« EelmineJätka »
I called, for I was wild with fear;
I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread
Would not be thus admonisbed ;
I called and thought I heard a sound-
I burst my chain with one strong bound,
I only stirred in this black spot,
And rushed to him :-I found him not,
I only lived—I only drew
The accursed breath of dungeon dew ;
The last-the sole---the dearest link
Between me and the eternal brink,
Which bound me to my failing race,
Was broken in this fatal place.
One on the earth, and one beneath
My brothers—both had ceased to breathe:
I took that hand which lay so still,
Alas! my own was full as chill;
I had not strength to stir, or strive,
But felt that I was still alive
A frantic feeling,—when we know,
That what we love shall ne'er be so.
I know not why
I could not die,
I had no earthly hope—but faith,
And that forbade a selfish death.
Those evening bells, those evening bells,
How many a tale their music tells
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time,
Wben first I heard their soothing chime.
These joyous hours are passed away,
And many a friend that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
And so 'twill be when I am gone,
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
Whilst other bards shall wake these dells,
And sing thy praise, sweet evening bells !
With fruitless labour Clara bound,
And strove to staunch the gushing wound,
The priest, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the church's prayers,
· Ever,' he said, “ That close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,
And that the priest he could not hear ;
For that she ever sung,
- In the lost battle borne down by the Aying,
• Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dy-
ing.' So the notes rung
Avoid thee, fiend, with cruel hand,
Why shake the dying sinner's sand ?
Oh look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine ;
Oh think of faith and love.
By many a deathbed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this.—'
The war that for a space did fail
Now trebly thundered on the gale,
And · Stanley' was the cry.
A light o'er Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye ;
With dying hand above his head,
He shook the fragment of his blade,
And shouted · Victory,'
Charge, Chester, charge !-On, Stanley, on!'Were the last words of Marmion.
Sir Walter Scott.
Soon shall I lay my head,
Where weary pilgrims sleep ;
And slumber in that silent bed,
Where woe forgets to weep !
From hearts with anguish torn,
There, pain shall flee away ;
For death is but the cloudy morn
Of an effulgent day.
When slumbering in the tomb
In dreamless sweet repose,
The wild flowers o'er my grave that bloom
Shall vernal sweets disclose.
The sun's first morning beam
Upon my sod shall rest;
And ere he set, his latest gleam
Will linger o'er my breast.
Perchance at close of eve,
Some friend may linger here,
And shed upon my peaceful grave
One bright unbidden tear.
My soul shall soon be free,
And, loosed from mortal chains,
Shall launch on that unbounded sca
Where peace for ever reigns.
There is a glorious rest,'
For weeping mortals given;
And when they sink on earth's cold breast,
They find that rest in heaven.
On the Death of John Earl of Hopetoun, &c. &c. at Paris,
27th August 1823.
From Jonah's grief, and anger for his gourd,
From David's Perezuzza, save us Lord !