Page:Ainsworth's Magazine - Volume 1.djvu/252
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218
THE MISER’S DAUGHTER.
“Am I mistaken in you, young man?” said Firebras, regarding him menacingly.
“Do as they bid you, or you’ll have your throat cut, ’pon rep!” whispered Mr. Cripps, popping his head over Firebras’s shoulder.
“Will you drink the toast, or not?” demanded Firebras, fiercely.
“I will not,” replied Randulph, firmly. “It is treasonable, and I refuse it.”
I slept one night in the gloomy wood,
The tombs of the minstrels near me stood;
The birds had lull’d me, from every tree,
The sound of the branches was melody.
The tombs of the minstrels near me stood;
The birds had lull’d me, from every tree,
The sound of the branches was melody.
And when every eye was in slumber closed,
When all except anguish and love reposed,
The bolts and the coffins were rattling and shaking,
The bolts and the coffins were bursting and breaking.
When all except anguish and love reposed,
The bolts and the coffins were rattling and shaking,
The bolts and the coffins were bursting and breaking.
As wave upon wave on a boist’rous ocean
Pass thousands of forms, in a wild commotion,
The harpers in troops from the coffins appear,
Their harps in their skeleton arms they bear.
Pass thousands of forms, in a wild commotion,
The harpers in troops from the coffins appear,
Their harps in their skeleton arms they bear.
Their lips are dry, and their glance is cold,
Their pallid cheeks are sunken and old;
No feeling is in this ghostly band—
They strike at their harp-strings with lifeless hand.
Their pallid cheeks are sunken and old;
No feeling is in this ghostly band—
They strike at their harp-strings with lifeless hand.
But yet, though they strike and hammer on,
The list’ning ear can detect no tone;
The owlets leaving their nooks are seen,
While fiends from rocky crevices grin.
The list’ning ear can detect no tone;
The owlets leaving their nooks are seen,
While fiends from rocky crevices grin.
Beneath the harpers the grass is dried—
The bashful moon must her visage hide,
And ever at midnight thus tinkle they—
And “Oblivion” is their constant lay.
The bashful moon must her visage hide,
And ever at midnight thus tinkle they—
And “Oblivion” is their constant lay.
A tone like the angel’s trump is heard,
When God had the world’s foundations rear’d;
Through mead and through tree what a sound is rushing,
How joyously is the streamlet gushing!
When God had the world’s foundations rear’d;
Through mead and through tree what a sound is rushing,
How joyously is the streamlet gushing!
With flapping noise all the coffins close—
The harpers reel to their dull repose;
And now, from a thousand coffins springing,
Come other bards, who are gladly singing.
The harpers reel to their dull repose;
And now, from a thousand coffins springing,
Come other bards, who are gladly singing.
A race for an endless time I see,
Who have suck’d at the breast of eternity;
Their eye is so mild, yet it shines like lightning—
Their face with love’s rosy tint is bright’ning.
Who have suck’d at the breast of eternity;
Their eye is so mild, yet it shines like lightning—
Their face with love’s rosy tint is bright’ning.
They strike the sounding harp with fire,
They raise it on high—that gallant choir;
As an avalanche-fall, as a seraph song,
It echoes the spacious fields along.
They raise it on high—that gallant choir;
As an avalanche-fall, as a seraph song,
It echoes the spacious fields along.
The waters hear, and they cease to flow—
The roses, as if it were spring-time, blow;
And while the moon is more brightly glancing,
Young fays are around the minstrels dancing.
The roses, as if it were spring-time, blow;
And while the moon is more brightly glancing,
Young fays are around the minstrels dancing.
The tree shakes with joy as the song is heard—
On his branch more sweetly dreams the bird;
And ever at midnight thus sing they,
And “Immortality” is their lay.
On his branch more sweetly dreams the bird;
And ever at midnight thus sing they,
And “Immortality” is their lay.
As greeted with song, and wreath’d with roses,
The sinking sunbeam in the vale reposes;
So sounds a light rustle through earth and air,
Sinking—the bards to their grave repair.
The sinking sunbeam in the vale reposes;
So sounds a light rustle through earth and air,
Sinking—the bards to their grave repair.
Now suddenly have I from slumber woke,
The sun from the eastern sky has broke,
The stones and the graves are closed as before,
And lightly the morning breeze passes o’er.
The sun from the eastern sky has broke,
The stones and the graves are closed as before,
And lightly the morning breeze passes o’er.
But though the minstrels to rest are gone,
And closed are their dwellings every one,
The song of one band I could not forget;
I sang it—and dying, will sing it yet.
And closed are their dwellings every one,
The song of one band I could not forget;
I sang it—and dying, will sing it yet.
But which of the bands has chosen me?
That—all-judging time—must be told by thee,
When over my coffin roses spring,
With one of the bands I my song shall sing.
That—all-judging time—must be told by thee,
When over my coffin roses spring,
With one of the bands I my song shall sing.
- ↑ This is a fictitious name; the author is Count Anton Alexander von Auersperg, but he always writes under the signature of “Anastasius Grün.” He was born in 1806. The metre of the above may seem loose, but it is equally so in the original, the poem being written with a regard to the number of accents, and not to the number of syllables.—J. O.