Читать книгу Tales and Legends of the English Lakes - Wilson Armistead - Страница 12

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"Here, then, my weary head shall rest,

Here weep and sigh alone;

And press the marble to my breast,

And kiss the senseless stone.

I'm calmer now—a silv'ry sound

Is whisp'ring in my ear;

That tells me this is sacred ground,

And she is hov'ring near.

Celestial stillness reigns around,

Serenely beats my breast;

Maria's spirit treads this ground,

And hushes me to rest.

I see Maria hov'ring there—

She waves her wings of light;

Angelic music fills the air,

And charms the ear of night.

Stay, lovely maiden, longer stay,

And bless thy lover's eyes;

And do not soar so fast away

To seek thy native skies.

'Tis gone—the lovely vision's gone!

And night's dim shades prevail;

Again, I feel myself alone,

And pour my fruitless wail.

I seem like one who madly raves

Among the silent dead;

And start to hear the hollow graves

Re-echo to my tread.

But I shall soon forget my woes,

And dry my ev'ry tear,

And rest as unconcern'd as those

Who sleep serenely here."

So far from having a salutary effect upon the mind of Charles, time seems only to have increased the despondency that had enveloped and clouded the reasoning faculties of our poet. We find, in a subsequent part of the volume, the following lines, which show that his mind was giving way under the pressure of acute distress:—

"Ah! tell me not of busy life—

Its bustling folly—joyless strife—

Can these dispel my care?

No—let me seek some cavern drear,

Where not a sound can meet my ear,

But groans of death, and shrieks of fear,

The music of despair?

The black'ning storm, the driving rain,

Shall cool the fever in my brain,

And lull me to repose:

Then, when the thunders o'er me roll,

And spirits scream and goblins howl,

The tempest shall compose my soul,

And cheat me of my woes."

About six months did Charles continue in this deplorable condition, attracting the sympathy of all who beheld him. And often when he passed the cottage doors, where, in happier days, he had accompanied Maria on her errands of benevolence, the objects of his former bounty would look after him with a sigh, and say, "Poor Charles! Poor Charles!"

Though he generally spent the day in rambling about the woods and hills, the hour of his return seldom exceeded that of nightfall. One evening, however, he delayed his return; his parents made every enquiry, but in vain. He had been seen on Harter-fell in the afternoon, but no further tidings could be obtained. Early next morning the melancholy suspicion was confirmed—he was found drowned. It is rumoured in the vale, says our friend, but he will not vouch for its truth, that he was found in the very spot where the stone rolled down when he was born. It appears that he had meditated this act from the following lines, which shall conclude our extracts:—

"And what is death, that I should dread

To mingle with the silent dead?

'Tis but a pang—and pangs are o'er;

A throb—and throbbing is no more;

One struggle—and that one my last:

A gasp—a groan—and all is past!"