THE night was calm and murky; the soft gale Seem'd to diffuse fair peace o'er hill and vale; But Hilda slept not, whom the strong desire Of her lost Hedin gnaw'd with secret fire. To the still grave she bent her fearless way, While her dark thoughts with nature's gloom conspire; A while she seem'd in anguish to survey The monumental pile above his mouldering clay. But not to mourn she sought that mansion lone, Or weep unseen upon the dreary stone, And in her sorrow there was nothing meek; Gloomy her eye, and lowering seem'd to speak A soul by deep and struggling cares distraught; And the bright hectic flush upon her cheek Told the mind's fever, and the darkling thought With haughty high designs and steadfast passion fraught. Strange signs upon the tomb her hands did trace; Then to the witching north she turn'd her face, And in slow measure breathed that fatal strain, Whose awful harmony can wake the slain, Rive the cold grave, and work the charmer's will. Thrice, as she call'd on Hedin, rang the plain; Thrice echo'd the dread name from hill to hill! Thrice the dark wold sent back the sound, and all was still. Then shook the ground as by an earthquake rent, And the deep bowels of the tomb upsent A voice, a shriek, a terror; sounds that seem'd Like those wild fancies by a sinner dream'd; A clang of deadly weapons, and a shout: With living strength the heaving granite teem'd, Inward convulsion, and a fearful rout, As if fiends fought with fiends, and hell was bursting out. And then strange mirth broke frantic on her ear, As if the evil one was lurking near; While spectres wan, with visage pale and stark, Peep'd ghastly through the curtain of the dark, With such dire laugh as phrensy doth bewray, It needs a gifted hand, with skill to mark Hilda's proud features, which no dread betray, Calm amid lonesome deeds and visions of dismay. On her pale forehead stream'd an eyrie light From that low mansion of infernal night, Displaying her fair shape's majestic mould In beauteous stillness; but an eye that told More sense of inward rapture than of wo, Thoughts of forbidden joy, and yearnings bold. On the lone summits of eternal snow So shines, in nature's calm, the pure sky's azure glow. Speechless she gazed, as from the yawning tomb Rose Hedin, clad as when he met his doom. Dark was his brow, his armour little bright, And dim the lustre of his joyless sight; His habergeon with blood all sprinkled o'er, Portentous traces of that deadly fight. His pallid cheek a mournful sadness wore, And his long flowing locks were all defiled with gore. There have been those, who, longing for the dead, Have gazed on vacancy till reason fled; And some dark vision of the wandering mind Had ta'en the airy shape of human kind, Giving strange voice to echoes of the night, And warning sounds by heaven's high will design'd: But this was bodily which met her sight, And palpable as once in days of young delight. High throbb'd her heart; the pulse of youth swell'd high; Love's ardent lightning kindled in her eye; And she has sprung into the arms of death, Clasp'd his cold limbs, in kisses drunk his breath; In one wild trance of rapturous passion blest, And reckless of the hell that yawn'd beneath. On his dire corslet beats her heaving breast, And by her burning mouth his icy lips are press'd. Stop, fearless beauty! hope not that the grave Will yield its wealth, which frantic passion gave, Though spells accursed may rend the solid earth, Hell's phantoms never wake for joy or mirth! Hope not that love with death's cold hand can wed, Or draw night's spirits to a second birth! Mark the dire vision of the mound with dread, Gaze on thy horrid work, and tremble for the dead! All arm'd, behold her vengeful father rise, And loud, "Forbear, dishonour'd bride!" he cries. With starting sinews from her grasp has sprung The cold wan form, round which her arms were flung; Again in panoply of warlike steel They wake those echoes to which Leyra rung; Fierce and more fierce each blow they seem to deal, And smite with ruthless blade the limbs that nothing feel. Darkling she stands beside the silent grave, And sees them wield the visionary glaive. What charm has life for her that can compare With the deep thrill of that renew'd despair? To raise the fatal ban, and gaze unseen, As once in hope, on all her fondest care! In death's own field life's trembling joys to glean, And draw love's keen delight from that abhorr'd scene! The paths of bliss are joyous, and the breast Of thoughtless youth is easy to be blest. There is a charm in the loved maiden's sigh; There is sweet pleasure in the calm blue sky. When nature smiles around; the mild control Of buoyant fancy bids the pulse throb high; But when strong passion has engross'd the soul, All other joys are dead; that passion is its whole. The beaming sun may wake the dewy spring, The flowers may smile, and the blithe greenwood ring; Soft music's touch may pour its sweetest lay, And young hearts kindle in their hour of May; But not for Hilda shall life's visions glow; One dark deep thought must on her bosom prey. Her joys lie buried in the tomb below, And from night's phantoms pale her deadly bliss must flow. There still each eve, as northern stories tell, By that lone mound her spirit wakes the spell; Whereat those warriors, charmed by the lay, Renew, as if in sport, the deadly fray: Till when, as paler grows the gloom of night, And faint begins to peer the morning's ray, The spectre pageant fadeth from the sight, And vanisheth each form before the eye of light. |