“No rest nor comfort can I find, I watch the midnight hour; I sit and listen to the wind Which beats upon my tower.
“Methinks low voices from the ground Break mournful on mine ear, And thro’ these empty chambers sound So dismal and so drear.
“The ghost of some departed friend Doth in my sorrows share; Or is it but the rushing wind That mocketh my despair.
“Sad thro’ the hall the pale lamp gleams Upon my father's arms: My soul is fill'd with gloomy dreams, I fear unknown alarms.
“Oh! I have known this lonely place With ev'ry blessing stor'd; And many a friend with cheerful face Sit smiling at my board,
“Whilst round the fire, in early bloom, My harmless children play'd, Who now within the narrow tomb Are with their mother laid.
“And now low bends my wretched head, And those I lov'd are gone: My friends, my family, all are fled, And I am left alone.
“Oft’ as the cheerless fire declines, In it I sadly trace, As‘ lone I sit, the half form'd lines Of many a much lov'd face.
“But chief, O Marg'ret! to my mind Thy lovely features rise: I strive to think thee less unkind, And wipe my streaming eyes.
“For only thee I had to vaunt, Thou wert thy mother's pride: She left thee like a shooting plant To screen my widow'd side.
“But thou hast left me weak, forlorn, And chill'd with age's frost, To count my weary days, and mourn The comforts I have lost.
“Unkindly fair! why did'st thou go? O, had I known the truth! Tho’ Edward's father was my foe, I would have bless'd the youth.
“O could I see that face again, Whose smile calm'd ev'ry strife! And hear that voice, which sooth'd my pain, And made me wish for life!
“Thy harp hangs silent by the wall: My nights are sad and long: And thou art in a distant hall, Where strangers raise the song.
“Ha! some delusion of the mind My senses doth confound! It was the harp, and not the wind, That did so sweetly sound.”
Old Arno rose, all wan as death, With broken steps of care; And oft’ he check'd his quick-heav'd breath, And turn'd his eager ear.
When like a full, but distant choir The swelling sound return'd; And with the soft and trembling wire, The sighing echoes mourn'd.
Then softly whisper'd o'er the song Which Marg'ret lov'd to play, Like some sweet dirge, and sad, and long, It faintly died away.
His dim-worn eyes to heav'n he cast, Where all his griefs were known; And smote upon his troubled breast, And heav'd a heavy groan.
“I know it is my daughter's hand, But‘ tis no hand of clay: And here a lonely wretch I stand, All childless, bent, and grey.
“And art thou low, my lovely child? And hast thou met thy doom? And has thy flatt'ring morning smil'd, To lead but to the tomb?
“O let me see thee ere we part, For souls like thine are blest; O let me fold thee to my heart If aught of form thou hast.
“This passing mist enrobes thy charms: Alas, to nought‘ tis shrunk! And hollow strike my empty arms Against my aged trunk.
“Thou'rt fled like the low ev'ning breath That sighs upon the hill: O stay! tho’ in thy weeds of death, Thou art my daughter still.”
Loud wak'd the sound, then fainter grew, And long and sadly mourn'd; And softly sigh'd a long adieu, And never more return'd.
Old Arno stretch'd him on the ground, Thick as the gloom of night, Death's misty shadows gather'd round, And swam before his sight.
He heav'd a deep and deadly groan, Which rent his lab'ring breast; And long before the morning shone, His spirit was at rest.
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