The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley Part 188

No hand her eyes to close, When life is flying, But she will find repose, _15 For Laura's dying!

Then will I seek my love, Then will I cheer her, Then my esteem will prove, When no friend is near her. _20

On her grave I will lie, When life is parted, On her grave I will die, For the false hearted.

DECEMBER, 1809.

12. SONG.

TO [HARRIET].

Ah! sweet is the moonbeam that sleeps on yon fountain, And sweet the mild rush of the soft-sighing breeze, And sweet is the glimpse of yon dimly-seen mountain, 'Neath the verdant arcades of yon shadowy trees.

But sweeter than all was thy tone of affection, _5 Which scarce seemed to break on the stillness of eve, Though the time it is past!--yet the dear recollection, For aye in the heart of thy [Percy] must live.

Yet he hears thy dear voice in the summer winds sighing, Mild accents of happiness lisp in his ear, _10 When the hope-winged moments athwart him are flying, And he thinks of the friend to his bosom so dear.--

And thou dearest friend in his bosom for ever Must reign unalloyed by the fast rolling year, He loves thee, and dearest one never, Oh! never _15 Canst thou cease to be loved by a heart so sincere.

AUGUST, 1810.

NOTE: _11 hope-winged]hoped-winged 1810.

13. SONG.

TO -- [HARRIET].

Stern, stern is the voice of fate's fearful command, When accents of horror it breathes in our ear, Or compels us for aye bid adieu to the land, Where exists that loved friend to our bosom so dear,

'Tis sterner than death o'er the shuddering wretch bending, _5 And in skeleton grasp his fell sceptre extending, Like the heart-stricken deer to that loved covert wending, Which never again to his eyes may appear--

And ah! he may envy the heart-stricken quarry, Who bids to the friend of affection farewell, _10 He may envy the bosom so bleeding and gory, He may envy the sound of the drear pa.s.sing knell,

Not so deep is his grief on his death couch reposing, When on the last vision his dim eyes are closing!

As the outcast whose love-raptured senses are losing, _15 The last tones of thy voice on the wild breeze that swell!

Those tones were so soft, and so sad, that ah! never, Can the sound cease to vibrate on Memory's ear, In the stern wreck of Nature for ever and ever, The remembrance must live of a friend so sincere. _20

AUGUST, 1810.

14. SAINT EDMOND'S EVE.

Oh! did you observe the Black Canon pa.s.s, And did you observe his frown?

He goeth to say the midnight ma.s.s, In holy St. Edmond's town.

He goeth to sing the burial chaunt, _5 And to lay the wandering sprite, Whose shadowy, restless form doth haunt, The Abbey's drear aisle this night.

It saith it will not its wailing cease, 'Till that holy man come near, _10 'Till he pour o'er its grave the prayer of peace, And sprinkle the hallowed tear.

The Canon's horse is stout and strong The road is plain and fair, But the Canon slowly wends along, _15 And his brow is gloomed with care.

Who is it thus late at the Abbey-gate?

Sullen echoes the portal bell, It sounds like the whispering voice of fate, It sounds like a funeral knell. _20

The Canon his faltering knee thrice bowed, And his frame was convulsed with fear, When a voice was heard distinct and loud, 'Prepare! for thy hour is near.'

He crosses his breast, he mutters a prayer, _25 To Heaven he lifts his eye, He heeds not the Abbot's gazing stare, Nor the dark Monks who murmured by.

Bare-headed he worships the sculptured saints That frown on the sacred walls, _30 His face it grows pale,--he trembles, he faints, At the Abbot's feet he falls.

And straight the father's robe he kissed, Who cried, 'Grace dwells with thee, The spirit will fade like the morning mist, _35 At your benedicite.

'Now haste within! the board is spread, Keen blows the air, and cold, The spectre sleeps in its earthy bed, 'Till St. Edmond's bell hath tolled,-- _40

'Yet rest your wearied limbs to-night, You've journeyed many a mile, To-morrow lay the wailing sprite, That shrieks in the moonlight aisle.

'Oh! faint are my limbs and my bosom is cold, _45 Yet to-night must the sprite be laid, Yet to-night when the hour of horror's told, Must I meet the wandering shade.

'Nor food, nor rest may now delay,-- For hark! the echoing pile, _50 A bell loud shakes!--Oh haste away, O lead to the haunted aisle.'

The torches slowly move before, The cross is raised on high, A smile of peace the Canon wore, _55 But horror dimmed his eye--

And now they climb the footworn stair, The chapel gates unclose, Now each breathed low a fervent prayer, And fear each bosom froze-- _60

Now paused awhile the doubtful band And viewed the solemn scene,-- Full dark the cl.u.s.tered columns stand, The moon gleams pale between--

'Say father, say, what cloisters' gloom _65 Conceals the unquiet shade, Within what dark unhallowed tomb, The corse unblessed was laid.'

'Through yonder drear aisle alone it walks, And murmurs a mournful plaint, _70 Of thee! Black Canon, it wildly talks, And call on thy patron saint--

The pilgrim this night with wondering eyes, As he prayed at St. Edmond's shrine, From a black marble tomb hath seen it rise, _75 And under yon arch recline.'--

'Oh! say upon that black marble tomb, What memorial sad appears.'-- 'Undistinguished it lies in the chancel's gloom, No memorial sad it bears'-- _80

The Canon his paternoster reads, His rosary hung by his side, Now swift to the chancel doors he leads, And untouched they open wide,

Resistless, strange sounds his steps impel, _85 To approach to the black marble tomb, 'Oh! enter, Black Canon,' a whisper fell, 'Oh! enter, thy hour is come.'

He paused, told his beads, and the threshold pa.s.sed.

Oh! horror, the chancel doors close, _90 A loud yell was borne on the rising blast, And a deep, dying groan arose.

The Monks in amazement shuddering stand, They burst through the chancel's gloom, From St. Edmond's shrine, lo! a skeleton's hand, _95 Points to the black marble tomb.

Lo! deeply engraved, an inscription blood red, In characters fresh and clear-- 'The guilty Black Canon of Elmham's dead, And his wife lies buried here!' _100

In Elmham's tower he wedded a Nun, To St. Edmond's his bride he bore, On this eve her noviciate here was begun, And a Monk's gray weeds she wore;--