EDDERLINE’S SLEEP.

  Castle-Oban is lost in the darkness of night,
  For the moon is swept from the starless heaven,
  And the latest line of lowering light
  That lingered on the stormy even,
  A dim-seen line, half cloud, half wave,
  Hath sunk into the weltering grave. 
  Castle-Oban is dark without and within,
  And downwards to the fearful din,
  Where Ocean with his thunder shocks
  Stuns the green foundation rocks,
  Through the green abyss that mocks his eye,
  Oft hath the eerie watchman sent
  A shuddering look, a shivering sigh,
  From the edge of the howling battlement!

  Therein is a lonesome room,
  Undisturbed as some old tomb
  That, built within a forest glen,
  Far from feet of living men,
  And sheltered by its black pine-trees
  From sound of rivers, lochs, and seas,
  Flings back its arched gateway tall,
  At times to some great funeral! 
  Noiseless as a central cell
  In the bosom of a mountain
  Where the fairy people dwell,
  By the cold and sunless fountain! 
  Breathless as a holy shrine,
  When the voice of psalms is shed! 
  And there upon her stately bed,
  While her raven locks recline
  O’er an arm more pure than snow,
  Motionless beneath her head,—­
  And through her large fair eyelids shine
  Shadowy dreams that come and go,
  By too deep bliss disquieted,—­
  There sleeps in love and beauty’s glow,
  The high-born Lady Edderline.

  Lo! the lamp’s wan fitful light,
  Glide,—­gliding round the golden rim! 
  Restored to life, now glancing bright,
  Now just expiring, faint and dim! 
  Like a spirit loath to die,
  Contending with its destiny. 
  All dark! a momentary veil
  Is o’er the sleeper! now a pale
  Uncertain beauty glimmers faint,
  And now the calm face of the saint
  With every feature re-appears,
  Celestial in unconscious tears! 
  Another gleam! how sweet the while,
  Those pictured faces on the wall,
  Through the midnight silence smile! 
  Shades of fair ones, in the aisle
  Vaulted the castle cliffs below,
  To nothing mouldered, one and all,
  Ages long ago!

  From her pillow, as if driven
  By an unseen demon’s hand
  Disturbing the repose of heaven,
  Hath fallen her head!  The long black hair
  From the fillet’s silken band
  In dishevelled masses riven,
  Is streaming downwards to the floor. 
  Is the last convulsion o’er? 
  And will that length of glorious tresses,
  So laden with the soul’s distresses. 
  By those fair hands in morning light,
  Above those eyelids opening bright,
  Be braided nevermore! 
  No, the lady is not dead,
  Though flung thus wildly o’er her bed;
  Like a wretched corse upon the shore,
  That lies until the morning brings