The Skeleton Priest; Or, The Marriage Of Death Poem by Charlotte Dacre

The winds whistled loud the bleak caverns among,
The nightingale fearfully lower'd her song,
The moon in dark vapors retir'd;
When forth from her chamber, as midnight was told,
Irene descended, so fearless and bold—
For love had her bosom inspir'd.

Her white veil it flutter'd as onward she flew,
Not regarding the tempest, tho' harsher it blew,
Nor chill'd by the deep-piercing cold;
The fire of passion that burn'd in her breast
All other emotions disdain'd and repress'd—
For the power of love is untold.

Now sudden a flash that divided the skies,
And struck the lone maiden with awe and surprise,
Illumin'd the desert around;
She saw herself close to a precipice brink,
And as in mute horror she from it did shrink,
'Beware!' cried a terrible sound.

'Who bids me beware?' she trembling exclaim'd;
'Say, art thou a guardian who may not be nam'd,
Or was it my fancy alone?'
Again she proceeded, determin'd to dare,
When slowly again cried the voice, 'Oh, beware!'
And sunk in a shudd'ring groan.

'What horror this night does Irene betide?
Orlando, my love, I shall ne'er be thy bride;
This night is the night of my doom.
Oh, spirit of darkness! wherever you be,
I ask but this night for my happiness free;
Let the rest be o'ershadow'd with gloom.'

Once more she attempted the spot to depart;
She heard not the voice, and light grew her heart,
No longer by terror subdu'd;
But scarce had she taken three steps of the way
When a lady, whose dress was more fair than the day,
Of a sudden her footsteps pursu'd.

'O be not afraid, lovely maiden,' she cried,
'But grant me the favor to walk by your side;
My road is the same as your own:
The bride of Orlando you hasten to be,
But that is an hour you never may see,
And 'tis gloomy to wander alone.'

'Oh, prophet of woe!' said Irene, 'forbear!'
And turn'd to the stranger with looks of despair,
But enhorror'd withdrew from the sight:
A mouldering skull in her hand was display'd,
While a lamp the red blood on her bosom betray'd,
And chequer'd the earth with its light.

'You start, lovely maiden! What folly is fear!
And what in this skull can so hideous appear,
Since you may resemble it soon;
Unless you consent to be guided by me,
Return to your home, live contented and free,
Or your journey may end in the tomb.'

'No, never, while life in this bosom shall reign,
Will I treat my fond love with such cruel disdain,
Or deny him my husband to be:
This night will I wed him, in despite of fate,
And fly with him, too, wheresoe'er he dictate,
Whatever the sorrow to me.'

The stranger sigh'd deep as in autumn the wind;
She turn'd her pale visage, so sad and resign'd,
On Irene, and shuddering said,
'Orlando is wedded. This night, to be thine,
He committed on heaven and nature a crime
Which in vengeance his soul must be paid.

'Still art thou resolv'd thy fond vice to pursue
In vain, for Orlando is hid from thy view,
And wanders despairing alone:
His crime is his torment; by demons possess'd,
He gloomily wanders, depriv'd of his rest,
In a desart by mountains o'ergrown.

Then court not perdition; take homeward thy way,
Alone let me wander, alone let me stray,
Or dread the reward of thy crime:
Forbear thou the union cemented by blood,
A bond of destruction to lure thee from good;
The murderous compact resign.

'Return, and the past but a vision shall seem,
Appear on the morrow no more than a dream,
Forgot in the glories of day:
Proceed, and before a short hour is told
Again, to your horror, you shall me behold,
Your blood as the forfeit to pay.'

Your name!' had Irene but faintly exclaim'd—
The stranger had vanish'd; no traces remain'd;
The silence of death was around;
The wind had subsided, the moon now appear'd,
Its beauteous refulgence the nightingale chear'd,
And again did her harmony sound.

'Who dwells in this forest of gloom and despair?'
Cried Irene—'What horror impregnates the air?
Do demons assemble to sport?
They envy those raptures they cannot divide,
The rapture to be of Orlando the bride,
And this is their infamous court.

'They mock at my feelings, they laugh at my pain,
But all their delusions they essay in vain—
Orlando, I still will be thine!'
Then onward she sprang. At the foot of the hill
Orlando impatiently waited her still,
And their arms in fond rapture entwine.

But the arms of Orlando than ice were more cold,
As in them Irene he seem'd to enfold;
His features were hid from her view;
His voice seemed hollow, he mournfully sigh'd;
A chilling despondence crept over the bride,
A mistrust that she dar'd not pursue.

'Orlando, what demons have lurk'd in my way
Thine Irene from all that she lov'd to delay,
And say thou wert wedded from me?'
'No more, fair Irene! The hour is right;
'I little expected thy presence to-night:
Our wedding shall speedily be.

'Behind this green hill, just close to the beach,
Is a vessel in which our castle we reach,
Now gloomy, and anxious for you.
Come, quickly depart—time onward does fly;
Since here you have ventur'd you must not deny.'
And forward Irene he drew.

Now approaching the beach, lo! a vessel was there;
Of mist seem'd the cables, the sails vapors fair,
No creature to guide it was nigh;
Orlando took charge of his terrified bride,
It seem'd like an arrow the waves to divide,
And swifter than fancy to fly.

Now reaching the opposite shore, he convey'd
From the vessel of shadows the heart-frozen maid,
When instant it faded from view:
He forc'd her still on through a rocky descent,
Her feet and her bosom were cruelly rent,
And blood did each footstep pursue.

They enter'd a cavern; an altar was there;
A priest to unite them does slowly prepare;
Their hands are together entwin'd;
When casting his robe, lo! what horrors beneath!
The skeleton priest was no other than Death,
Whom the maiden in marriage had join'd.

'Thou art wedded, but not to Orlando—behold!
For, maiden, thy love was imprudent and bold—
Thou art wedded, and must to my home.
Orlando no longer—dissolv'd is the spell;
Thy nuptial rejoicing must be a death knell,
For thou art the wife of the tomb.

Irene, despairing, remember'd the wood—
Before her the spectre now menacing stood—
'The wife of Orlando was I;
He sent my soul wand'ring, thy beauties to gain;
I warn'd thee, alas! but I warn'd thee in vain,
For thou wert determin'd to die.'

Alas! sad Irene no more can depart;
The numbness of death slowly crept round her heart,
And, palsied, her nerves seem'd to shrink:
The skeleton priest now approach'd them again;
He seiz'd on the victim—her struggles were vain—
From the world, lo, together they sink!