She held her peace, and hearkening with no little curiosity, was able to distinguish (a window of the chamber having been left open to admit the balmy night-air,) the words of the following little serenade.
| THE WHIPPOORWILL. |
| I. |
| Sleep, sleep! be thine the sleep that throws Elysium o'er the soul's repose, Without a dream, save such as wind, Like midnight angels, through the mind; While I am watching on the hill, I, and the wailing whippoorwill. Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill. |
| II. |
| Sleep, sleep! and once again I'll tell The oft-pronounced, yet vain, farewell: Such should his word, oh maiden, be, Who lifts the fated eye to thee; Such should it be, before the chain That wraps his spirit, binds his brain. Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill. |
| III. |
| Sleep, sleep! the ship has left the shore, The steed awaits his lord no more; His lord still madly lingers by The fatal maid he cannot fly, And thrids the wood, and climbs the hill, He and the wailing whippoorwill. Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill. |
| IV. |
| Sleep, sleep! the morrow hastens on; Then shall the wailing slave be gone, Flitting the hill-top far, for fear The sounds of joy may reach his ear; The sounds of joy!—the hollow knell Pealed from the mocking chapel-bell. Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill. |
"Mighty well!" exclaimed Miss Falconer, so soon as the roundelay was finished. "That is one of Jingleum's madrigals, I dare be sworn; for there's the 'ship' and the 'steed' in it; and I never yet saw or heard of one of his compositions that had not a touch of salt water and the saddle. And so the dear ape has got to singing, has he? and he mourns the merry marriage-bell, the goose-cap! Really, I had no idea the youth had so good a voice."
"You are mistaken," said Catherine, who, Miss Falconer almost suspected, was asleep, for she did not lift her head from the pillow, and rather muttered out the words than spoke,—"it is the young gentleman,—Mr. Hunter."
"Hah, indeed!" cried Harriet, quickly: "And he has got to chains and chapel-bells, too? But, pho, I forgot you told me about his singing. This serenading, though, is somewhat presumptuous. Well now, good youth, get you gone, and let us to our slumbers. I'll rouse you, Kate, I warrant me.—Why, good heaven, what is the matter? Crying again, Catherine! Sure, if I spoke roughly to you, Kate, I did not mean to offend you; and you must remember, it was on my father's account I became so suspicious, and averse to strange advisers and confidants."
She did not doubt that Catherine was brooding over her former hasty and reproachful expressions; and she knew her too well to be surprised, when the maiden replied to her apology only by flinging her arms round her neck, and sobbing on her bosom. Before she could attempt to soothe her, the serenader again struck his instrument, and began chanting a melody of extreme sadness, but to words of such mystical purport, that they instantly engaged her whole attention, in an eager desire to penetrate their meaning.
| Shall I speak it to the night-wind? Shall I breathe it to the sky? It is spoken in a whisper, It is uttered in a sigh: And the sigh shall be the saddest, And the whisper shall be low, Like the sound of hidden runlets, In their melancholy flow. There's a sigh comes on the west wind— Hark! it rustles through the leaves, Like the moan—— |
But here the artist abruptly ceased singing; his voice and the sound of the instrument were as suddenly hushed as if annihilation had on the instant rapt him into the world of spirits. Miss Falconer sprang from bed, and ran to the window, hoping to discover the cause of so extraordinary an interruption, but without any success. A sable cloud, gradually stealing up from the west, and at intervals glimmering with faint flashes of lightning, had invested the heavens, and all was darkness, especially under the lime-trees near the window, from which the music proceeded. She thought, at first, that she heard the murmuring of voices, as if the singer had been arrested in his task by the coming of a second individual; but they were low, and so mingled with the rustling of leaves, that she doubted if her ears had not deceived her. She peered through the curtains and the vines that encircled the window, into the darkness, without being able to detect any thing like a moving figure; and she listened with as little effect for the sound of voices or footsteps. Whatever had brought the serenade to so abrupt a close, it was certain that it was over, and that the singer had departed.
"Perhaps," she said, as she again threw herself into the couch, "the tender youth is afraid of the rain; and in truth, there was a drop fell upon my hand. So much for spoiling a lady's rest, good Red Jacket! I hope he may get a ducking before he reaches the hovel. This is rather an odd sort of a man for a painter. Good night, Kate—now we will sleep in comfort and quiet."