THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 41
CHAPTER XIV
Call up him, that left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold.
MILTON
On the following morning, as Emily sat in the
parlour adjoining the library, reflecting on the scene of the preceding night,
Annette rushed wildly into the room, and, without speaking, sunk breathless
into a chair. It was some time before she could answer the anxious enquiries of
Emily, as to the occasion of her emotion, but, at length, she exclaimed, 'I
have seen his ghost, madam, I have seen his ghost!'
'Who do you mean?' said Emily, with extreme
impatience.
'It came in from the hall, madam,' continued Annette,
'as I was crossing to the parlour.'
'Who are you speaking of?' repeated Emily, 'Who
came in from the hall?
'It was dressed just as I have seen him, often and
often,' added Annette. 'Ah! who could have thought—'
Emily's patience was now exhausted, and she was
reprimanding her for such idle fancies, when a servant entered the room, and
informed her, that a stranger without begged leave to speak with her.
It immediately occurred to Emily, that this
stranger was Valancourt, and she told the servant to inform him, that she was
engaged, and could not see any person.
The servant, having delivered his message, returned
with one from the stranger, urging the first request, and saying, that he had
something of consequence to communicate; while Annette, who had hitherto sat
silent and amazed, now started up, and crying, 'It is Ludovico!—it is
Ludovico!' ran out of the room. Emily bade the servant follow her, and, if it
really was Ludovico, to shew him into the parlour.
In a few minutes, Ludovico appeared, accompanied by
Annette, who, as joy rendered her forgetful of all rules of decorum towards her
mistress, would not suffer any person to be heard, for some time, but herself.
Emily expressed surprise and satisfaction, on seeing Ludovico in safety, and the
first emotions increased, when he delivered letters from Count De Villefort and
the Lady Blanche, informing her of their late adventure, and of their present
situation at an inn among the Pyrenees, where they had been detained by the
illness of Mons. St. Foix, and the indisposition of Blanche, who added, that
the Baron St. Foix was just arrived to attend his son to his chateau, where he
would remain till the perfect recovery of his wounds, and then return to
Languedoc, but that her father and herself purposed to be at La Vallee, on the
following day. She added, that Emily's presence would be expected at the
approaching nuptials, and begged she would be prepared to proceed, in a few
days to Chateau-le-Blanc. For an account of Ludovico's adventure, she referred
her to himself; and Emily, though much interested, concerning the means, by
which he had disappeared from the north apartments, had the forbearance to
suspend the gratification of her curiosity, till he had taken some refreshment,
and had conversed with Annette, whose joy, on seeing him in safety, could not
have been more extravagant, had he arisen from the grave.
Meanwhile, Emily perused again the letters of her
friends, whose expressions of esteem and kindness were very necessary
consolations to her heart, awakened as it was by the late interview to emotions
of keener sorrow and regret.
The invitation to Chateau-le-Blanc was pressed with
so much kindness by the Count and his daughter, who strengthened it by a
message from the Countess, and the occasion of it was so important to her
friend, that Emily could not refuse to accept it, nor, though she wished to
remain in the quiet shades of her native home, could she avoid perceiving the
impropriety of remaining there alone, since Valancourt was again in the
neighbourhood. Sometimes, too, she thought, that change of scenery and the
society of her friends might contribute, more than retirement, to restore her
to tranquillity.
When Ludovico again appeared, she desired him to
give a detail of his adventure in the north apartments, and to tell by what
means he became a companion of the banditti, with whom the Count had found him.
He immediately obeyed, while Annette, who had not
yet had leisure to ask him many questions, on the subject, prepared to listen,
with a countenance of extreme curiosity, venturing to remind her lady of her
incredulity, concerning spirits, in the castle of Udolpho, and of her own
sagacity in believing in them; while Emily, blushing at the consciousness of
her late credulity, observed, that, if Ludovico's adventure could justify
Annette's superstition, he had probably not been here to relate it.
Ludovico smiled at Annette, and bowed to Emily, and
then began as follows:
'You may remember, madam, that, on the night, when
I sat up in the north chamber, my lord, the Count, and Mons. Henri accompanied
me thither, and that, while they remained there, nothing happened to excite any
alarm. When they were gone I made a fire in the bed-room, and, not being
inclined to sleep, I sat down on the hearth with a book I had brought with me
to divert my mind. I confess I did sometimes look round the chamber, with
something like apprehension—'
'O very like it, I dare say,' interrupted Annette,
'and I dare say too, if the truth was known, you shook from head to foot.'
'Not quite so bad as that,' replied Ludovico,
smiling, 'but several times, as the wind whistled round the castle, and shook
the old casements, I did fancy I heard odd noises, and, once or twice, I got up
and looked about me; but nothing was to be seen, except the grim figures in the
tapestry, which seemed to frown upon me, as I looked at them. I had sat thus
for above an hour,' continued Ludovico, 'when again I thought I heard a noise,
and glanced my eyes round the room, to discover what it came from, but, not
perceiving any thing, I began to read again, and, when I had finished the story
I was upon, I felt drowsy, and dropped asleep. But presently I was awakened by
the noise I had heard before, and it seemed to come from that part of the
chamber, where the bed stood; and then, whether it was the story I had been
reading that affected my spirits, or the strange reports, that had been spread
of these apartments, I don't know, but, when I looked towards the bed again, I
fancied I saw a man's face within the dusky curtains.'
At the mention of this, Emily trembled, and looked
anxiously, remembering the spectacle she had herself witnessed there with
Dorothee.
'I confess, madam, my heart did fail me, at that
instant,' continued Ludovico, 'but a return of the noise drew my attention from
the bed, and I then distinctly heard a sound, like that of a key, turning in a
lock, but what surprised me more was, that I saw no door where the sound seemed
to come from. In the next moment, however, the arras near the bed was slowly
lifted, and a person appeared behind it, entering from a small door in the
wall. He stood for a moment as if half retreating, with his head bending under
the arras which concealed the upper part of his face except his eyes scowling
beneath the tapestry as he held it; and then, while he raised it higher, I saw
the face of another man behind, looking over his shoulder. I know not how it
was, but, though my sword was upon the table before me, I had not the power
just then to seize it, but sat quite still, watching them, with my eyes half
shut as if I was asleep. I suppose they thought me so, and were debating what
they should do, for I heard them whisper, and they stood in the same posture
for the value of a minute, and then, I thought I perceived other faces in the
duskiness beyond the door, and heard louder whispers.'
'This door surprises me,' said Emily, 'because I
understood, that the Count had caused the arras to be lifted, and the walls
examined, suspecting, that they might have concealed a passage through which
you had departed.'
'It does not appear so extraordinary to me, madam,'
replied Ludovico, 'that this door should escape notice, because it was formed
in a narrow compartment, which appeared to be part of the outward wall, and, if
the Count had not passed over it, he might have thought it was useless to
search for a door where it seemed as if no passage could communicate with one;
but the truth was, that the passage was formed within the wall itself.—But, to
return to the men, whom I saw obscurely beyond the door, and who did not suffer
me to remain long in suspense, concerning their design. They all rushed into
the room, and surrounded me, though not before I had snatched up my sword to
defend myself. But what could one man do against four? They soon disarmed me,
and, having fastened my arms, and gagged my mouth, forced me through the
private door, leaving my sword upon the table, to assist, as they said, those
who should come in the morning to look for me, in fighting against the ghosts.
They then led me through many narrow passages, cut, as I fancied, in the walls,
for I had never seen them before, and down several flights of steps, till we
came to the vaults underneath the castle; and then opening a stone door, which I
should have taken for the wall itself, we went through a long passage, and down
other steps cut in the solid rock, when another door delivered us into a cave.
After turning and twining about, for some time, we reached the mouth of it, and
I found myself on the sea-beach at the foot of the cliffs, with the chateau
above. A boat was in waiting, into which the ruffians got, forcing me along
with them, and we soon reached a small vessel, that was at anchor, where other
men appeared, when setting me aboard, two of the fellows who had seized me,
followed, and the other two rowed back to the shore, while we set sail. I soon
found out what all this meant, and what was the business of these men at the
chateau. We landed in Rousillon, and, after lingering several days about the
shore, some of their comrades came down from the mountains, and carried me with
them to the fort, where I remained till my Lord so unexpectedly arrived, for
they had taken good care to prevent my running away, having blindfolded me,
during the journey, and, if they had not done this, I think I never could have
found my road to any town, through the wild country we traversed. After I
reached the fort I was watched like a prisoner, and never suffered to go out,
without two or three companions, and I became so weary of life, that I often
wished to get rid of it.'
'Well, but they let you talk,' said Annette, 'they
did not gagg you after they got you away from the chateau, so I don't see what
reason there was to be so very weary of living; to say nothing about the chance
you had of seeing me again.'
Ludovico smiled, and Emily also, who enquired what
was the motive of these men for carrying him off.
'I soon found out, madam,' resumed Ludovico, 'that
they were pirates, who had, during many years, secreted their spoil in the
vaults of the castle, which, being so near the sea, suited their purpose well.
To prevent detection they had tried to have it believed, that the chateau was
haunted, and, having discovered the private way to the north apartments, which
had been shut up ever since the death of the lady marchioness, they easily
succeeded. The housekeeper and her husband, who were the only persons, that had
inhabited the castle, for some years, were so terrified by the strange noises
they heard in the nights, that they would live there no longer; a report soon
went abroad, that it was haunted, and the whole country believed this the more
readily, I suppose, because it had been said, that the lady marchioness had
died in a strange way, and because my lord never would return to the place
afterwards.'
'But why,' said Emily, 'were not these pirates
contented with the cave—why did they think it necessary to deposit their spoil
in the castle?'
'The cave, madam,' replied Ludovico, 'was open to
any body, and their treasures would not long have remained undiscovered there,
but in the vaults they were secure so long as the report prevailed of their
being haunted. Thus then, it appears, that they brought at midnight, the spoil
they took on the seas, and kept it till they had opportunities of disposing of
it to advantage. The pirates were connected with Spanish smugglers and
banditti, who live among the wilds of the Pyrenees, and carry on various kinds
of traffic, such as nobody would think of; and with this desperate horde of
banditti I remained, till my lord arrived. I shall never forget what I felt,
when I first discovered him—I almost gave him up for lost! but I knew, that, if
I shewed myself, the banditti would discover who he was, and probably murder us
all, to prevent their secret in the chateau being detected. I, therefore, kept
out of my lord's sight, but had a strict watch upon the ruffians, and
determined, if they offered him or his family violence, to discover myself, and
fight for our lives. Soon after, I overheard some of them laying a most
diabolical plan for the murder and plunder of the whole party, when I contrived
to speak to some of my lord's attendants, telling them what was going forward,
and we consulted what was best to be done; meanwhile my lord, alarmed at the
absence of the Lady Blanche, demanded her, and the ruffians having given some
unsatisfactory answer, my lord and Mons. St. Foix became furious, so then we
thought it a good time to discover the plot, and rushing into the chamber, I
called out, "Treachery! my lord count, defend yourself!" His lordship
and the chevalier drew their swords directly, and a hard battle we had, but we
conquered at last, as, madam, you are already informed of by my Lord Count.'
'This is an extraordinary adventure,' said Emily,
'and much praise is due, Ludovico, to your prudence and intrepidity. There are
some circumstances, however, concerning the north apartments, which still
perplex me; but, perhaps, you may be able to explain them. Did you ever hear
the banditti relate any thing extraordinary of these rooms?'
'No, madam,' replied Ludovico, 'I never heard them
speak about the rooms, except to laugh at the credulity of the old housekeeper,
who once was very near catching one of the pirates; it was since the Count
arrived at the chateau, he said, and he laughed heartily as he related the
trick he had played off.'
A blush overspread Emily's cheek, and she
impatiently desired Ludovico to explain himself.
'Why, my lady,' said he, 'as this fellow was, one
night in the bed-room, he heard somebody approaching through the next
apartment, and not having time to lift up the arras, and unfasten the door, he
hid himself in the bed just by. There he lay for some time in as great a
fright, I suppose—'
'As you was in,' interrupted Annette, 'when you sat
up so boldly to watch by yourself.'
'Aye,' said Ludovico, 'in as great a fright as he
ever made any body else suffer; and presently the housekeeper and some other
person came up to the bed, when he, thinking they were going to examine it,
bethought him, that his only chance of escaping detection, was by terrifying
them; so he lifted up the counterpane, but that did not do, till he raised his
face above it, and then they both set off, he said, as if they had seen the
devil, and he got out of the rooms undiscovered.'
Emily could not forbear smiling at this explanation
of the deception, which had given her so much superstitious terror, and was
surprised, that she could have suffered herself to be thus alarmed, till she
considered, that, when the mind has once begun to yield to the weakness of
superstition, trifles impress it with the force of conviction. Still, however,
she remembered with awe the mysterious music, which had been heard, at
midnight, near Chateau-le-Blanc, and she asked Ludovico if he could give any
explanation of it; but he could not.
'I only know, madam,' he added, 'that it did not
belong to the pirates, for I have heard them laugh about it, and say, they
believed the devil was in league with them there.'
'Yes, I will answer for it he was,' said Annette,
her countenance brightening, 'I was sure all along, that he or his spirits had
something to do with the north apartments, and now you see, madam, I am right
at last.'
'It cannot be denied, that his spirits were very
busy in that part of the chateau,' replied Emily, smiling. 'But I am surprised,
Ludovico, that these pirates should persevere in their schemes, after the
arrival of the Count; what could they expect but certain detection?'
'I have reason to believe, madam,' replied
Ludovico, 'that it was their intention to persevere no longer than was
necessary for the removal of the stores, which were deposited in the vaults;
and it appeared, that they had been employed in doing so from within a short
period after the Count's arrival; but, as they had only a few hours in the
night for this business, and were carrying on other schemes at the same time,
the vaults were not above half emptied, when they took me away. They gloried
exceedingly in this opportunity of confirming the superstitious reports, that
had been spread of the north chambers, were careful to leave every thing there
as they had found it, the better to promote the deception, and frequently, in
their jocose moods, would laugh at the consternation, which they believed the
inhabitants of the castle had suffered upon my disappearing, and it was to
prevent the possibility of my betraying their secret, that they had removed me
to such a distance. From that period they considered the chateau as nearly
their own; but I found from the discourse of their comrades, that, though they
were cautious, at first, in shewing their power there, they had once very
nearly betrayed themselves. Going, one night, as was their custom, to the north
chambers to repeat the noises, that had occasioned such alarm among the
servants, they heard, as they were about to unfasten the secret door, voices in
the bed-room. My lord has since told me, that himself and M. Henri were then in
the apartment, and they heard very extraordinary sounds of lamentation, which
it seems were made by these fellows, with their usual design of spreading
terror; and my lord has owned, he then felt somewhat more, than surprise; but,
as it was necessary to the peace of his family, that no notice should be taken,
he was silent on the subject, and enjoined silence to his son.'
Emily, recollecting the change, that had appeared
in the spirits of the Count, after the night, when he had watched in the north
room, now perceived the cause of it; and, having made some further enquiries
upon this strange affair, she dismissed Ludovico, and went to give orders for
the accommodation of her friends, on the following day.
In the evening, Theresa, lame as she was, came to
deliver the ring, with which Valancourt had entrusted her, and, when she
presented it, Emily was much affected, for she remembered to have seen him wear
it often in happier days. She was, however, much displeased, that Theresa had
received it, and positively refused to accept it herself, though to have done
so would have afforded her a melancholy pleasure. Theresa entreated,
expostulated, and then described the distress of Valancourt, when he had given
the ring, and repeated the message, with which he had commissioned her to
deliver it; and Emily could not conceal the extreme sorrow this recital
occasioned her, but wept, and remained lost in thought.
'Alas! my dear young lady!' said Theresa, 'why
should all this be? I have known you from your infancy, and it may well be
supposed I love you, as if you was my own, and wish as much to see you happy.
M. Valancourt, to be sure, I have not known so long, but then I have reason to
love him, as though he was my own son. I know how well you love one another, or
why all this weeping and wailing?' Emily waved her hand for Theresa to be
silent, who, disregarding the signal, continued, 'And how much you are alike in
your tempers and ways, and, that, if you were married, you would be the
happiest couple in the whole province—then what is there to prevent your
marrying? Dear dear! to see how some people fling away their happiness, and
then cry and lament about it, just as if it was not their own doing, and as if there
was more pleasure in wailing and weeping, than in being at peace. Learning, to
be sure, is a fine thing, but, if it teaches folks no better than that, why I
had rather be without it; if it would teach them to be happier, I would say
something to it, then it would be learning and wisdom too.'
Age and long services had given Theresa a privilege
to talk, but Emily now endeavoured to check her loquacity, and, though she felt
the justness of some of her remarks, did not choose to explain the
circumstances, that had determined her conduct towards Valancourt. She,
therefore, only told Theresa, that it would much displease her to hear the
subject renewed; that she had reasons for her conduct, which she did not think
it proper to mention, and that the ring must be returned, with an assurance,
that she could not accept it with propriety; and, at the same time, she forbade
Theresa to repeat any future message from Valancourt, as she valued her esteem
and kindness. Theresa was afflicted, and made another attempt, though feeble,
to interest her for Valancourt, but the unusual displeasure, expressed in
Emily's countenance, soon obliged her to desist, and she departed in wonder and
lamentation.
To relieve her mind, in some degree, from the
painful recollections, that intruded upon it, Emily busied herself in
preparations for the journey into Languedoc, and, while Annette, who assisted
her, spoke with joy and affection of the safe return of Ludovico, she was
considering how she might best promote their happiness, and determined, if it
appeared, that his affection was as unchanged as that of the simple and honest
Annette, to give her a marriage portion, and settle them on some part of her
estate. These considerations led her to the remembrance of her father's
paternal domain, which his affairs had formerly compelled him to dispose of to
M. Quesnel, and which she frequently wished to regain, because St. Aubert had
lamented, that the chief lands of his ancestors had passed into another family,
and because they had been his birth-place and the haunt of his early years. To
the estate at Tholouse she had no peculiar attachment, and it was her wish to
dispose of this, that she might purchase her paternal domains, if M. Quesnel
could be prevailed on to part with them, which, as he talked much of living in
Italy, did not appear very improbable.
CHAPTER XV
Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,
The bees' collected treasures sweet,
Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet
The still, small voice of gratitude.
GRAY
On the following day, the arrival of her friend
revived the drooping Emily, and La Vallee became once more the scene of social
kindness and of elegant hospitality. Illness and the terror she had suffered
had stolen from Blanche much of her sprightliness, but all her affectionate
simplicity remained, and, though she appeared less blooming, she was not less
engaging than before. The unfortunate adventure on the Pyrenees had made the
Count very anxious to reach home, and, after little more than a week's stay at
La Vallee, Emily prepared to set out with her friends for Languedoc, assigning
the care of her house, during her absence, to Theresa. On the evening,
preceding her departure, this old servant brought again the ring of Valancourt,
and, with tears, entreated her mistress to receive it, for that she had neither
seen, or heard of M. Valancourt, since the night when he delivered it to her.
As she said this, her countenance expressed more alarm, than she dared to
utter; but Emily, checking her own propensity to fear, considered, that he had
probably returned to the residence of his brother, and, again refusing to
accept the ring, bade Theresa preserve it, till she saw him, which, with
extreme reluctance, she promised to do.
On the following day, Count De Villefort, with
Emily and the Lady Blanche, left La Vallee, and, on the ensuing evening,
arrived at the Chateau-le-Blanc, where the Countess, Henri, and M. Du Pont,
whom Emily was surprised to find there, received them with much joy and
congratulation. She was concerned to observe, that the Count still encouraged
the hopes of his friend, whose countenance declared, that his affection had
suffered no abatement from absence; and was much distressed, when, on the
second evening after her arrival, the Count, having withdrawn her from the Lady
Blanche, with whom she was walking, renewed the subject of M. Du Pont's hopes.
The mildness, with which she listened to his intercessions at first, deceiving
him, as to her sentiments, he began to believe, that, her affection for
Valancourt being overcome, she was, at length, disposed to think favourably of
M. Du Pont; and, when she afterwards convinced him of his mistake, he ventured,
in the earnestness of his wish to promote what he considered to be the
happiness of two persons, whom he so much esteemed, gently to remonstrate with
her, on thus suffering an ill-placed affection to poison the happiness of her
most valuable years.
Observing her silence and the deep dejection of her
countenance, he concluded with saying, 'I will not say more now, but I will
still believe, my dear Mademoiselle St. Aubert, that you will not always reject
a person, so truly estimable as my friend Du Pont.'
He spared her the pain of replying, by leaving her;
and she strolled on, somewhat displeased with the Count for having persevered
to plead for a suit, which she had repeatedly rejected, and lost amidst the
melancholy recollections, which this topic had revived, till she had insensibly
reached the borders of the woods, that screened the monastery of St. Clair,
when, perceiving how far she had wandered, she determined to extend her walk a
little farther, and to enquire about the abbess and some of her friends among
the nuns.
Though the evening was now drawing to a close, she
accepted the invitation of the friar, who opened the gate, and, anxious to meet
some of her old acquaintances, proceeded towards the convent parlour. As she
crossed the lawn, that sloped from the front of the monastery towards the sea,
she was struck with the picture of repose, exhibited by some monks, sitting in
the cloisters, which extended under the brow of the woods, that crowned this
eminence; where, as they meditated, at this twilight hour, holy subjects, they
sometimes suffered their attention to be relieved by the scene before them, nor
thought it profane to look at nature, now that it had exchanged the brilliant
colours of day for the sober hue of evening. Before the cloisters, however,
spread an ancient chesnut, whose ample branches were designed to screen the
full magnificence of a scene, that might tempt the wish to worldly pleasures;
but still, beneath the dark and spreading foliage, gleamed a wide extent of
ocean, and many a passing sail; while, to the right and left, thick woods were
seen stretching along the winding shores. So much as this had been admitted,
perhaps, to give to the secluded votary an image of the dangers and
vicissitudes of life, and to console him, now that he had renounced its
pleasures, by the certainty of having escaped its evils. As Emily walked pensively
along, considering how much suffering she might have escaped, had she become a
votaress of the order, and remained in this retirement from the time of her
father's death, the vesper-bell struck up, and the monks retired slowly toward
the chapel, while she, pursuing her way, entered the great hall, where an
unusual silence seemed to reign. The parlour too, which opened from it, she
found vacant, but, as the evening bell was sounding, she believed the nuns had
withdrawn into the chapel, and sat down to rest, for a moment, before she
returned to the chateau, where, however, the increasing gloom made her now
anxious to be.
Not many minutes had elapsed, before a nun,
entering in haste, enquired for the abbess, and was retiring, without
recollecting Emily, when she made herself known, and then learned, that a mass
was going to be performed for the soul of sister Agnes, who had been declining,
for some time, and who was now believed to be dying.
Of her sufferings the sister gave a melancholy
account, and of the horrors, into which she had frequently started, but which
had now yielded to a dejection so gloomy, that neither the prayers, in which
she was joined by the sisterhood, or the assurances of her confessor, had power
to recall her from it, or to cheer her mind even with a momentary gleam of
comfort.
To this relation Emily listened with extreme
concern, and, recollecting the frenzied manners and the expressions of horror,
which she had herself witnessed of Agnes, together with the history, that
sister Frances had communicated, her compassion was heightened to a very
painful degree. As the evening was already far advanced, Emily did not now
desire to see her, or to join in the mass, and, after leaving many kind
remembrances with the nun, for her old friends, she quitted the monastery, and
returned over the cliffs towards the chateau, meditating upon what she had just
heard, till, at length she forced her mind upon less interesting subjects.
The wind was high, and as she drew near the
chateau, she often paused to listen to its awful sound, as it swept over the
billows, that beat below, or groaned along the surrounding woods; and, while
she rested on a cliff at a short distance from the chateau, and looked upon the
wide waters, seen dimly beneath the last shade of twilight, she thought of the
following address:
TO THE WINDS
Viewless, through heaven's vast vault your
course ye steer,
Unknown from whence ye come, or whither go!
Mysterious pow'rs! I hear ye murmur low,
Till swells your loud gust on my startled ear,
And, awful! seems to say—some God is near!
I love to list your midnight voices float
In the dread storm, that o'er the ocean rolls,
And, while their charm the angry wave
controuls,
Mix with its sullen roar, and sink remote.
Then, rising in the pause, a sweeter note,
The dirge of spirits, who your deeds bewail,
A sweeter note oft swells while sleeps the
gale!
But soon, ye sightless pow'rs! your rest is
o'er,
Solemn and slow, ye rise upon the air,
Speak in the shrouds, and bid the sea-boy
fear,
And the faint-warbled dirge—is heard no more!
Oh! then I deprecate your awful reign!
The loud lament yet bear not on your breath!
Bear not the crash of bark far on the main,
Bear not the cry of men, who cry in vain,
The crew's dread chorus sinking into death!
Oh! give not these, ye pow'rs! I ask alone,
As rapt I climb these dark romantic steeps,
The elemental war, the billow's moan;
I ask the still, sweet tear, that listening
Fancy weeps!
To be continued
