Page:Hermit of Warkworth.pdf/19

 Die, traitor, die!—A deadly thrust

Attends each furious word;

Ah! then fair Isabel knew his voice,

And rush’d beneath his sword.

O stop, she cried, O stop thy arm!

Thou dost thy brother slay!—

And here the hermit paus’d and wept;

His tongue no more could say.

At length he cried—Ye lovely pair,

How shall I tell the rest?

Ere I could stop my piercing sword,

It fell and stabb’d her breast!

Wert thou thyself that hapless youth?

Ah! cruel fate! they said—

The hermit wept, and so did they;

They sigh’d; he hung his head.

O blind and jealous rage, he cried,

What evils from thee flow!

The hermit paus’d; they silent mourn’d;

He wept, and they were woe.

Ah! when I heard my brother’s name,

I saw my lady bleed,

I rav’d, I wept, I curs’d my arm

That wrought the fatal deed.

In vain I clasp’d her to my breast,

And clos’d the ghastly wound;

In vain I press’d his bleeding corpse,

And rais’d it from the ground.

My brother, alas! spake never more;

His precious life was flown,

She kindly strove to soothe my pain,

Regardless of her own.

Bertram, she said, be comforted,

And live to think on me:

May we in heaven that union prove,

Which here was not to be!

Bertram, she said, I still was true!

Thou only hadst my heart:

May we hereafter meet in bliss!

We now, alas! must part.

For thee I left my father’s hall,

And flew to thy relief;

When, lo! near Cheviot’s fatal hills

I met a Scottish chief.