Classic Poem

15.

Sad, from the dell of Ravensly,
A wail of chaunting echo'd wide;
Harsh, in oak-waving Denaby,
A trumpet's brazen laugh replied;
And far o'er Watchly came the cry
That ever told when doom was nigh,
When cruel gods claim'd bloody rites,
And men prepar'd for ghastly sights.
But Adwick heard no trumpet blow,
No chaunt, no death-dirge, wailing low;
Mute as a stone, and tranc'd in woe,
He stood! and mov'd
Nor hand, nor foot, nor lock of hair;
But, like a statue of despair,
Gaz'd on the warm, yet lifeless snow,
That still was all he lov'd.
Lo! one by one, fierce men surround him!
By him unheard, unseen, they come,
All sable vested,
Sable helm'd, and sable crested;
They are the ministers of doom,
Whom follows slow
The Nun of Snow;
And they have seiz'd and bound him.