And there is nought to see,
Save that the oak's scath'd boughs fling down
Upon the path a shadowy brown,
That, like a pilgrim's dusky gown,
Waves with the waving tree."
4. Juliet's Fear (on taking the Opiate) of Scenes within the Charnel House.
I feel a faint, cold fear thrills through my veins,
That almost freezes up the heart of life :-
How, if when I am laid into the tomb,
I wake before the time that Romeo
Comes to redeem me ! There's a feauful point!
Shall I not then be stifled in the vault,
To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,
And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?
Or, If I live, is it not very like,
The horrible conceit of death and night,
Together with the terror of the place,-
As in a vault, an ancient sepulchre,
Where, for these many hundred years, the bones
Of all my buried ancestors are pack'd;
Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,
Lies fest'ring in his shroud;
Alack! alack! is it not like, that I,
So early waking,-what with loathsome smells,
And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth,
That living mortals, hearing them, run mad ;-
O! if I wake, shall I not be distraught,
Environed with all these hideous fears?
"Yet twice have I beheld to-day
A Form, that seem'd to dog our way;
Twice from my glance it seem'd to flee,
And shroud itself by cliff or tree.
'Twas Mortham's form, from foot to head!
His morion, with the plume of red,—
His shape, his mien-'twas Mortham, right
As when I slew him in the fight!"
Mute and uncertain, and amazed,
As on a vision, Bertram gazed!
'Twas Mortham's bearing, bold and high,
His sinewy frame, his falcon eye,
His look and accent of command,
The martial gesture of his hand,
His stately form, spare-built and tall,
His war-bleach'd look-'twas Mortham all.
Through Bertram's dizzy brain career
A thousand thoughts, and all of fear;
His wavering faith received not quite
The form he saw as Mortham's sprite,
But more he fear'd it, if it stood
His lord, in living flesh and blood.
Was it a dream?
Or had he seen, in vision true,
The very Mortham whom he slew?
Or had in living flesh appear'd
The only man on earth he fear'd?
To try the mystic cause intent,
His eyes that on the cliff were bent
'Counter'd at once a dazzling glance,
Like sunbeam flash'd from sword or lance.
At once he started as for flight,
But not a foeman was in sight;
He heard the cushat's murmur hoarse,
He heard the river's sounding course;
The solitary woodlands lay
As slumbering in the summer ray.
He gaz'd, like lion rous'd, around,
Then sunk again upon the ground.
'Twas but, he thought, some fitful beam,
Glanced sudden from the sparkling stream;
Then plunged him from the gloomy train
Of ill-conceited thoughts again,
Until a voice behind him cried-
"Bertram! well met on Greta side!"
1. A Brother's Grief.
I drew near to my father's gate,
No smiling faces met me now;
I entered,-all was desolate,
Grief sat upon my mother's brow;
I heard her, as she kiss'd me, sigh:
A tear stood in my father's eye;
My little brothers round me pressed
In gay, unthinking childhood blessed;
Long, long that hour has pass'd; but when
Shall I forget its gloomy scene!
The Sabbath came. With mournful face
I sought my brother's burial-place;
That shrine, which when I last had viewed,
In vigour by my side he stood ;-
I gazed around with fearful eye ;-
All things reposed in sanctity.
I reached the chancel,-nought was changed:
The altar decently arranged,
The pure white cloth above the shrine,
The consecrated bread and wine,—
All was the same. I found no trace
Of sorrow in that holy place.
One hurried glance I downward gave,—
My foot was on my brother's grave.
Mary, the moon is sleeping on thy grave,
And on the turf thy lover sad is kneeling,
The big tear fills his eye. Mary, awake,
From thy dark house arise, and bless his sight,
On the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft and low
Pour on the silver ear of Night thy tale-
Thy whisper'd tale of comfort and of love,
To soothe thy Edward's lorn, distracted soul,
And cheer his breaking heart.
My only love! O! now again arise,
And let once more thine aëry accents fall
Soft on my listening ear. Mary, lo!
Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave,
And calls upon thy name. The breeze that blows
On his wan cheek will soon sweep over him,
In solemn music, a funeral dirge,
Wild and most sorrowful. His cheek is pale;
The worm that prey'd upon thy youthful bloom
Is canker'd green on his. Now lost he stands,
The ghost of what he was, and the cold dew
Which bathes his aching temples gives sure omen
Of speedy dissolution. Mary, soon
Thy love will lay his pallid cheek to thine,
And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death.
3. A Widowed Husband's Grief.
Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade,
This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made,
I now may give my burden'd heart relief,
pour forth all my stores of grief.
In vain I look around
O'er all the well-known ground, My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry; Where oft we used to walk,
Where oft, in tender talk,
We saw the summer sun go down the sky;
Nor by yon fountain's side,
Nor where its waters glide
Along the valley, can she now be found;
In all the wide-stretch'd prospect's ample bound,
No more my mournful eye
But the sad sacred earth, where her dear relics lie.
Sweet babes! who, like the little playful fawns,
Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns
By their delighted mother's side,
Who now their infant steps shall guide?
Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care To every virtue should have formed their youth, And strew'd with flowers the thorny ways of truth? O loss beyond repair!
O wretched father! left alone,
To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own! How shall thy weakened mind, oppress'd with woe, And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, Perform the duties that you doubly owe,
From folly and from vice their helpless age to save!
4. A Convict Husband's Grief.
And can it be? or is it all a dream
A vapour of the mind? I scarce believe
Myself awake or acting. Sudden thus
Am I so compass'd round with comforts late,
Health, freedom, peace-torn from all, and lost!
A prisoner in-Impossible !-I sleep!
'Tis fancy's coinage! 'tis a dream's delusion!
Vain dream! vain fancy! quickly I am roused
To all the dire reality's distress:
I tremble, start, and feel myself awake,
Dreadfully awake to all my woes! and roll
From wave to wave on Sorrow's ocean toss'd.
Nor thou, Maria, with me! Oh, my wife!
"I have undone thee!" Can I, then, sustain
Thy killing aspect, and that tender tear
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