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Tumbling the yawning chasm through, The torrent burst its headlong way,And down the steep path damp with dew Her Edward's dang'rous footing lay.
The low'ring clouds, with angry sweep, Obscur'd by fits the lunar beam,And echoing down the sullen steep, The bird -of night was heard to scream.
The storm was up—the lightnings glare— The thunder groans with hollow sound,The dark grove heav'd its branches bare, The trembling mountains rock'd the ground.
And ever and anon was borne The wail of anguish on the air;And the groves deepest echoes torn With the wild laughter of despair.
'Twas Isabella, luckless maid! Who wildly urg'd her desp'rate way,Till the emerging moon display'd Where Edward's mangled body lay.
The storm was o'er, the wind was still, The moon shed wide her wat'ry beam,O'er drenched valley, vap'rous hill, O'er drooping grove, and rushing stream.
