The Mysteries of Udolpho

Of her sufferings the sister gave a melancholy account, and of the

horrors, into which she had frequently started, but which had now

yielded to a dejection so gloomy, that neither the prayers, in which she

was joined by the sisterhood, or the assurances of her confessor, had

power to recall her from it, or to cheer her mind even with a momentary

gleam of comfort.

To this relation Emily listened with extreme concern, and, recollecting

the frenzied manners and the expressions of horror, which she had

herself witnessed of Agnes, together with the history, that sister

Frances had communicated, her compassion was heightened to a very

painful degree. As the evening was already far advanced, Emily did not

now desire to see her, or to join in the mass, and, after leaving many

kind remembrances with the nun, for her old friends, she quitted the

monastery, and returned over the cliffs towards the chateau, meditating

upon what she had just heard, till, at length she forced her mind upon

less interesting subjects.

The wind was high, and as she drew near the chateau, she often paused

to listen to its awful sound, as it swept over the billows, that beat

below, or groaned along the surrounding woods; and, while she rested on

a cliff at a short distance from the chateau, and looked upon the wide

waters, seen dimly beneath the last shade of twilight, she thought of

the following address:

TO THE WINDS

Viewless, through heaven's vast vault your course ye steer,

Unknown from whence ye come, or whither go!

Mysterious pow'rs! I hear ye murmur low,

Till swells your loud gust on my startled ear,

And, awful! seems to say--some God is near!

I love to list your midnight voices float

In the dread storm, that o'er the ocean rolls,

And, while their charm the angry wave controuls,

Mix with its sullen roar, and sink remote.

Then, rising in the pause, a sweeter note,

The dirge of spirits, who your deeds bewail,

A sweeter note oft swells while sleeps the gale!

But soon, ye sightless pow'rs! your rest is o'er,

Solemn and slow, ye rise upon the air,

Speak in the shrouds, and bid the sea-boy fear,

And the faint-warbled dirge--is heard no more!

Oh! then I deprecate your awful reign!

The loud lament yet bear not on your breath!

Bear not the crash of bark far on the main,

Bear not the cry of men, who cry in vain,

The crew's dread chorus sinking into death!

Oh! give not these, ye pow'rs! I ask alone,

As rapt I climb these dark romantic steeps,

The elemental war, the billow's moan;

I ask the still, sweet tear, that listening Fancy weeps!