As on the rushy floor she sat,
Her hand her pale cheek pressing;
Oft, on the Goatherd’s face, her eyes
Would fix intent, her mute surprize—
In frequent starts confessing.
Then, slowly would she turn her head,
And watch the narrow wicket;
And shudder, while the wintry blast
In shrilly cadence swiftly past
Along the neighb’ring thicket.
One night, it was in winter time,
The Castle bell was tolling;
The air was still, the Moon was seen,
Sporting, her starry train between,
The thin clouds round her rolling.
And now she watch’d the wasting lamp,
Her timid bosom panting;
And now, the Crickets faintly sing,
And now she hears the Raven’s wing
Sweeping their low roof, slanting.
And, as the wicket latch she clos’d,
A groan was heard!—she trembled!
And now a clashing, steely sound,
In quick vibrations echoed round,
Like murd’rous swords, assembled!
She started back; she look’d around,
The Goatherd Swain was sleeping;
A stagnate paleness mark’d her cheek,
She would have call’d, but could not speak,
While, through the lattice peeping.
And O! how dimly shone the Moon,
Upon the snowy mountain!
And fiercely did the wild blast blow,
And now her tears began to flow,
Fast, as a falling fountain.
And now she heard the Castle bell
Again toll sad and slowly;
She knelt and sigh’d: the lamp burnt pale—
She thought upon the dismal Tale—
And pray’d, with fervour holy!
And now, her little string of beads
She kiss’d,—and cross’d her breast;
It was a simple rosary,
Made of the Mountain Holly-tree,
By Sainted Father’s blest!
And now the wicket open flew,
As though a whirlwind fell’d it;
And now a ghastly figure stood
Before the Maiden—while her blood
Congeal’d, as she beheld it!
His face was pale, his eyes were wild,
His beard was dark; and near him
A stream of light was seen to glide,
Marking a poniard, crimson-dyed;
The bravest soul might fear him!
His forehead was all gash’d and gor’d—
His vest was black and flowing
His strong hand grasp’d a dagger keen,
And wild and frantic was his mien,
Dread signs of terror, showing.
“O fly me not!” the Baron cried,
“In Heav’n’s name, do not fear me!”
Just as he spoke the bell thrice toll’d—
Three paly lamps they now behold—
While a faint voice, cried,—“Hear me!”
And now, upon the threshold low,
The wounded Golfre, kneeling,
Again to Heav’n address’d his pray’r;
The waning Moon, with livid glare,
Was down the dark sky stealing.
They led him in, they bath’d his wounds,
Tears, to the red stream adding:
The haughty Golfre gaz’d, admir’d!
The Peasant Girl his fancy fir’d,
And set his senses, madding!
He prest her hand; she turn’d away,
Her blushes deeper glowing,
Her cheek still spangled o’er with tears;
So the wild rose more fresh appears
When the soft dews are flowing!
Again, the Baron fondly gaz’d;
Poor Zorietto trembled;
And Golfre watch’d her throbbing breast
Which seem’d, with weighty woes oppress’d,
And softest Love, dissembled.
The Goatherd, fourscore years had seen,
And he was sick and needy;
The Baron wore a Sword of Gold,
Which Poverty might well behold,
With eyes, wide stretch’d, and greedy!
The dawn arose! The yellow light
Around the Alps spread chearing!
The Baron kiss’d the Goatherd’s child—
“Farewell!” she cried,—and blushing smil’d—
No future peril fearing.
Now Golfre homeward bent his way
His breast with passion burning:
The Chapel bell was rung, for pray’r,
And all—save Golfre, prostrate there—
Thank’d Heav’n, for his returning!