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TALE OF THE 14TH CENTURY.
"Awake! the moon is bright on high,
The sea is calm, the bark is nigh,
The world is hushed to rest!"
Then sinks the voice—the strain is o'er,
Its last low cadence dies along the shore.
Fair Bertha hears th' expected song,
Swift from her tower she glides along;
No echo to her tread awakes,
Her fairy step no slumber breaks,
And, in that hour of silence deep
While all around the dews of sleep
O'erpower each sense, each eyelid steep,
Quick throbs her heart with hope and fear,
Her dark eye glistens with a tear.
Half-wavering now, the varying cheek
And sudden pause, her doubts bespeak,
The lip now flushed, now pale as death,
The trembling frame, the fluttering breath!
