I.
Rise, winds of night! relentless tempests rise!
Rush from the troubled clouds, and o'er me roll;
In this chill pause a deeper horror lies,
A wilder fear appals my shudd'ring soul.—
'Twas on this day[A], this hour accurst,
That Nature starting from repose
Heard the dire shrieks of murder burst—
From infant innocence they rose,
And shook these solemn towers!—
I shudd'ring pass that fatal room
For ages wrapt in central gloom;—
I shudd'ring pass that iron door
Which Fate perchance unlocks no more;
Death, smear'd with blood, o'er the dark portal lowers.
[A] The anniversary of the murder of Edward the Fifth, and his brother
Richard, Duke of York.