« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
"Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved,
Oh could my warmth to life restore thee!
Yet lie all night within my armsNo youth lay ever there before thee!
"Pale, pale indeed, O lovely, lovely youth!
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, And lie all night within my arms, No youth shall ever lie there after!"
"Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride!
Return, and dry thy useless sorrow! Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs; He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow."
Oн listen, listen, ladies gay!
That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
"Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew,
And, gentle lady, deign to stay! Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.
"The blackening wave is edged with white;
To inch and rock the sea-mews fly: The fishers have heard the WaterSprite,
Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.
"Last night the gifted Seer did view A wet shroud swathed round lady gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;
Why cross the gloomy firth today?"
"Tis not because Lord Lindesay's
To-night at Roslin leads the ball, But that my lady-mother there
Sits lonely in her castle-hall.
Or dream of greeting, peace, or truce,
The Abbot seemed with eye severe
But twice his courage came and sunk,
Confronted with the hero's look;
And from his pale blue eyes were
Strange rays of wild and wandering light;
Uprise his locks of silver white, Flushed is his brow; through every vein
In azure tide the currents strain, And undistinguished accents broke The awful silence ere he spoke.
"De Bruce! I rose with purpose dread
To speak my curse upon thy head,
But, like the Midianite of old, Who stood on Zophim, heaven-controlled,
I feel within mine aged breast
A power that will not be repressed. It prompts my voice, it swells my veins,
It burns, it inaddens, it constrains!-
He spoke, and o'er the astonished throng
Was silence, awful, deep, and long.
Again that light has fired his eye, Again his form swells bold and high, The broken voice of age is gone,
vigorous manhood's lofty
"Thrice vanquished on the battle plain,
Thy followers slaughtered, fled, or ta'en,
A hunted wanderer on the wild,
Blessed in the hall and in the field,
De Bruce, fair Scotland's rightful Lord,
Blessed in thy deeds and in thy fame, What lengthened honors wait thy name!
In distant ages, sire to son
Shall tell thy tale of freedom won,
The Power, whose dictates swell my breast,
Hath blessed thee, and thou shalt be blessed!"
VISION OF BELSHAZZAR.
THE king was on his throne,
The satraps thronged the hall; A thousand bright lamps shone O'er that high festival. A thousand cups of gold,
In Judah deemed divine, Jehovah's vessels hold
The godless heathen's wine!
In that same hour and hall,
A solitary hand
Along the letters ran,
And traced them like a wand.
The monarch saw, and shook,
And bade no more rejoice: All bloodless waxed his look, And tremulous his voice,