[Another version of “The Triumph of Conscience” immediately preceding.]
‘Twas dead of the night, when I sat in my dwelling;
One glimmering lamp was expiring and low;
Around, the dark tide of the tempest was swelling,
Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling,–
They bodingly presaged destruction and woe.
‘Twas then that I started!–the wild storm was howling,
Nought was seen, save the lightning, which danced in the sky;
Above me, the crash of the thunder was rolling,
And low, chilling murmurs, the blast wafted by.
My heart sank within me–unheeded the war
Of the battling clouds, on the mountain-tops, broke;–
Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine ear–
This heart, hard as iron, is stranger to fear;
But conscience in low, noiseless whispering spoke.
‘Twas then that her form on the whirlwind upholding,
The ghost of the murdered Victoria strode;
In her right hand, a shadowy shroud she was holding,
She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode.
I wildly then called on the tempest to bear me–‘
1.–Victoria: without title, 1811.