He gnash’d his teeth, he stamp’d his iron hoof,
Whirl’d the boy wildly round and round his head,
Hash’d it against the rocks, and howling fled.
Loud shrieks the mother! changed to stone she stands,
And silent lifts to heav’n her clay-cold hands:
Then, sinking down, stretch’d on the deck she lies,
Hid her pale face, and closed her aching eyes.
But hark! why shout the monks?--C£ Again,” they said,
“Again the demon comes!” with desperate dread
Starts the poor wretch, and lifts her anguish’d head.
Yes! there the infant-murderer stood once more,
But now far different were the looks he wore.
No bending knee, no suppliant glance was seen,
Proud was his port, and stern and fierce his mien.
His blood-stain’d eye-balls glared with vengeful ire;
His spreading nostrils seem’d to snort out fire.
Swiftly from crag to crag he following sprung,
While round his neck his shaggy offspring clung;
And now, like some dark tow’r, erect he stood,
Where the last rock hung frowning o’er the flood:--
“Look! look!” he seem’d to say, with action wild,
“Look, mother, look! this babe is still your child!
With him as me all social bonds you break,
Scorn’d and detested for his father’s sake:
My love, my service only wrought disdain,
And nature fed his heart from yours in vain!
Consign your friend, your child to endless woe!
Renounce us! hate us! pleased, your course pursue,
And break their hearts who lived alone for you!”
His eyes, which flash’d red fire--his arms spread wide,
Her child raised high to heaven--too plain implied,
Such were his thoughts, though nature speech denied.
And now with eager glance the deep he view’d,
And now the barge with savage howl pursued;
Then to his lips his infant wildly press’d,
And fondly, fiercely, clasp’d it to his breast:
Three piteous moans, three hideous yells he gave,
Plunged headlong from the rock, and made the sea his
Where, screen’d by orange groves and myrtle bowers,
Saint-favour’d Cintra rears her gothic towers;
A nun there dwells, most holy, sad, and fair,
Her only business penance, fasts, and prayer;
Her only joy with flowers the shrines to dress,
Weep with the suff’ring, and relieve distress.
Showers from her hand to glad each barren plain:
In other eyes she lights up joy, but ne’er
Those eyes of hers were seen a smile to wear: