Читать книгу Selected Poetry and Prose - Percy Bysshe Shelley - Страница 22

“’Twas dead of the night, when I sat in my dwelling;

One glimmering lamp was expiring and low;

Around, the dark tide of the tempest was swelling.

Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling,--

They bodingly presag’d destruction and woe.

’Twas then that I started!—the wild storm was howling.

Nought was seen, save the lightning, which danc’d in the sky;

Above me, the crash of the thunder was rolling.

And low, chilling murmurs, the blast wafted by.

My heart sank within me--unheeded the war

Of the battling clouds, on the mountain-tops, broke;—

Unheeded the thunder-peal crash’d in mine ear—

This heart, hard as iron, is stranger to fear;

But conscience in low, noiseless whispering spoke.

’Twas then that her form on the whirlwind upholding.

The ghost of the murder’d Victoria strode;

In her right hand, a shadowy shroud she was holding.

She swiftly advanc’d to my lonesome abode.

I wildly then call’d on the tempest to bear me—”