And his boat shot swiftly onward: well the rowers plied their oar,
Till a heavy tolling reached them from the church-tower on the shore;
And a solemn train of barges slowly wound their pensive way
Through the hushed waves that glittered o'er their image in the bay;
And the silence,
Listening silence,
Dimmed the splendor of the day.
O'er the barge that now drew nearer countless virgin lilies wept,
Telling that some white-souled maiden in the snowy bower slept.
Dumb he stood, and gazed in terror on the shroud and lilies sweet,
And a dread foreboding filled him, and his heart forgot to beat;
And in silence,
Deathlike silence,
Fell he at the boatman's feet.
So the parish-people told me; and as years went rolling by
Oft they saw him sadly staring on the flaming sunset sky;
Watched the purple-stained Yokul, half in joy and half in pain,
As if hoped he there to see her coming back to earth again;
Mourned his silence,
Fateful silence,
That had rent two lives atwain.
Till at length one Sabbath morning--deep-voiced church-bells shook the air--
While in festal garb the church-folk wandered to their house of prayer,
Reached their ears a hollow thunder from the glaciers overhead,
And huge blocks of ice came crashing downward to the river's bed,
And in silence,
Wrathful silence,
Down the seething stream they sped.
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