The bell struck one, and shook the silent tower; The graves give up their dead: fair Elenor Walk’d by the castle gate, and look?d in. A hollow groan ran thro’ the dreary vaults. She shriek’d aloud, and sunk upon the steps, On the cold stone her pale cheeks. Sickly smells Of death issue as from a sepulchre, And all is silent but the sighing vaults.
Chill Death withdraws his hand, and she revives; Amaz’d, she finds herself upon her feet, And, like a ghost, thro’ narrow passages Walking, feeling the cold walls with her hands.
Fancy returns, and now she thinks of bones And grinning skulls, and corruptible death Wrapp’d in his shroud; and now fancies she hears Deep sighs, and sees pale sickly ghosts gliding.
At length, no fancy but reality Distracts her. A rushing sound, and the feet Of one that fled, approaches–Ellen stood Like a dumb statue, froze to stone with fear.
The wretch approaches, crying: `The deed is done; Take this, and send it by whom thou wilt send; It is my life–send it to Elenor:– He’s dead, and howling after me for blood!
`Take this,’ he cried; and thrust into her arms A wet napkin, wrapp’d about; then rush’d Past, howling: she receiv’d into her arms Pale death, and follow’d on the wings of fear.
They pass’d swift thro’ the outer gate; the wretch, Howling, leap’d o’er the wall into the moat, Stifling in mud. Fair Ellen pass’d the bridge, And heard a gloomy voice cry `Is it done?’
As the deer wounded, Ellen flew over The pathless plain; as the arrows that fly By night, destruction flies, and strikes in darkness. She fled from fear, till at her house arriv’d.
Her maids await her; on her bed she falls, That bed of joy, where erst her lord hath press’d: `Ah, woman’s fear!’ she cried; `ah, curs?d duke! Ah, my dear lord! ah, wretched Elenor!
`My lord was like a flower upon the brows Of lusty May! Ah, life as frail as flower! O ghastly death! withdraw thy cruel hand, Seek’st thou that flow’r to deck thy horrid temples?
`My lord was like a star in highest heav’n Drawn down to earth by spells and wickedness; My lord was like the opening eyes of day When western winds creep softly o’er the flowers;
`But he is darken’d; like the summer’s noon Clouded; fall’n like the stately tree, cut down; The breath of heaven dwelt among his leaves. O Elenor, weak woman, fill’d with woe!’
Thus having spoke, she rais?d up her head, And saw the bloody napkin by her side, Which in her arms she brought; and now, tenfold More terrifi?d, saw it unfold itself.
Her eyes were fix’d; the bloody cloth unfolds, Disclosing to her sight the murder’d head Of her dear lord, all ghastly pale, clotted With gory blood; it groan’d, and thus it spake:
`O Elenor, I am thy husband’s head, Who, sleeping on the stones of yonder tower, Was ‘reft of life by the accurs?d duke! A hir?d villain turn’d my sleep to death!
`O Elenor, beware the curs?d duke; O give not him thy hand, now I am dead; He seeks thy love; who, coward, in the night, Hir?d a villain to bereave my life.’
She sat with dead cold limbs, stiffen’d to stone; She took the gory head up in her arms; She kiss’d the pale lips; she had no tears to shed; She hugg’d it to her breast, and groan’d her last.
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Some external links: The Bat’s Poetry Cave. — Fledermaus’s poetry site. Talking Writing Monster. — the irreverent and irrelevant chatter on subjects both serious and not quite. A free for all board. You can scribble anything on it without registration (but it doesn’t let spammers in). You can even post your poems. Qwant.com. — a search engine from France. It’s an alternative because there are a few alternatives, like Bing, Duckduckgo, and Ecosia. And there is Yandex, the ultimate language-oriented search engine for the Russophone world. Commercial Links: Russian Commerce – the foreign trade assistance agency Other links: Poems and poetry in Russian (if you are reading this in English, as you obviously are, then you’d have to switch the language, the language switch is on the menu. More on languages)
William Blake(1757 – 1827)was an English poet, painter, and printmaker. Largely unrecognised during his lifetime, Blake is now considered a seminal figure in the history of the poetry and visual arts of the Romantic Age.
