Page:A Tale of the Secret Tribunal.pdf/30

 She reach'd alone and shadowy dell, Where the free sunbeam never fell; 'Twas twilight there at summer-moon, Deep night beneath the harvest-moon, And scarce might one bright star be seen Gleaming the tangled boughs between; For many a giant rock around, Dark, in terrific grandeur, frown'd, And the ancient oaks, that wav'd on high, Shut out each glimpse of the blessed sky. There the cold spring, in its shadowy cave, Ne'er to Heaven's beam one sparkle gave, And the wild-flower, on its brink that grew, Caught not from day one glowing hue.

'Twas said, some fearful deed untold, Had stain'd that scene in days of old; Tradition o'er the haunt had thrown A shade yet deeper than its own, And still, amidst th' umbrageous gloom, Perchance above some victim's tomb, O'ergrown with ivy and with moss, There stood a rudely-sculptur'd Cross, Which haply silent record bore, Of guilt and penitence of yore.

Who by that holy sign was kneeling, With brow unutter'd pangs revealing, Hands clasp'd convulsively in prayer, And lifted eyes, and streaming hair, And cheek, all pale as marble mould, Seen by the moonbeam’s radiance cold? Was it some image of despair, Still fix'd that stamp of woe to bear? —Oh! ne'er could Art her forms have wrought, To speak such agonies of thought!