dimly wore away.
No longer Marg'ret felt the storm, She bow'd her lovely head; And with her lover's fleeting form, Her gentle spirit fled.
PART II.
Loud roars the wind that shakes this wall; It is no common blast: Deep hollow sounds pa.s.s thro' my hall, O would the night were past!
”Methinks the daemons of the air Upon the turrets growl; While down the empty winding stair Their deep'ning murmurs roll.
”The glimm'ring fire cheers not the gloom: How blue its weakly ray!
And like a taper in a tomb, But spreads the more dismay.
”Athwart its melancholy light The lengthen'd shadow falls: My grandsires, to my troubled sight, Low'r on me from these walls.
”Methinks yon angry warrior's head Doth in its cas.e.m.e.nt frown, And darts a look, as if it said, Where hast thou laid my son?
”But will these fancies never cease?
O, would the night were run!
My troubled soul can find no peace, But with the morning sun.
”Vain hope! the guilty never rest; Dismay is always near: There is a midnight in the breast No morn shall ever cheer.
”The weary hind is now at rest, Tho' lowly is his head, How sweetly lies the guiltless breast, Upon the hardest bed!
”The beggar, in his wretched haunt, May now a monarch be; Forget his woe, forget his want, For all can sleep but me.
”I've dar'd whate'er the boldest can, Then why this childish dread; I never fear'd a living man, And shall I fear the dead!
”No, whistling storms may shake my tower, And pa.s.sing spirits scream: Their shadowy arms are void of power, And but a gloomy dream.
”But, lo! a form advancing slow Across my dusky hall!
Art thou a friend? art thou a foe?
O, answer to my call!”