Читать книгу The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 20, No. 576, November 17, 1832 - Various - Страница 3

Night wanes apace!—The crowd are gone;

The lamps have ceased to glow;

And Cynthia's beams reflect upon

The placid lake below.

The song of mirth is heard no more;

No guests the goblet fill;

The banquet's revelry is o'er,

All—all is hush'd and still.

No more, amid the stately pile,

The dance afford's delight;

Nor tale, nor jocund sports beguile

The silent hours of night.

All seek the downy couch of sleep—

The host, and worthy guest;

The drowsy guards on duty keep,

And envy them their rest.

No minstrels strike th' enliv'ning string—

None blow the twanging horn;

The nightingale has ceas'd to sing,

And slowly breaks the morn.

The portals of the dappled East

Assume their bright array;

The Sun, in new-born splendour drest,

Drives sable clouds away.

Thick vapours from the earth arise,

And pass away unseen,

Till night again shall veil the skies,

Now lucid and serene.

Above proud Offa's gate the gold

Embroider'd banners hung—

And 'scutcheon'd shields emblazon'd told

From whence his race had sprung!

The glitt'ring lance and crested plume

Adorn the sculptur'd wall,

And deep'ning shadows cast a gloom

Around his spacious hall!

On "South Town's" "heav'n directed" fanes

Sol sheds his glowing ray;

And Peace, and Joy, through Mercia's plains

Their gladsome sceptre sway.

How diff'rent far the scene will be

When night appears again;—

O'er all now reigns festivity,

But lamentation then!

A richly silver-braided vest

The virgin train prepare—

A scarf, to wrap the snow-white breast,

And gems to deck the hair.

Elfrida, at her lattice high,

Sits with the bridal throng—

She looks and looks—then heaves a sigh—

"Why tarries he so long?"

He comes!—'tis he!—and by his side

Attend a noble band—

He comes to claim his royal bride—

His lov'd Elfrida's hand.

The wish'd-for hour is gone and past;—

Slow chimes the marriage-bell;

May Heav'n forbid it prove his last—

The bridegroom's fun'ral knell!

The priest before the altar stands—

The bride bends on her knee,

And lifts to God her heart and hands

In pious fervency!

But where is he, who should have knelt

Before his Maker, low?

And where are they, who might have felt

What none but parents know!

In vain she waits, and looks around,

Still vainer are her cries;

With shrieks the sacred aisles resound;—

Save echo, naught replies:

Fell grief her throbbing heart enthrals,—

Her lips grow ghastly pale;

She weeps—she faints—and senseless falls

Before the altar-rail!

But where is he, by whom the vows

Of love were pledg'd so late?

Demand of Offa's artful spouse,

Whose fiat seal'd his fate?

The blush of guilt upon her cheek

Spreads forth its purple hues,—

And agitation seems to speak

What conscience dares refuse!

To Him who gives life's fleeting breath

His soul has ta'en its flight!—

He sleeps the last long sleep of death

Upon his bridal night.

His guards were gone;—no friends were near

To bless him ere he died!

None, none to dry the falling tear,

Or bid his pains subside.

Oh! where is she whom fate hath made

Dejected and forlorn?

She goes to Croyland's hallow'd shade,

To live—alas!—to mourn!

Weep, Anglia, weep!—thy monarch's dead!

To heav'n his spirit's flown;

And he whose hands his blood have shed

Will mount thy vacant throne.

He reigns!—but mark! how self-reproach

Pervades his inmost breast;—

And pangs of sad remorse encroach

Upon his fever'd rest.

He lives—but life has little left,

If aught, his love to claim;

Of all, save grief, 'tis now bereft;

To him 'tis but a name!