Ghosts of the dead! have I not heard your yelling
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the blast,[1]
When o'er the dark ether the tempest is swelling,
And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal past?
For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura,
Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath;
Oft have I brav'd the chill night-tempest's fury.
Whilst around me, I thought, echo'd murmurs of death.
And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling,
O father! thy voice seems to strike on mine ear;
In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is rolling,
It breaks on the pause of the elements' jar.
On the wing of the whirlwind which roars o'er the mountain
Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire who is dead;
On the mist of the tempest which hangs o'er the fountain,
Whilst a wreath of dark vapour encircles his head.
Here she paused, and, ashamed of the exuberance of her imagination, obliterated from the wall the characters which she had traced: the wind still howled dreadfully: in fearful anticipation of the morrow, she threw herself on the bed, and, in sleep, forgot the misfortunes which impended over her.
Meantime, the soul of Wolfstein was disturbed by ten thousand conflicting passions; revenge and disappointed love agonized his soul to madness; and he resolved to quench the rude feelings of his bosom in the blood of his
- ↑ It would be interesting to know whether, when Shelley was powerfully influencing Byron with the high thoughts and noble sentiments that contributed so largely to the greatness of some of "the Pilgrim's" works, either mind was ever for a moment conscious of this small debt on the other side of the account. Probably Shelley was too oblivious of St. Irvyne, and Byron too much ashamed of Hours of Idleness, for either poet mentally to collate these two lines with those in Lachin y Gair (Hours of Idleness, 1807, p. 130)—
Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?
