GOLFRE,PART SECOND.
As on the rushy floor she sat,Her hand her pale cheek pressing;Oft, on theGoatherd’s face, her eyesWould fix intent, her mute surprize—In frequent starts confessing.Then, slowly would she turn her head,And watch the narrow wicket;And shudder, while the wintry blastIn shrilly cadence swiftly pastAlong the neighb’ring thicket.One night, it was in winter time,The Castle bell was tolling;The air was still, the Moon was seen,Sporting, her starry train between,The thin clouds round her rolling.And now she watch’d the wasting lamp,Her timid bosom panting;And now, the Crickets faintly sing,And now she hears the Raven’s wingSweeping their low roof, slanting.And, as the wicket latch she clos’d,A groan was heard!—she trembled!And now a clashing, steely sound,In quick vibrations echoed round,Like murd’rous swords, assembled!She started back; she look’d around,The Goatherd Swain was sleeping;A stagnate paleness mark’d her cheek,She would have call’d, but could not speak,While, through the lattice peeping.And O! how dimly shone the Moon,Upon the snowy mountain!And fiercely did the wild blast blow,And now her tears began to flow,Fast, as a falling fountain.And now she heard the Castle bellAgain toll sad and slowly;She knelt and sigh’d: the lamp burnt pale—She thought upon the dismal Tale—And pray’d, with fervour holy!And now, her little string of beadsShe kiss’d,—and cross’d her breast;It was a simple rosary,Made of the Mountain Holly-tree,By Sainted Father’s blest!And now the wicket open flew,As though a whirlwind fell’d it;And now a ghastly figure stoodBefore the Maiden—while her bloodCongeal’d, as she beheld it!His face was pale, his eyes were wild,His beard was dark; and near himA stream of light was seen to glide,Marking a poniard, crimson-dyed;The bravest soul might fear him!His forehead was all gash’d and gor’d—His vest was black and flowingHis strong hand grasp’d a dagger keen,And wild and frantic was his mien,Dread signs of terror, showing.“O fly me not!” theBaroncried,“InHeav’n’s name, do not fear me!”Just as he spoke the bell thrice toll’d—Three paly lamps they now behold—While a faint voice, cried,—“Hear me!”And now, upon the threshold low,The woundedGolfre, kneeling,Again toHeav’naddress’d his pray’r;The waning Moon, with livid glare,Was down the dark sky stealing.They led him in, they bath’d his wounds,Tears, to the red stream adding:The haughtyGolfregaz’d, admir’d!The Peasant Girl his fancy fir’d,And set his senses, madding!He prest her hand; she turn’d away,Her blushes deeper glowing,Her cheek still spangled o’er with tears;So the wild rose more fresh appearsWhen the soft dews are flowing!Again, theBaronfondly gaz’d;PoorZoriettotrembled;AndGolfrewatch’d her throbbing breastWhich seem’d, with weighty woes oppress’d,And softestLove, dissembled.TheGoatherd, fourscore years had seen,And he was sick and needy;TheBaronwore aSword of Gold,Which Poverty might well behold,With eyes, wide stretch’d, and greedy!The dawn arose! The yellow lightAround the Alps spread chearing!TheBaronkiss’d theGoatherd’s child—“Farewell!” she cried,—and blushing smil’d—No future peril fearing.NowGolfrehomeward bent his wayHis breast with passion burning:The Chapel bell was rung, for pray’r,And all—saveGolfre, prostrate there—Thank’dHeav’n, for his returning!
As on the rushy floor she sat,Her hand her pale cheek pressing;Oft, on theGoatherd’s face, her eyesWould fix intent, her mute surprize—In frequent starts confessing.Then, slowly would she turn her head,And watch the narrow wicket;And shudder, while the wintry blastIn shrilly cadence swiftly pastAlong the neighb’ring thicket.One night, it was in winter time,The Castle bell was tolling;The air was still, the Moon was seen,Sporting, her starry train between,The thin clouds round her rolling.And now she watch’d the wasting lamp,Her timid bosom panting;And now, the Crickets faintly sing,And now she hears the Raven’s wingSweeping their low roof, slanting.And, as the wicket latch she clos’d,A groan was heard!—she trembled!And now a clashing, steely sound,In quick vibrations echoed round,Like murd’rous swords, assembled!She started back; she look’d around,The Goatherd Swain was sleeping;A stagnate paleness mark’d her cheek,She would have call’d, but could not speak,While, through the lattice peeping.And O! how dimly shone the Moon,Upon the snowy mountain!And fiercely did the wild blast blow,And now her tears began to flow,Fast, as a falling fountain.And now she heard the Castle bellAgain toll sad and slowly;She knelt and sigh’d: the lamp burnt pale—She thought upon the dismal Tale—And pray’d, with fervour holy!And now, her little string of beadsShe kiss’d,—and cross’d her breast;It was a simple rosary,Made of the Mountain Holly-tree,By Sainted Father’s blest!And now the wicket open flew,As though a whirlwind fell’d it;And now a ghastly figure stoodBefore the Maiden—while her bloodCongeal’d, as she beheld it!His face was pale, his eyes were wild,His beard was dark; and near himA stream of light was seen to glide,Marking a poniard, crimson-dyed;The bravest soul might fear him!His forehead was all gash’d and gor’d—His vest was black and flowingHis strong hand grasp’d a dagger keen,And wild and frantic was his mien,Dread signs of terror, showing.“O fly me not!” theBaroncried,“InHeav’n’s name, do not fear me!”Just as he spoke the bell thrice toll’d—Three paly lamps they now behold—While a faint voice, cried,—“Hear me!”And now, upon the threshold low,The woundedGolfre, kneeling,Again toHeav’naddress’d his pray’r;The waning Moon, with livid glare,Was down the dark sky stealing.They led him in, they bath’d his wounds,Tears, to the red stream adding:The haughtyGolfregaz’d, admir’d!The Peasant Girl his fancy fir’d,And set his senses, madding!He prest her hand; she turn’d away,Her blushes deeper glowing,Her cheek still spangled o’er with tears;So the wild rose more fresh appearsWhen the soft dews are flowing!Again, theBaronfondly gaz’d;PoorZoriettotrembled;AndGolfrewatch’d her throbbing breastWhich seem’d, with weighty woes oppress’d,And softestLove, dissembled.TheGoatherd, fourscore years had seen,And he was sick and needy;TheBaronwore aSword of Gold,Which Poverty might well behold,With eyes, wide stretch’d, and greedy!The dawn arose! The yellow lightAround the Alps spread chearing!TheBaronkiss’d theGoatherd’s child—“Farewell!” she cried,—and blushing smil’d—No future peril fearing.NowGolfrehomeward bent his wayHis breast with passion burning:The Chapel bell was rung, for pray’r,And all—saveGolfre, prostrate there—Thank’dHeav’n, for his returning!
As on the rushy floor she sat,Her hand her pale cheek pressing;Oft, on theGoatherd’s face, her eyesWould fix intent, her mute surprize—In frequent starts confessing.
As on the rushy floor she sat,
Her hand her pale cheek pressing;
Oft, on theGoatherd’s face, her eyes
Would fix intent, her mute surprize—
In frequent starts confessing.
Then, slowly would she turn her head,And watch the narrow wicket;And shudder, while the wintry blastIn shrilly cadence swiftly pastAlong the neighb’ring thicket.
Then, slowly would she turn her head,
And watch the narrow wicket;
And shudder, while the wintry blast
In shrilly cadence swiftly past
Along the neighb’ring thicket.
One night, it was in winter time,The Castle bell was tolling;The air was still, the Moon was seen,Sporting, her starry train between,The thin clouds round her rolling.
One night, it was in winter time,
The Castle bell was tolling;
The air was still, the Moon was seen,
Sporting, her starry train between,
The thin clouds round her rolling.
And now she watch’d the wasting lamp,Her timid bosom panting;And now, the Crickets faintly sing,And now she hears the Raven’s wingSweeping their low roof, slanting.
And now she watch’d the wasting lamp,
Her timid bosom panting;
And now, the Crickets faintly sing,
And now she hears the Raven’s wing
Sweeping their low roof, slanting.
And, as the wicket latch she clos’d,A groan was heard!—she trembled!And now a clashing, steely sound,In quick vibrations echoed round,Like murd’rous swords, assembled!
And, as the wicket latch she clos’d,
A groan was heard!—she trembled!
And now a clashing, steely sound,
In quick vibrations echoed round,
Like murd’rous swords, assembled!
She started back; she look’d around,The Goatherd Swain was sleeping;A stagnate paleness mark’d her cheek,She would have call’d, but could not speak,While, through the lattice peeping.
She started back; she look’d around,
The Goatherd Swain was sleeping;
A stagnate paleness mark’d her cheek,
She would have call’d, but could not speak,
While, through the lattice peeping.
And O! how dimly shone the Moon,Upon the snowy mountain!And fiercely did the wild blast blow,And now her tears began to flow,Fast, as a falling fountain.
And O! how dimly shone the Moon,
Upon the snowy mountain!
And fiercely did the wild blast blow,
And now her tears began to flow,
Fast, as a falling fountain.
And now she heard the Castle bellAgain toll sad and slowly;She knelt and sigh’d: the lamp burnt pale—She thought upon the dismal Tale—And pray’d, with fervour holy!
And now she heard the Castle bell
Again toll sad and slowly;
She knelt and sigh’d: the lamp burnt pale—
She thought upon the dismal Tale—
And pray’d, with fervour holy!
And now, her little string of beadsShe kiss’d,—and cross’d her breast;It was a simple rosary,Made of the Mountain Holly-tree,By Sainted Father’s blest!
And now, her little string of beads
She kiss’d,—and cross’d her breast;
It was a simple rosary,
Made of the Mountain Holly-tree,
By Sainted Father’s blest!
And now the wicket open flew,As though a whirlwind fell’d it;And now a ghastly figure stoodBefore the Maiden—while her bloodCongeal’d, as she beheld it!
And now the wicket open flew,
As though a whirlwind fell’d it;
And now a ghastly figure stood
Before the Maiden—while her blood
Congeal’d, as she beheld it!
His face was pale, his eyes were wild,His beard was dark; and near himA stream of light was seen to glide,Marking a poniard, crimson-dyed;The bravest soul might fear him!
His face was pale, his eyes were wild,
His beard was dark; and near him
A stream of light was seen to glide,
Marking a poniard, crimson-dyed;
The bravest soul might fear him!
His forehead was all gash’d and gor’d—His vest was black and flowingHis strong hand grasp’d a dagger keen,And wild and frantic was his mien,Dread signs of terror, showing.
His forehead was all gash’d and gor’d—
His vest was black and flowing
His strong hand grasp’d a dagger keen,
And wild and frantic was his mien,
Dread signs of terror, showing.
“O fly me not!” theBaroncried,“InHeav’n’s name, do not fear me!”Just as he spoke the bell thrice toll’d—Three paly lamps they now behold—While a faint voice, cried,—“Hear me!”
“O fly me not!” theBaroncried,
“InHeav’n’s name, do not fear me!”
Just as he spoke the bell thrice toll’d—
Three paly lamps they now behold—
While a faint voice, cried,—“Hear me!”
And now, upon the threshold low,The woundedGolfre, kneeling,Again toHeav’naddress’d his pray’r;The waning Moon, with livid glare,Was down the dark sky stealing.
And now, upon the threshold low,
The woundedGolfre, kneeling,
Again toHeav’naddress’d his pray’r;
The waning Moon, with livid glare,
Was down the dark sky stealing.
They led him in, they bath’d his wounds,Tears, to the red stream adding:The haughtyGolfregaz’d, admir’d!The Peasant Girl his fancy fir’d,And set his senses, madding!
They led him in, they bath’d his wounds,
Tears, to the red stream adding:
The haughtyGolfregaz’d, admir’d!
The Peasant Girl his fancy fir’d,
And set his senses, madding!
He prest her hand; she turn’d away,Her blushes deeper glowing,Her cheek still spangled o’er with tears;So the wild rose more fresh appearsWhen the soft dews are flowing!
He prest her hand; she turn’d away,
Her blushes deeper glowing,
Her cheek still spangled o’er with tears;
So the wild rose more fresh appears
When the soft dews are flowing!
Again, theBaronfondly gaz’d;PoorZoriettotrembled;AndGolfrewatch’d her throbbing breastWhich seem’d, with weighty woes oppress’d,And softestLove, dissembled.
Again, theBaronfondly gaz’d;
PoorZoriettotrembled;
AndGolfrewatch’d her throbbing breast
Which seem’d, with weighty woes oppress’d,
And softestLove, dissembled.
TheGoatherd, fourscore years had seen,And he was sick and needy;TheBaronwore aSword of Gold,Which Poverty might well behold,With eyes, wide stretch’d, and greedy!
TheGoatherd, fourscore years had seen,
And he was sick and needy;
TheBaronwore aSword of Gold,
Which Poverty might well behold,
With eyes, wide stretch’d, and greedy!
The dawn arose! The yellow lightAround the Alps spread chearing!TheBaronkiss’d theGoatherd’s child—“Farewell!” she cried,—and blushing smil’d—No future peril fearing.
The dawn arose! The yellow light
Around the Alps spread chearing!
TheBaronkiss’d theGoatherd’s child—
“Farewell!” she cried,—and blushing smil’d—
No future peril fearing.
NowGolfrehomeward bent his wayHis breast with passion burning:The Chapel bell was rung, for pray’r,And all—saveGolfre, prostrate there—Thank’dHeav’n, for his returning!
NowGolfrehomeward bent his way
His breast with passion burning:
The Chapel bell was rung, for pray’r,
And all—saveGolfre, prostrate there—
Thank’dHeav’n, for his returning!