Classic Poem

On either side the Loom of Life
The Fatal Sisters take their seat,
Obnoxious these, for mischief rife,
Those friendly still, of aspect sweet;

While these the sable tissue weave,
And deeply stamp with many a tear,
Those for the human victim grieve,
And draw their threads of colour clear.

Unconscious of the equal flame
That A NGELA'S chaste bosom fires,
To muse upon that matchless dame,
Lo! where sad F LORIZEL retires;

Where the pale vapour idly flits
Athwart yon misty mountain gray,
The melancholy mourner sits,
And, silent, wastes the weary day!

No sound disturbs the dread serene,
No busy pinion cleaves the air,
Save when the blast's still pause between,
Screams the wing'd Herald of Despair.

'Tis night's dead noon!—Ye Sprites benign!
Whom Innocence ne'er calls in vain,
Effulgent forms! in mercy shine,
In mercy to your favor'd Swain;

I see him lift his manly arm!
His manly arm confin'd I see!
Has Virtue then no secret charm?
Ah! Virtue has no charm for thee!

A Robber-band the youth surround,
They mock his wild, unweapon'd force,
Furious, they press him, strongly bound,
And, darkling, bend their mystic course;

And now the cavern's mouth they gain,
Beneath the mountain's horrid brow,
In haste they loose his clanking chain,
And meek obedience greets him now.

But who is he, of loftier port,
Of loftier port, but look severe,
Who lends the trembling youth support,
And scarce with-holds the starting tear?

He waves the ruffians to retire:
And while along his haggard cheeks
Flashes a momentary fire,
In smother'd sighs the Bandit speaks:

“By stealth, for many a year, I've view'd
Thy tender age to manhood grow,
I've seen thee valiant, great, and good,
Oh! anguish! with my deadliest foe,

That foe no longer shall be mine,
And thou the just revenge shall aid,
With filial force the bold design
Effect; and slight yon witching maid!

Nay, stare not so: I cast thee forth,
I left thee mid the forest wild,
Noble in manners, as in birth,
Oh! A RIBERT ! thou art my Child!”

WhOnow can paint the light'ning-flush
That mantled o'er the father's face?
Or who the thousand pangs, that rush
On the son's soul, distinctly trace?

Convuls'd with stupid woe, he stands,
As marble cold, as marble pale,
While wringing sore his palsy'd hands,
The Robber, thus, renews his tale.

“Full many a withering blast has blown,
Dire-beating on my fenceless head,
Since, with misfortune savage grown,
To those accurst compeers I fled;

U BALDO 's sire, by false assign,
Fell Guardian! held yon wide domain
In charge, which shortly shall be thine,
But ne'er return'd his charge again,

Love was the fault, the purest love,
With firmest constancy combin'd;
Oh Son, thy Mother's worth approve,
Thy Mother's wrongs shall steel thy mind!

What tho' a village-virgin born,
The inmate of the humble vale,
Oft from the thicket's rudest thorn
The wild-rose scents the passing gale.

Ah! early lost! can I forget
Thy placid smile of feign'd repose,
Thy balmy kiss, attemp'ring sweet
The poison'd chalice of my woes!

Can I forget that wint'ry night,
When, harsher than the thunder's tone,
Sir H UGO sternly claim'd my right,
And call'd yon hated tow'rs his own!

My E MMA saw the rushing gloom,
That soon my ruin'd fortune prest;
Ah! fairest flow'r of forest bloom!
She saw, and faded on my breast.

Mad with despair, this band I sought,
Yon moon has heard the solemn vow:
Let vengeance fire thy filial thought,
What was I once? what am I now?”

Here, as by speechless grief o'ercome,
Awhile he paus'd with icy glare,
Then fell; in mutual anguish dumb,
Stood A RIBERT , with horrent hair.

Soon as relaps'd the vital tide,
The Sire, still threat'ning to be true,
Conducted down the mountain's side
His Son, and vanish'd from his view.

What was his terror? his surprize?
A father found! a father lost!
This one to save, the other dies,
And all his fairy passion crost!

Not so—not so—he must not die!
The widow's succour, orphan's aid,
Nor shalt thou for a parent sigh,
Dear A NGELA , devoted maid!

Not so—not so—thou must not moan
A lover, faithless and ingrate,
There is a Pow'r, when hope is gone,
All hope, can over-rule our fate!

Not so—not so—his guiltless hand
With murder never shall be dy'd,
By strength unseen, a seraph-band
Shall turn the thirsty sword aside!

Such were the agonies intense
That his distracted bosom rent,
As shuddering frore in every sense,
He, homeward, to the castle went.

And now, amid the dusky steam,
The modest morn peer'd o'er the hill,
And, promis'd by a golden gleam,
Larks hail'd the Sun in carols shrill.