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Or wander lone, where, wildering and wide,
The tumbling torrent laves St. Gothard's side;
Or by old Tejo's classic margent muse,
Or stand entranced with Pyrenean views;
Still, still to thee, where'er my footsteps roam,
My heart shall point, and lead the wanderer home.
When Splendor offers, and when Fame incites,
I'll pause, and think of all thy dear delights,
Reject the boon, and, wearied with the change,
Renounce the wish which first induced to range;
Turn to these scenes, these well-known scenes

once more,
Trace once again old Trent's romantic shore,
And, tired with worlds, and all their busy ways,
Here waste the little remnant of my days.
But, if the Fates should this last wish deny,
And doom me on some foreign shore to die;
Oh! should it please the world's supernal King,
That weltering waves my funeral dirge shall sing;
Or that my corse should, on some desert strand,
Lie stretch'd beneath the Simoon's blasting hand;
Still, though unwept I find a stranger tomb,
My sprite shall wander through this favourite gloom,
Ride on the wind that sweeps the leafless grove,
Sigh on the wood-blast of the dark alcove,
Sit, a lorn spectre on yon well-known grave,
And mix its moanings with the desert wave.




The night it was still, and the moon it shone

Serenely on the sea,
And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock

They murmur'd pleasantly.

When Gondoline roam'd along the shore,

A maiden full fair to the sight;
Though love had made bleak the rose on her

And turned it to deadly white.

Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear

It fill'd her faint blue eye,
As oft she heard, in Fancy's ear,

Her Bertrand's dying sigh.

Her Bertrand was the bravest youth

Of all our good King's men,
And he was gone to the Holy Land
To fight the Saracen.

And many a month had pass'd away,

And many a rolling year,
But nothing the maid from Palestine

Could of her lover hear.

Full oft she vainly tried to pierce

The Ocean's misty face;
Full oft she thought her lover's bark

She on the wave could trace.

And every night she placed a light

In the high rock's lonely tower, To guide her lover to the land,

Should the murky tempest lower.

But now despair had seized her breast,
And sunken in her

“Oh! tell me but if Bertrand live,

And I in peace will die.”

She wander'd o'er the lonely shore,

The Curlew scream'd above, She heard the scream with a sickening heart

Much boding of her love.

Yet still she kept her lonely way,

And this was all her cry, “Oh! tell me but if Bertrand live,

And I in peace shall die."

And now she came to a horrible rift,
All in the rock's hard side,

A bleak and blasted oak o'erspread

The cavern yawning wide.

And pendant from its dismal top

The deadly nightshade hung; The hemlock and the aconite

Across the mouth were flung.

And all within was dark and drear,

And all without was calm;
Yet Gondoline entered, her soul upheld

By some deep-working charm,


And as she enter'd the cavern wide,

The moonbeam gleamed pale, And she saw a snake on the craggy rock,

It clung by its slimy tail.

Her foot it slipped, and she stood aghast,

She trod on a bloated toad;
Yet, still upheld by the secret charm,

She kept upon her road.

And now upon her frozen ear

Mysterious sounds arose;
So, on the mountain's piny top,

The blustering north wind blows.

Then furious peals of laughter loud

Were heard with thundering sound, Till they died away in soft decay,

Low whispering o'er the ground.

Yet still the maiden onward went,

The charm yet onward led,
Though each big glaring ball of sight

Seem'd bursting from her head.

But now a pale blue light she saw,

It from a distance came,
She followed, till upon her sight,

Burst full a flood of flame.

She stood appall’d; yet still the charm

Upheld her sinking soul;
Yet each bent knee the other smote,

And each wild eye did roll.

And such a sight as she saw there,

No mortal saw before,
And such a sight as she saw there,

No mortal shall see more.

A burning cauldron stood in the midst,

The flame was fierce and high, And all the cave so wide and long,

Was plainly seen thereby.

And round about the cauldron stout

Twelve withered witches stood : Their waists were bound with living snakes,

And their hair was stiff with blood.

Their hands were gory too; and red

And fiercely flamed their eyes :

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