“Toad, once tenant of the tomb,
“Beetle black, and infant’s thigh,
“Screech owl’s egg, and raven’s plume,80
“Mad dog’s foam, and viper’s skin,
“Mandrake’s brain, and black cat’s eye,
“I throw thy mystic flames within.
“Fire, subservient to my will,
“Burn fiercer, hotter, faster still!
“Lo! again to aid my vow,
“Hemlock, and the cypress bough,
“Night-shade, yew, and all that bloom
“O’er the charnel, or the tomb;
“Each potent herb, each magic thing,90
“To complete my spells, I bring!”
She ceas’d;—and now, with vivid rays,
Fiercely tow’rs th’ infernal blaze;
The traveller, who, on that black night,
Beheld from far, the demon light,
Paus’d for awhile!—his pray’rs he said,
Then spurr’d his steed in wond’ring dread;
The owl, who caught the distant ray,
Bore back his pinions in dismay;
The dog, who saw the blaze afar,100
That seem’d to burst like meteor star,
In horror stood!—to bark, and tried,
But found his trembling tongue was tied.
Now as high the hell-flames whirl,
In Dira throws the golden curl;
Round, and round again she flings,
In hellish dance, and thus she sings:—
“Thou who rul’st the realms below,
“Receive the grateful sacrifice,
“Around thy fire-flames pacing thrice,110
“Thy servant offers now!
“Cut away,
“On nuptial day,
“Lo! into these flames, I throw
“Ringlet of a deadly foe;
“And as it now is eat by flame,
“So may the head from whence it came,—
“So may the heart,—so may the frame,
“Of that detested enemy,
“Wither, and consume, and burn,120
“Decay like visions of the morn,
“In bitt’rest pangs of agony!”
Turn we again to hall and bow’r,
Where Hymen gilds each halcyon hour;—
To Osmond, and his jovial train
Of lordly friends, turn we again!
Like seamen, feasting safe on shore,
Little reck’d they of the tempest’s roar:—
Hark! the minstrels tune their lyre,
And sing of love’s celestial fire,130
In melting music’s soothing measures,
Tell its more than earthly pleasures!
While Osmond’s eyes, with passion streaming,
Are on his lovely Emma beaming!
Hark! the minstrels change their theme,
A nobler fire illumes their dream!
Of Osmond’s deeds, of Osmond’s might,
Bulwark of the field of fight!
How, mid heaps of slaughter’d foes,
High, his laurell’d crest arose;140
How, on Gallia’s hostile shore,
Mid many a stream of crimson gore,
His arm——Ah! whence that piercing cry!
What means that scream of agony?
Turn, Osmond, turn thine orbs of pride,
Behold thy pallid, fainting bride!
She gasps for breath,—she strives to speak,—
In vain her voice would silence break:
Her locks upstand, her eye-balls glare,
Her trembling form convulsions tear.150
‘Assistance,—help!’ young Osmond cries;
‘Help! or my angel Emma, dies.’
But vain was help!—he scarce had said,
Ere her pure soul had ever fled;
And she, whose sight could rapture bring,
Was now pale, cold, and withering!
In madd’ning grief, and dark despair,
Lord Osmond gaz’d, as rooted there;
So still, unheeding all, he stood,—
It seem’d the calm of fortitude!160
But, sudden starting from his trance,
He cast on her one piercing glance;
Then threw himself upon her breast,
And her unconscious lips he prest;
And, torn by frenzy and dismay,
Clasp’d in his arms the lifeless clay,
And mourn’d the hopes of many a day,—
In one dire moment snatch’d away!
But lo! around the banner’d hall,
A sudden gloom appear’d to fall,170
The glimmering lamps burn dark and blue,
And tinge the walls with ghostly hue;
And far more loud the tempests roar
And rage against the sounding shore.
Lo! what a forked flash is there,
Hark! what a peal bursts through the air;
The frighted earth appears to quake,
The lofty tow’rs in terror shake;
And Osmond’s feasters, here and there,
Disperse in wild and wondering fear.180
Then, where the madd’ning bridegroom lay,
A dark-blue flame was seen to play,
And, like a sylph, in lightning-storm,
Amid it rose a female form!
But on her pale, majestic face,
A mix’d expression you might trace,
Of pride, of rage, triumphant joy;—
A something seeking to destroy.
One step to Osmond first she made,
And thus with deep low tone she said:—190
“Osmond, behold! arise! arise!
“On me, once more, direct thine eyes;
“She, whom with treach’ry’s perjur’d part,
“Thou left’st to cure a broken heart,
“Has liv’d to blast, base traitor, know,
“Thy youth with bitterest pangs of wo.
“Gaze on—weep on—o’er that cold fair,
“Who lies, bereft of being, there;
“And know, if pleasure it may be,
“That glorious work was done by me!”200
She spoke;—and, as she mov’d away,
Laugh’d, like a demon o’er his prey.
Fierce flash’d in Osmond’s eyes the fire
Of vengeful rage, of deepest ire.
Sprang from his place, his dirk he drew,
And swift on Geraldine he flew;
One single moment scarce was o’er,
Ere that keen dirk was red with gore.
She fell!—but, haughty e’en in death,
No groan, no sigh, consum’d her breath.210
But, though she sunk upon that ground,
Never again her corpse was found:
And, strange to say, I’ve heard the tale,
That, borne upon the passing gale,
Unearthly screams and voices ran,
And sounds—far from the sounds of man!
When Osmond had that death-blow giv’n,
His eyes, his hands, uprais’d to heav’n,
(To Emma ever true,) he cried,
‘I come!—receive me, Oh! my bride!’220
Then plung’d his dirk into his side,
Gasp’d out his Emma’s name,—and died!
IMPROMPTU
ON SEEING A TEAR ON THE CHEEK OF A YOUNG LADY AT THE RECITAL OF A TALE OF WOE.
Written at Fourteen.
Precious drop of heav’nly feeling,
Purer than the driven snows,
Down the cheek of beauty stealing,
At the tale of Mira’s woes.