Page:Prose works, from the original editions (Volume 1).djvu/151

 IX.

Grew dark the night; The moonbeam bright Wax'd faint on the mountain high; And, from the black hill, Went a voice cold and still,— "Monk! thou art free to die."

X.

Then he rose on his feet, And his heart loud did beat, And his limbs they were palsied with dread; Whilst the grave's clammy dew O'er his pale forehead grew; And he shudder'd to sleep with the dead.

XI.

And the wild midnight storm Raved around his tall form, As he sought the chapel's gloom: And the sunk grass did sigh To the wind, bleak and high, As he searched for the new-made tomb.

XII.

And forms, dark and high, Seem'd around him to fly. And mingle their yells with the blast And on the dark wall Half-seen shadows did fall, As enhorror'd he onward pass'd.

XIII.

And the storm-fiend's wild rave O'er the new-made grave, And dread shadows, linger around. The Monk call'd on God his soul to save, And, in horror, sank on the ground.

XIV.

Then despair nerved his arm To dispel the charm, And he burst Rosa's coffin asunder.