And revelled in the empty night-(There, quick another flew ! Another soul! I saw its shroud; like thin flame it ran through ; I hear its shrieking die away!) and there a crazy crew, The willows by the river leer, and beckon her thereto; Oh! Dowsabella, turn you yet,—some devil thirsts for you! And down the open stream the crow went chattering as it flew. Dowsabella, through the silence, crackled through the crickling sedge; Shrinking-ever shrinking-huddled downward to the water's edge, Down the low slope where the rushes, torn and wither'd, freeze and shake, Glittering as her body's writhings through the tanglenesses break, Ever on without a motion, as of some corpse just awake, And whose eyes 'gin burn with fires that now never shall aslake; And her fair limbs strain'd as if some stone some dreadful writhe did make, Yet never moved, yet struggle-strain'd, yet still a writhe did make, And down the river slowly float the icy films and flake. Her tighten'd hair is torn and strangled, straggled through her lips, And round her neck, and round her hand, and lower yet, the tips Run trickling in the stream below, where eke her garment dips; And on without a murmur, and a wanting in her eyes, Looking far, and deep, and down, the water's mysteriesOn she shrinks, yet glideth ever,—downward, down, nor sound, nor sigh. And the waters close above her, Round and round as if they love her, And the bubbles ripple by Along the freezing river, flaking down along the marshy plain, In cold the moonlight streaming, gleaming, flooding in a sheet-ice rain; And one shriek rings into the night, Her soul runs shrieking in hell's pain, Her poor soul in the cold, cold wind, a-melting with its pain. The waters close below, and lounge, and never move again; But wind, and wind, and film, and flake, along the silent plain, And Dowsabella's cry is still-and is she still in pain? NOCTURNE. He sat at a spinet and play'd. He play'd-my beautiful soul with the earnest eyes, He sat at a spinet and play'd. His long firm hands on the music linger'd, and stray'd, Longingly, lovingly-I-(did he know I was by?) I sat in the shade, Away at the window ;-'twas night; there were stars in the sky, And the lone moon rose, as afraid To look on the lovers that stay'd On the terrace below and whisper'd; and high, up high, The full-leaved trembling trees, deep in the night were And I, laid; Sitting there in the shade, Could hear in the distance the hum of the town, and the low soft sighs Of the wind in the trees, and the soothing hushes that stray'd Over the flowers in the garden, that long'd and look'd up to the skies In silence of expectation,-the pause as of one that had prayed. And below in the lounge and the rise And silent ceaseless tides of the river, some sort of music was made, As it glided along to the moon. In my heart was a music likewise, And he sat at the spinet and play'd, My beautiful, beautiful soul, with the earnest eyes. What was I list'ning to? Strange, for it seem'd There was hardly a sound at all; I sat and dream'd and dream'd; And music came in like silence, and moonlight was there, and a call From some late thrush in the walk, and the stars, and the shadows on all, And trembling the ivy that clung to the garden-wall, And murmured some silvery music of silence.-I sat in the shade, While large white films of tranquil moonlight flooded the skies, To far and far down the river. He sat at the spinet and play'd, My beautiful, beautiful soul, with the earnest eyes. Crash! what was that? A silence as loud as a crackling of thunder! My friend had but paused in his playing-I started, deafen'd with wonder. Oh! friend, you are friend no longer, the music has come to an end! My dream has rush'd down from heaven, shatter'd as nothing can mend; Shatter'd, and shatter'd, and shatter'd ;—and this is the end! You are only the god that I worship'd before—no longer the friend! For your soul seem'd beck'ning to mine; I follow'd I knew not why, |