Poems, &c. (1790) Part 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!"

Still nearer to the glimm'ring light The tow'ring figure strode, Till full, and horrid to the sight, The murther'd Edward stood.

His hand a broken dagger sway'd, Like Time's dark threat'ning dart; And pointed to the rugged blade That quiver'd in his heart.

The blood still trickled from his head, And clotted was his hair, That on his manly shoulders spread; His mangled breast was bare.

His face was like the muddy sky Before the coming snow; And dark and dreadful was his eye, And cloudy was his brow.

Pale Conrad shrunk, but grasp'd his sword; Fear thrill'd in ev'ry vein; His quiv'ring lip half-spoke its word; He paus'd, and shrunk again.

"Pale b.l.o.o.d.y spectre, at this hour Why do'st thou haunt the night?

Has the deep gloomy vault no power To keep thee from my sight?

"Why do'st thou glare? Why do'st thou wave That fatal cursed knife?

The deed is done, and from the grave Who can recall to life?

"Why rolls thine eye beneath thy brow, Dark as the midnight storm?

What do'st thou want? O, let me know!

But hide thy dreadful form.

"I'd give the life's blood from my heart To wash my crime away: If thou'rt a spirit, O, depart!

Nor haunt a wretch of clay.

"Say, do'st thou with the blessed dwell?

Return and blessed be!

Or com'st thou from the lowest h.e.l.l?

I am more curst than thee."

The form advanc'd with solemn step, As though it meant to speak; And thrice it mov'd its mutt'ring lip, But silence did not break.

Then sternly stalk'd with heavy pace, Which shook the trembling wall; And, frowning, turn'd its angry face, And vanish'd from the hall.

With fixed eyes, pale Conrad stood, That from their sockets swell; Back on his heart ran the cold blood, He shudder'd as he fell.

Night fled, and thro' the window 'gan The early light to play; But on a more unhappy man Ne'er shone the dawning day.

The gladsome sun all nature cheers, But cannot charm his cares: Still dwells his mind with gloomy fears, And murther'd Edward glares.

PART III.

"No rest nor comfort can I find, I watch the midnight hour; I sit and listen to the wind Which beats upon my tower.

"Methinks low voices from the ground Break mournful on mine ear, And thro' these empty chambers sound So dismal and so drear.

"The ghost of some departed friend Doth in my sorrows share; Or is it but the rushing wind That mocketh my despair.