But those wild waves of death and strife Flowed deeply, wildly as before, Though he was reft of light and life, And sunk in death to rise no more.
And he was gone! his mother's smile No more shall welcome his return. Ah! little did she think the while, Her fate through life would be to mourn! And his stern sire; how will he brook The tale that tells his child is low! How will the haughty tyrant look, And writhe beneath the hopeless blow! While conscience, with his vengeance sure, Shall grant no peace, and feel no cure. Aye, weep! for thee, no pitying eye Shall shed the sympathizing tear; Hopeless and childless shalt thou die, And none shall mourn above thy bier. Thy race extinct; no more thy name Shall proudly swell the lists of fame.
Thou art the last! with thee shall die Thy proud descent and lineage high; No more on Barden's hills shall swell The mirth inspiring bugle note; No more o'er mountain, vale and, dell, Its well known sounds shall wildly float. Other sounds shall steal along, Other music swell the song; The deep funeral wail of wo, In solemn cadence, now shall spread Its strains of sorrow, sad and slow, In requiem dirges for the dead.
Why has the Lady left her home, And quitted every earthly care, And sought, in deep monastic gloom, The holy balm that centres there? Oh! ill that Lady's eye could brook On those deserted scenes to look, Where she so oft had marked her child, With all a mother's joy and smiled, For not a shrub, or tree or flower, But brought to mind some happy hour, And called to life some vision fair. When her young hope stood smiling there.
But he was gone! and what had she To do with love, or hope, or pride, For every feeling, warm and free, Had left her when young Duncan died; And she had nought on earth beside. One single throb was lingering yet, And that forbade her to forget; Forget! what spell can calm the soul? Should memory o'er its pulses roll Through almost every night of grief, We still hope for the morrow; But what to those can bring relief, Who pine in endless sorrow.
Sad solitary thought! that keeps thy vigils, Thy solemn vigils in the sick man's mind; Communing lonely with his sinking soul, And musing on the dim obscurity around him! Thee! rapt in thy dark magnificence, I call At this still midnight hour, this awful season, When on my bed in wakeful restlessness, I turn me, weary: while all around, All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness, I only wake to watch the sickly taper that lights, Me to my tomb. Yes, 'tis the hand of death I feel press heavy on my vitals; Slow sapping the warm current of existence; My moments now are few! e'en now I feel the knife, the separating knife, divide The tender chords that tie my soul To earth. Yes, I must die, I feel that I _must_ die And though to me has life been dark and dreary Though smiling Hope, has lured but to deceive, And disappointment still pursued its blandishments, Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me, As I contemplate the grim gulf,--