_GOLFRE_, _PART SECOND_. As on the rushy floor she sat, Her hand her pale cheek pressing; Oft, on the GOATHERD’s face, her eyes Would fix intent, her mute surprize— In frequent starts confessing. Then, slowly would she turn her head, And watch the narrow wicket; And shudder, while the wintry blast In shrilly cadence swiftly past Along the neighb’ring thicket. One night, it was in winter time, The Castle bell was tolling; The air was still, the Moon was seen, Sporting, her starry train between, The thin clouds round her rolling. And now she watch’d the wasting lamp, Her timid bosom panting; And now, the Crickets faintly sing, And now she hears the Raven’s wing Sweeping their low roof, slanting. And, as the wicket latch she clos’d, A groan was heard!—she trembled! And now a clashing, steely sound, In quick vibrations echoed round, Like murd’rous swords, assembled! She started back; she look’d around, The Goatherd Swain was sleeping; A stagnate paleness mark’d her cheek, She would have call’d, but could not speak, While, through the lattice peeping. And O! how dimly shone the Moon, Upon the snowy mountain! And fiercely did the wild blast blow, And now her tears began to flow, Fast, as a falling fountain. And now she heard the Castle bell Again toll sad and slowly; She knelt and sigh’d: the lamp burnt pale— She thought upon the dismal Tale— And pray’d, with fervour holy! And now, her little string of beads She kiss’d,—and cross’d her breast; It was a simple rosary, Made of the Mountain Holly-tree, By Sainted Father’s blest! And now the wicket open flew, As though a whirlwind fell’d it; And now a ghastly figure stood Before the Maiden—while her blood Congeal’d, as she beheld it! His face was pale, his eyes were wild, His beard was dark; and near him A stream of light was seen to glide, Marking a poniard, crimson-dyed; The bravest soul might fear him!