Part 2 — GOLFRE, A GOTHIC SWISS TALE. IN FIVE PARTS.
Reading edition
Where freezing wastes of dazzl’ing Snow
O’er Leman’s Lake rose, tow’ring;
The Baron Golfre’s Castle strong
Was seen, the silv’ry peaks among,
With ramparts, darkly low’ring!—
Tall Battlements of flint, uprose,
Long shadowing down the valley,
A grove of sombre Pine, antique,
Amid the white expanse would break,
In many a gloomy alley.
180A strong portcullis entrance show’d,
With ivy brown hung over;
And stagnate the green moat was found,
Whene’er the Traveler wander’d round,
Or moon-enamour’d Lover.
Within the spacious Courts were seen
A thousand gothic fancies;
Of banners, trophies, armour bright,
Of shields, thick batter’d in the fight,
And interwoven lances.
The Baron Golfre long had been
To solitude devoted;
And oft, in pray’r would pass the night
’Till day’s vermillion stream of light
Along the blue hill floated.
181And yet, his pray’r was little mark’d
With pure and calm devotion;
For oft, upon the pavement bare,
He’d dash his limbs and rend his hair
With terrible emotion!
And sometimes he, at midnight hour
Would howl, like wolves, wide-prowling;
And pale, the lamps would glimmer round—
And deep, the self-mov’d bell would sound
A knell prophetic, tolling!
For, in the Hall, three lamps were seen,
That quiver’d dim;—and near them
A bell rope hung, that from the Tow’r
Three knells would toll, at midnight’s hour,
Startl’ing the soul to hear them!
182And oft, a dreadful crash was heard,
Shaking the Castle’s chambers!
And suddenly, the lights would turn
To paly grey, and dimly burn,
Like faint and dying embers.
Beneath the steep, a Maiden dwelt,
The dove-eyed Zorietto;
A damsel blest with ev’ry grace—
And springing from as old a race—
As Lady of Loretto!
Her dwelling was a Goatherd’s poor;
Yet she his heart delighted;
Their little hovel open stood,
Beside a lonesome frowning wood,
To travellers—benighted.
183Yet oft, at midnight when the Moon
Its dappled course was steering,
The Castle bell would break their sleep,
And Zorietto slow would creep—
To bar the wicket—fearing!
What did she fear? O! dreadful thought!
The Moon’s wan lustre, streaming;
The dim grey lamps, the crashing sound,
The lonely Bittern—shrieking round
The roof,—with pale light gleaming.
And often, when the wintry wind
Loud whistled o’er their dwelling;
They sat beside their faggot fire
While Zorietto’s aged Sire
A dismal Tale was telling.
184He told a long and dismal Tale
How a fair Lady perish’d;
How her sweet Baby, doom’d to be
The partner of her destiny
Was by a peasant cherish’d!
He told a long and dismal Tale,
How, from a flinty Tow’r
A Lady wailing sad was seen,
The lofty grated bars between,
At dawnlight’s purple hour!
He told a Tale of bitter woe,
His heart with pity swelling,
How the fair Lady pin’d and died,
And how her Ghost, at Christmas-tide—
Would wander,—near her dwelling.
185He told her, how a lowly Dame
The Lady, lorn, befriended—
Who chang’d her own dear baby, dead,
And took the Lady’s in its stead—
And then—“Forgive her Heav’n!” He said,
And so, his Story ended.
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