The Mysteries of Udolpho

She was soon summoned to breakfast, by the peasant's daughter, a girl

about seventeen, of a pleasant countenance, which, Emily was glad to

observe, seemed animated with the pure affections of nature, though

the others, that surrounded her, expressed, more or less, the worst

qualities--cruelty, ferocity, cunning and duplicity; of the latter style

of countenance, especially, were those of the peasant and his wife.

Maddelina spoke little, but what she said was in a soft voice, and

with an air of modesty and complacency, that interested Emily, who

breakfasted at a separate table with Dorina, while Ugo and Bertrand

were taking a repast of Tuscany bacon and wine with their host, near

the cottage door; when they had finished which, Ugo, rising hastily,

enquired for his mule, and Emily learned that he was to return to

Udolpho, while Bertrand remained at the cottage; a circumstance, which,

though it did not surprise, distressed her.

When Ugo was departed, Emily proposed to walk in the neighbouring woods;

but, on being told, that she must not quit the cottage, without having

Bertrand for her attendant, she withdrew to her own room. There, as her

eyes settled on the towering Apennines, she recollected the terrific

scenery they had exhibited and the horrors she had suffered, on the

preceding night, particularly at the moment when Bertrand had betrayed

himself to be an assassin; and these remembrances awakened a train of

images, which, since they abstracted her from a consideration of her own

situation, she pursued for some time, and then arranged in the following

lines; pleased to have discovered any innocent means, by which she could

beguile an hour of misfortune.

THE PILGRIM*

Slow o'er the Apennine, with bleeding feet,

A patient Pilgrim wound his lonely way,

To deck the Lady of Loretto's seat

With all the little wealth his zeal could pay.

From mountain-tops cold died the evening ray,

And, stretch'd in twilight, slept the vale below;

And now the last, last purple streaks of day

Along the melancholy West fade slow.

High o'er his head, the restless pines complain,

As on their summit rolls the breeze of night;

Beneath, the hoarse stream chides the rocks in vain:

The Pilgrim pauses on the dizzy height.

Then to the vale his cautious step he prest,

For there a hermit's cross was dimly seen,

Cresting the rock, and there his limbs might rest,

Cheer'd in the good man's cave, by faggot's sheen,

On leafy beds, nor guile his sleep molest.

Unhappy Luke! he trusts a treacherous clue!

Behind the cliff the lurking robber stood;

No friendly moon his giant shadow threw

Athwart the road, to save the Pilgrim's blood;

On as he went a vesper-hymn he sang,

The hymn, that nightly sooth'd him to repose.

Fierce on his harmless prey the ruffian sprang!

The Pilgrim bleeds to death, his eye-lids close.

Yet his meek spirit knew no vengeful care,

But, dying, for his murd'rer breath'd--a sainted pray'r!