My frame beside its father rests— The same old banner o’er their breasts Which they with all their serfs, of yore, To battle and to triumph bore. No chieftain sways the castle’s wall, No chieftain revels in its hall. And on each bastion’s leaning stone Grim desolation sits alone, While organ winds their masses roll Around each lonely turret’s head, And seem to chant, “Rest troubled soul! Mercy! Oh! mercy for the dead!” The spirit bent his brow—and tears The first which he had shed for years, Fell burning from his eyes, for THOUGHT Had oped their overflowing cells, Like wakened lightning which has sought The cloud with all its liquid spells. He wept—as he had wept of old— When sudden through the gloomy air A glorious gush of music roll’d Around those wretched spirits there;— They started up with frantic eyes Wild-glancing to their sullen skies: And still the angel-anthem went Rejoicing ’round that firmament; And shining harps were sparkling through The cloud-rifts—held by seraph-forms Oh! lovely as the loveliest hue Of rainbows curled on buried storms. Faint and more faint the music grows— Yet how entrancing in its close— Sweeter! oh sweeter than the hymn Of an enthusiast who has given His anthem forth, at twilight dim, And hopes with it to float to heaven. And see, where yonder tempests meet, The rapid glance of silver feet— The last of that refulgent train Who leave this desolated sphere; Oh! not for them such realms of Pain Where Crime stands tremblingly by Fear:— They’re gone, AND ALL IS DARK AGAIN. [End of Part First.] ----- [1] The tale of Lorro is founded on an actual occurrence: one of the incidents has already been turned to advantage by a prose writer. This poem will be followed by another, in which I have attempted to show the rewards of virtue. * * * * * THE CHEVALIER GLUCK. BY W. W. STORY.