  I know a cliff, whose steep and craggy brow O'erlooks the troubled ocean, and spurns back The advancing billow from its rugged base; Yet many a goodly rood of land lies deep Beneath the wild wave buried, which rolls on Its course exulting o'er the prostrate towers Of high cathedral—church—and abbey fair,— Lifting its loud and everlasting voice Over the ruins, which its depths enshroud, As if it called on Time, to render back All that in dark oblivion sleeps below:— Perched on the summit of that lofty cliff A time-worn edifice o'erlooks the wave, "Which greets the fisher's home-returning bark," And the young seaman checks his blithesome song To hail the lonely ruin from the deep. Majestic in decay, that roofless pile Survives the wreck of ages, rising still A mournful beacon o'er the sea of time, The lonely record of departed years:— Yes—those who view that ruin feel an awe Sink in the heart, like those who look on death For the first time, and hear within the soul A voice of warning whisper,—"Thus, e'en thus, All human glories perish—rent from time, And swallowed up in that unmeasured void, O'er which oblivion rolls his sable tide."— Such thoughts as these that moss-grown pile calls forth Or, musing, tread its grass-grown aisles, or pause To contemplate the wide and barren heath, Spreading in rude magnificence around, With scarce a tree or shrub to intersect Its gloomy aspect, save the noble ash That fronts the ruins, on whose hoary trunk The hurricanes of years have vainly burst, To mar its beauty;—there sublime it stands, Waving its graceful branches o'er the soil That wraps the mouldering children of the land. The shadowy splendour of an autumn sky Was radiant with the hues of parting day; The glorious sun seemed loth to leave the west, That glowed like molten gold—a saffron sea Fretted with crimson billows, whose rich tints Gave to the rugged cliff and barren heath A ruddy diadem of living light! Hark!—'tis the lonely genius of the place Sighs through the wind-stirred branches and bewails Its desolation to the moaning blast, That sweeps the ivy on the dark gray walls!— No—'twas a sound of bitter agony Wrung from the depths of some o'erburdened heart, Which in life's early morning had received A sad inheritance of sighs and tears. Starting, I turned—and seated on the ground Beside the broken altar I beheld A female figure, whose fantastic dress And hair enwreathed with sprigs of ash and yew Bespoke a mind in ruins. On her brow Despair had stamped his iron seal; her cheek Was pale as moonlight on the misty wave; Her hollow eyes were fixed on vacancy, Or wildly sent their hurried glances round With quick impatient gesture, as in quest But shut for ever from her longing view. The sun went down. She slowly left her seat And cast one long sad look upon the wave; Then poured the anguish of her breaking heart In a low plaintive strain of melody, That rose and died away upon the breeze, The mournful requiem of her perished hopes:— Hark! the restless spirits of ocean sigh; I can hear them speak as the wind sweeps by. See, the ivy has heard their mystic call, And shivering clings to the broken wall, The dark green leaves take a sadder shade, And the flowers turn pale and begin to fade; The landscape grows dim in the deepening gloom, And the dead awake in the silent tomb. From the sun's uprising till midnight dark; I have watched and wept through the weary day, But his ship on the deep is far away; I have gazed for hours on the whitening track Of the pathless waters, and called him back, But my voice returned on the moaning blast, And the vessel I sought still glided past. We parted on just such a lovely night: The billows were tossing in cloudless light, And the full bright moon on the waters slept; And the stars above us their vigils kept, And the surges whispered a lullaby, As low and as sweet as a lover's sigh— And he promised, as gently he pressed my hand, He would soon return to his native land. But long months have fled, and this burning brain Is seared with weeping and watching in vain. And nights of sorrow have dimmed these eyes; The roses have fled from my pallid cheek, And the grief that I feel no words can speak; I have made my home with the graves of the dead, And the cold earth pillows my aching head! He will come!—he will come!—I know it now; The waves are dancing before his prow; He comes to speak peace to my aching heart, To tell me we never again shall part; I can hear his voice in the freshening breeze, As his bark glides o'er the rippling seas, And my heart will break forth into laughter and song, When I lead him back through the gazing throng. Ah, no—where yon shade on th |
|
