The Death-Wake. Stoddart Thomas Tod

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      'Tis o'er, 'tis o'er, —

      Her burial! and, under the arcades,

      Torch after torch into the moonlight fades;

      And there is heard the music, a brief while,

      Over the roofings of the imaged aisle,

      From the deep organ panting out its last,

      Like the slow dying of an autumn blast.

      A lonely monk is loitering within

      The dusky area, at the altar seen,

      Like a pale spirit kneeling in the light

      Of the cold moon, that looketh wan and white

      Through the deviced oriel; and he lays

      His hands upon his bosom, with a gaze

      To the chill earth. He had the youthful look

      Which heartfelt woe had wasted, and he shook

      At every gust of the unholy breeze,

      That enter'd through the time-worn crevices.

      A score of summers only o'er his brow

      Had pass'd – and it was summer, even now,

      The one-and-twentieth – from a birth of tears,

      Over a waste of melancholy years!

      And that brow was as wan as if it were

      Of snowy marble, and the raven hair

      That would have cluster'd over, was all shorn,

      And his fine features stricken pale as morn.

      He kiss'd a golden crucifix that hung

      Around his neck, and in a transport flung

      Himself upon the earth, and said, and said

      Wild, raving words, about the blessed dead:

      And then he rose, and in the moonshade stood,

      Gazing upon its light in solitude;

      And smote his brow, at some idea wild

      That came across: then, weeping like a child,

      He falter'd out the name of Agathè;

      And look'd unto the heaven inquiringly,

      And the pure stars.

      "Oh shame! that ye are met,

      To mock me, like old memories, that yet

      Break in upon the golden dream I knew,

      While she —she lived: and I have said adieu

      To that fair one, and to her sister Peace,

      That lieth in her grave. When wilt thou cease

      To feed upon my quiet! – thou Despair!

      That art the mad usurper, and the heir,

      Of this heart's heritage! Go, go – return,

      And bring me back oblivion, and an urn!

      And ye, pale stars, may look, and only find,

      The wreck of a proud tree, that lets the wind

      Count o'er its blighted boughs; for such was he

      That loved, and loves, the silent Agathè!"

      And he hath left the sanctuary, like one

      That knew not his own purpose – The red sun

      Rose early over incense of bright mist,

      That girdled a pure sky of amethyst.

      And who was he? A monk. And those who knew

      Yclept him Julio; but they were few:

      And others named him as a nameless one, —

      A dark, sad-hearted being, who had none

      But bitter feelings, and a cast of sadness,

      That fed the wildest of all curses – madness!

      But he was, what none knew, of lordly line,

      That fought in the far land of Palestine,

      Where, under banners of the cross, they fell,

      Smote by the armies of the infidel.

      And Julio was the last; alone, alone!

      A sad, unfriended orphan, that had gone

      Into the world, to murmur and to die,

      Like the cold breezes that are passing by!

      And few they were that bade him to their board;

      His fortunes now were over, and the sword

      Of his proud ancestry dishonour'd – left

      To moulder in its sheath – a hated gift!

      Ay! it was so; and Julio had fain

      Have been a warrior; but his very brain

      Grew fever'd at the sickly thought of death,

      And to be stricken with a want of breath! —

      To be the food of worms – inanimate,

      And cold as winter, – and as desolate!

      And then to waste away, and be no more

      Than the dark dust! – The thought was like a sore

      That gather'd in his heart; and he would say, —

      "A curse be on their laurels!" and decay

      Came over them; the deeds that they had done

      Had fallen with their fortunes; and anon

      Was Julio forgotten, and his line —

      No wonder for this frenzied tale of mine!

      Oh! he was wearied of this passing scene!

      But loved not death: his purpose was between

      Life and the grave; and it would vibrate there,

      Like a wild bird that floated far and fair

      Betwixt the sun and sea!

      He went, and came,

      And thought, and slept, and still awoke the same, —

      A strange, strange youth; and he would look all night

      Upon the moon and stars, and count the flight

      Of the sea waves, and let the evening wind

      Play with his raven tresses, or would bind

      Grottoes of birch, wherein to sit and sing:

      And peasant girls would find him sauntering,

      To gaze upon their features, as they met,

      In laughter, under some green arboret.

      At last, he became monk, and, on his knees,

      Said holy prayers, and with wild penances

      Made sad atonement; and the solemn whim,

      That, like a shadow, loiter'd over him,

      Wore off, even like a shadow. He was cursed

      With none of the mad thoughts that were at first

      The poison of his quiet; but he grew

      To love the world and its wild laughter too,

      As he had known before; and wish'd again

      To join the very mirth he hated then!

      He durst not break the vow – he durst not be

      The one he would – and his heart's harmony

      Became a tide of sorrow. Even so,

      He felt hope die, – in madness and in woe!

      But there came one – and a most СКАЧАТЬ