And lures to leap into the wave.’ | |
* * * * * * * * * * | |
Dark and unearthly is the scowl | |
That glares beneath his dusky cowl: | |
The flash of that dilating eye | |
835 | Reveals too much of times gone by; |
Though varying, indistinct its hue, | |
Oft will his glance the gazer rue, | |
For in it lurks that nameless spell, | |
Which speaks, itself unspeakable, | |
840 | A spirit yet unquell’d and high, |
That claims and keeps ascendency; | |
And like the bird whose pinions quake, | |
But cannot fly the gazing snake, | |
Will others quail beneath his look, | |
845 | Nor ‘scape the glance they scarce can brook. |
From him the half-affrighted Friar | |
When met alone would fain retire, | |
As if that eye and bitter smile | |
Transferr’d to others fear and guile: | |
850 | Not oft to smile descendeth he, |
And when he doth ’tis sad to see | |
That he but mocks at Misery. | |
How that pale lip will curl and quiver! | |
Then fix once more as if for ever; | |
855 | As if his sorrow or disdain |
Forbade him e’er to smile again. | |
Well were it so - such ghastly mirth | |
From joyaunce ne’er derived its birth. | |
But sadder still it were to trace | |
860 | What once were feelings in that face: |
Time hath not yet the features fix’d, | |
But brighter traits with evil mix’d; | |
And there are hues not always faded, | |
Which speak a mind not all degraded | |
865 | Even by the crimes through which it waded: |
The common crowd but see the gloom | |
Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom; | |
The close observer can espy | |
A noble soul, and lineage high: | |
870 | Alas! though both bestow’d in vain, |
Which Grief could change, and Guilt could stain, | |
It was no vulgar tenement | |
To which such lofty gifts were lent, | |
And still with little less than dread | |
875 | On such the sight is riveted. |
The roofless cot, decay’d and rent, | |
Will scarce delay the passer by; | |
The tower by war or tempest bent, | |
While yet may frown one battlement, | |
880 | Demands and daunts the stranger’s eye; |
Each ivied arch, and pillar lone, | |
Pleads haughtily for glories gone! | |
‘His floating robe around him folding, | |
Slow sweeps he through the column’d aisle; | |
885 | With dread beheld, with gloom beholding |
The rites that sanctify the pile. | |
But when the anthem shakes the choir, | |
And kneel the monks, his steps retire; | |
By yonder lone and wavering torch | |
890 | His aspect glares within the porch; |
There will be pause till all is done – | |
And hear the prayer, but utter none. | |
See – by the half-illumined wall | |
His hood fly back, his dark hair fall, | |
895 | That pale brow wildly wreathing round, |
As if the Gorgon there had bound | |
The sablest of the serpent-braid | |
That o’er her fearful forehead stray’d: | |
For he declines the convent oath, | |
900 | And leaves those locks unhallow’d growth, |
But wears our garb in all beside; | |
And, not from piety but pride, | |
Gives wealth to walls that never heard | |
Of his one holy vow nor word. | |
905 | Lo! – mark ye, as the harmony |
Peals louder praises to the sky, | |
That livid cheek, that stony air | |
Of mix’d defiance and despair! | |
Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine! | |
910 | Else may we dread the wrath divine |
Made manifest by awful sign. | |
If ever evil angel bore | |
The form of mortal, such he wore: | |
By all my hope of sins forgiven, | |
915 | Such looks are not of earth nor heaven!’ |
To love the softest hearts are prone, | |
But such can ne’er be all his own; | |
Too timid in his woes to share, | |
Too meek to meet, or brave despair; | |
920 | And sterner hearts alone may feel |
The wound that time can never heal. | |
The rugged metal of the mine | |
Must burn before its surface shine, | |
But plunged within the furnace-flame, | |
925 | It bends and melts – though still the same; |
Then temper’d to thy want, or will, | |
‘Twill serve thee to defend or kill; | |
A breast-plate for thine hour of need, | |
Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed; | |
930 | But if a dagger’s form it bear, |
Let those who shape its edge, beware! | |
Thus passion’s fire, and woman’s art, | |
Can turn and tame the sterner heart; | |
From these its form and tone are ta’en, | |
935 | And what they make it, must remain, |
But break – before it bend again. | |
* * * * * * * * * * | |
If solitude succeed to grief, | |
Release from pain is slight relief; | |
The vacant bosom’s wilderness | |
940 | Might thank the pang that made it less. |
We loathe what none are left to share: | |
Even bliss – ’t were woe alone to bear; | |
The heart once left thus desolate | |
Must fly at last for ease – to hate. | |
945 | It is as if the dead could feel |
The icy worm around them steal, | |
And shudder, as the reptiles creep | |
To revel o’er their rotting sleep, | |
Without the power to scare away | |
950 | The cold consumers of their clay! |
It is as if the desert-bird, | |
Whose beak unlocks her bosom’s stream | |
To still her famish’d nestlings’ scream, | |
Nor mourns a life to them transferr’d, | |
955 | Should rend her rash devoted breast, |
And find them flown her empty nest. | |
The keenest pangs the wretched find | |
Are rapture to the dreary void, | |
The leafless desert of the mind, | |
960 | The waste of feelings unemploy’d. |
Who would be doom’d to gaze upon | |
A sky without a cloud or sun? | |
Less hideous far the tempest’s roar | |
Than ne’er to brave the billows more - | |
965 | Thrown, when the war of winds is o’er, |
A lonely wreck on fortune’s shore, | |
‘Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, | |
Unseen to drop by dull decay; – | |
Better to sink beneath the shock | |
970 | Than moulder piecemeal on the rock! |
* * * * * | |
‘Father! thy days have pass’d in peace, | |
‘Mid counted beads, and countless prayer; | |
To bid the sins of others cease, | |
Thyself without a crime or care, | |
975 | Save transient ills that all must bear, |
Has been thy lot from youth to age; | |
And thou wilt bless thee from the rage | |
Of passions fierce and uncontroll’d, | |
Such as thy penitents unfold, | |
980 | Whose secret sins and sorrows rest |
Within thy pure and pitying breast. | |
My days, though few, have pass’d below | |
In much of joy, but more of woe; | |
Yet still in hours of love or strife, | |
985 | I’ve ’scaped the weariness of life: |
Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, | |
I loathed the languor of repose. | |
Now nothing left to love or hate, | |
No more with hope or pride elate, | |
990 | I’d rather be the thing that crawls |
Most noxious o’er a dungeon’s walls, | |
Than pass my dull, unvarying days, | |
Condemn’d to meditate and gaze. | |
Yet, lurks a wish within my breast | |
995 | For rest – but not to feel ’t is rest. |
Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil; | |
And I shall sleep without the dream | |
Of what I was, and would be still, | |
Dark as to thee my deeds may seem: | |
1000 | My memory now is but the tomb |