 SISTER ROSA. A BALLAD BY PERCY BY SHELLY. Red for LibriVox.org. By Brian Lee Rosso. OCTOBER 27, 2007. THE DEATH BELL BEATS. THE MOUNTAIN REPEATS. THE ECHOING SOUND OF THE CAL. AND THE DARK MONK NOW RAPS THE CAL ROUND HIS BROW. AND HE SITS IN HIS LONELY SELL, AND THE COLD HAND OF DEATH CHILS HIS SHUTTERING BREATH. AND HE LISTS TO THE FILFERLAY, WHICH THE GHOSTS OF THE SKY AS THEY SWEEP WILDLY BY SING TO DEPARTED DAY. AND THEY SING OF THE HOUR WHEN THE STIRN FATES HAD POWER TO RESOLVE ROSA'S FORM TO ITS CLAY. But that hour is past. And that hour was the last of peace to the dark monk's brain. Bitter tears from his eyes gushed silent and fast, and he strove to suppress them in vain. Then his fair cross of gold he dashed on the floor, when the death bell struck on his ear. Delight is in store for her evermore, but for me is fate, horror, and fear. Then his eyes wildly rolled, when the death bell told, as he raged in terrific woe, and he stamped on the ground. But when ceased the sound, tears again began to flow, and the ice of despair chilled the wild throb of care, and he sat in mute agony still, till the night stars shone through the cloudless air and the pale moonbeam slept on the hill. Then he knelt in his cell, and the horrors of hell were delights to his agonized pain, and he prayed to God to dissolve the spell which else must forever remain. And in fervent prayer he knelt on the ground, till the abbey bell struck one. His feverish blood ran chill at the sound. A voice hollow and horrible murmured around, the term of thy penance is done, grew dark the night, the moonbeam bright, waxed faint on the mountain high, and from the black hill went a voice cold and still, monk, thou art free to die. Then he rose on his feet, and his heart loud did beat, and his limbs were palsied with dread, whilst the graves clammy due, or his pale forehead grew, and he shuddered to sleep with the dead. And the wild midnight storm raved around his tall form, as he sought the chapel's gloom, and the sunk grass did sigh to the wind bleak and high as he searched for the new-made tomb. And forms dark and high seemed round him to fly, and mingle their yells with the blast, and on the dark wall half-seen shadows did fall, as in horrid he onward passed. And the storm fiends wild rave, or the new-made grave, and dread shadows linger around. The monk called on God his soul to save, and in horror sank on the ground. Then despair nerved his arm to dispel the charm, and he burst Rosa's coffin asunder. And the fierce storm did swell, more terrific and fell, and louder peeled the thunder. And laughed in joy the fiendish throng, mixed with ghosts of the mouldering dead, and their grizzly wings, as they floated along, whistled in murmur's dread. And her skeleton formed the dead nun reared, which dripped with the chill dew of hell. In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale flames appeared, and triumphant their gleam on the dark monk glared as he stood within the cell. And her lank hand lay on his shuddering brain, but each power was nerved by fear. I never henceforth may breathe again. Death now ends my anguished pain. The grave yawns. We meet there. And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound, so deadly, so lone, and so fell, that in long vibrations shuttered the ground. And as the stern notes floated around, a deep groan was answered from hell. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sister Rosa, a ballad by Percy Bish Shelley, read for LibriVox.org by DailyBob. The death-bell beats. The mountain repeats the echoing sound of the knell, and the dark monk now wraps the cowl around his brow, and he sits in his lonely cell. And the cold hand of death chills his shuddering breath, and he lists to the fearful lay, which the ghosts of the sky, as they sweep wildly by, sing to departed day. And they sing of an hour when the stern fates had power to resolve Rosa's form to its clay. But that hour is past, and that hour was the last of peace to the dark monk's brain. Bitter tears from his eyes gush silent and fast, and he strove to suppress them in vain. Then his fair cross of gold he dashed on the floor, when the death-bell struck on his ear. Delight is in store for her evermore, but for me is fate, horror, and fear. Then his eyes widely rolled when the death-bell told, and he raged in terrific woe, and he stamped on the ground, but when ceased the sound, tears began to flow. And the ice of despair chilled a wild throb of care, and he sat in mute agony still, till the night-star shone through the cloudless air, and the pale moon-bean slept on the hill. Then he knelt in his cell, and the horrors of hell were delights to his agonized pain, and he prayed to God to dissolve the spell, which else must forever remain. And in fervent prayer he knelt on the ground, till the abbey-bell struck one, his feverish blood ran chill at the sound, a voice hollow and horrible murmured around. The term of thy penance is done. Grew dark the night, the moon-bean bright waxed faint on the mountain high, and from the black hill went a voice cold and still, monk, thou art free to die. Then he rose on his feet, and his heart-loud did beat, and his limbs were palsied with dread. Whilst the graves clammy dew over his pale forehead grew, and he shuddered to sleep with the dead. And the wild midnight storm raved around his tall form, and he sought the chapel's gloom, and the sun-grasted sigh to the wind bleak and high, as he searched for the new-made tomb. And forms dark and high seemed around him to fly, and mingle their yells with the blast, and the dark wall have seen shadows did fall, as in horror he onward passed. And the storm fiends wild rave over the new-made grave, and the dread shadows linger around, the monk called on God his soul to save, and in horror sank on the ground. Then despair nerved his arm to dispel the charm, and he burst Rosa's coffin asunder, and the fierce storm did swell more terrific and fell, and louder peeled the thunder, and laughed in joy the fiendish throng, mixed with ghosts of the mouldering dead, and their grisly wings as they floated along whistled in murmur's dread. And her skeleton formed the dead nun reared, which dripped with the chill dew of hell. In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale flames appeared, and triumphant their gleam on the dark monk glared as he stood within the cell. Her lank hand lay on his shuddering brain, but each power was nerved by fear. I never, henceforth, may breathe again. Death now ends my anguished pain. The grave yawns, we meet there. And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound, so deadly, so lone, and so fell, that in long vibrations shuddered the ground, and as the stern notes floated around, a deep groan was answered from hell. The death bell beats, the mountain repeats the echoing sound of the knell, and the dark monk now wraps the cowl round his brow, and he sits in his lonely cell. And the cold hand of death chills his shuddering breath, and he lists to the fearful lay which the ghosts of the sky, as they sweep wildly by, sing to departed day. And they sing of the hour when the stern fates had power to resolve Rosa's form to its clay. But that hour is past, and that hour was the last of peace to the dark monk's brain. Bitter tears from his eyes gushed silent and fast, and he strove to suppress them in vain. Then his fair cross of gold he dashed on the floor, when the death bell struck on his ear. Delight is in store for her evermore, but for me is fate horror and fear. Then his eyes wildly rolled when the death bell told, and he raged in terrific woe, and he stamped on the ground. But when ceased the sound, tears again began to flow. The ice of despair chilled the wild throb of care, and he sat in mute agony still, till the night stars shone through the cloudless air, and the pale moonbeam slept on the hill. Then he knelt in his cell, and the horrors of hell were to lights to his agonised pain, and he prayed to God to dissolve the spell, which else must for ever remain. And in fervent prayer he knelt on the ground, till the happy bell struck one. His feverish blood ran chill at the sound, a voice hollow and horrible murmured around. The term of thy penance is done. Grew dark the night, the moonbeam bright, waxed feign on the mountain high, and from the black hill went a voice cold and still. Monk, thou art free to die. Then he rose on his feet, and his heart loud did beat, and his limbs they were pulsed with dread, whilst the grave's clammy dew or his pale forehead grew, and he shuddered to sleep with the dead. And the wild midnight storm raved round his tall form, and he sought the chapel's gloom, and the sunk grass did sigh to the wind bleak and high, as he searched for the new-made tomb. And form's dark and high seemed around him to fly, and mingle their yells with the blast, and on the dark wall half-seen shadows did fall, as in horror'd he onward passed. And the storm fiend's wild rave or the new-made grave, the dread shadows lingered round. The monk called on God his soul to save, and in horror sank on the ground. Then despair nerved his arm to dispel the charm, and he burst Rose's cough in a sunder, and the fierce storm did swell more terrific and fell, and louder peeled the thunder, and laughed and joy the fiendish throng mixed with ghosts of the mouldering dead, and their grizzly wings as they floated along whistled in murmur's dread. And her skeleton form, the dead nun reared, which dripped with the chilled dew of hell. In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale flames appeared, and triumphant their gleam on the dark monk glared as he stood within the cell, and her lank hand lay on his shuttering brain, but each power was nerved by fear. I never henceforth may breathe again, death now ends mine anguished pain, the grave yawns, we meet there. And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound, so deadly, so lone, and so fell, that in long vibrations shuddered the ground, and as the stern notes floated around, a deep groan was answered from hell. The Death Bell Beats The mountain repeats the echoing sound of the knell, and the dark monk now wraps the cow around his brow, and he sits in his lonely cell. And the cold hand of death chills his shuttering breath, and he lists to the fearful lay which the ghosts of the sky as they sweep wildly by sing to departed day. And they sing of the hour when the stern fates had power to resolve roses formed to its clay. But that hour is past, and that hour was the last of peace to the dark monk's brain. Bitter tears from his eyes gush silent and fast, and he strove to suppress them in vain. Then his fair cross of gold he dashed on the floor when the Death Bell struck on his ear. Delight is in store for her every more, but for me is fate, horror, and fear. Then his eyes wildly rolled when the Death Bell told, and he raged in terrific woe, and he stamped on the ground, but when ceased to sound, tears again began to flow. And the ice of despair chilled the wild throb of care, and he sat in mute agony still. Till the night stars shone through the cloudless air, and the pale moonbeams slept on the hill. Then he knelt in his cell, and the horrors of hell were delights to his agonized pain, and he prayed to God to dissolve the spell which else must forever remain. And in fervent prayer he knelt on the ground till the abbey bell struck one. His feverish blood ran chill at the sound, a voice hollow and horrible murmured around. The turn of eyepenis. Grew dark the night, the moon being bright, wax faint on the mountain high, and from the black hill went the voice cold and still. Then he rose on his feet, and his heart loud did beat, and his limbs they were palsied with dread, while the graves clammy due, or his pale forehead grew, and he shuddered to sleep with dead, and the wild mountain storm raved round his tall form as he shot the chapel's gloom, and the sun-grasted sigh to the wind bleak and high as he searched for the new-made tomb, and forms dark and high seemed around him to fly, and mingle the yells with the blast, and on the dark wall hath seen shadows did fall, as in horror'd he onward passed, and the storm fiends wild rave, or the new-made grave, and the dread shadows linger around, the monk called on God his soul to save, and in horror sank on the ground. Then despair nerved his arm to dispel the charm, and he burst Rose's coffin asunder, and the fear stormed its swell more terrific and fell, and louder peeled the thunder, and he laughed in joy the fiendish throng, mixed with ghost of the moldering dead, and their grisly wings as they floated along whistled in murmur's dread, and her skeleton formed the dead nun reared, which dripped with the childew of hell, and her half-eaten eyeballs, two pale flames appeared, and triumphant their gleam on the dark monk-layered, as he stood within the cell, and her lank and lay on his shuddering brain, but each power was nerved by fear, and her skeleton lungs did utter the sound, so deadly, so lone, and so fell, then in long vibrations shuddered the ground, and as the stern notes floated around, a deep groan was answered from hell. End of poem? This recording is in the public domain. And he sits in his lonely cell, and the cold hand of death chills his shuddering breath, and he lists to the fearful lay, which the ghosts of the sky, as they sweep wildly by, sing to departed day, and they sing of the hour when the stern fates had power to resolve Rosa's form to its clay. But that hour is past, and that hour was the last of peace to the dark monk's brain. Bitter tears from his eyes gushed silent and fast, and he strove to suppress them in vain. Then his fair cross of gold he dashed on the floor, when the death bell struck on his ear. Delight is in store, for her evermore, but for me is fate, horror, and fear. Then his eyes wildly rolled when the death bell told, and he raged in terrific woe, and he stamped on the ground, but when ceased the sound, tears again began to flow. And the ice of despair chilled the wild throb of care, and he sat in mute agony still, till the night stars shone through the cloudless air, and the pale moonbeam slept on the hill. Then he knelt in his cell, and the horrors of hell were delights to his agonized pain, and he prayed to God to dissolve the spell, which else must forever remain. And in fervent prayer he knelt on the ground, till the abbey bell struck one. His feverish blood ran chill at the sound, a voice hollow and horrible murmured around, the term of thy penance is done. Grew dark the night, the moonbeam bright waxed faint on the mountain high, and from the black hill went a voice cold and still, monk, thou art free to die. Then he rose on his feet, and his heart loud did beat, and his limbs they were pulsed with dread, whilst the grave's clammy dew, or his pale forehead grew, and he shuddered to sleep with the dead. And the wild midnight storm raved around his tall form as he sought the chapel's gloom, and the sunk grass did sigh to the wind bleak and high as he searched for the new-made tomb. And form's dark and high seemed around him to fly and mingle their yells with the blast, and on the dark wall half-seen shadows did fall, as in horrid he onward passed, and the storm fiend's wild rave, or the new-made grave, and dread shadows linger around. The monk called on God his soul to save, and in horror sank on the ground. Then despair nerved his arm to dispel the charm, and he burst Rosa's coffin asunder, and the fierce storm did swell, more terrific and fell, and louder peeled the thunder, and laughed in joy the fiendish throng, mixed with ghosts of the mouldering dead, and their grisly wings as they floated along whistled in murmur's dread. And her skeleton form the dead nun reared, which dripped with the chill dew of hell. In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale flames appeared, and triumphant their gleam on the dark monk glared, as he stood within the cell. And her lank hand lay on his shuddering brain, but each power was nerved by fear. I never henceforth may breathe again, death now ends my anguished pain, the gravions we meet there. And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound, so deadly, so lone, and so fell, that in long vibrations shuddered the ground, and as the stern notes floated around, a deep groan was answered from hell. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The death-bell beats, the mountain repeats the echoing sound of the nail, and the dark monk now wraps the cowl round his brow, and he sits in his lonely cell. And the cold hand of death chills his shuddering breath, and he lists to the fearful lay which the ghosts of the sky, as they sweep wildly by, sing to the departed day, and they sing of the hour when the stern fates had power to resolve Rosa's form to its clay. But that hour is past, and that hour was the last of peace to the dark monk's brain. Bitter tears from his eyes gushed silent and fast, and he strove to suppress them in vain. Then his fair cross of gold he dashed on the floor when the death-bell struck on his ear. Delight is in store for her evermore, but for me is fate, horror, and fear. Then his eyes wildly rolled when the death-bell told, and he raged in terrific woe, and he stamped on the ground. But when ceased the sound, tears again began to flow. And the ice of despair chilled the wild throb of care, and he sat in mute agony still, till the night stars shone through the cloudless air, and the pale moon-beam slept on the hill. Then he knelt in his cell, and the horrors of hell were delights to his agonised pain, and he prayed to God to dissolve the spell which else must forever remain. And in fervent prayer he knelt on the ground till the abbey-bell struck one. His feverish blood ran chill at the sound. A voice hollow and horrible murmured around, The term of thy penance is done. Grew dark the night, the moon-beam bright waxed faint on the mountain high, and from the black hill went a voice cold and still, Monk, thou art free to die. Then he rose on his feet, and his heart loud did beat, and his limbs they were palsied with dread, while the graves clammy due over his pale forehead grew, and he shuddered to sleep with the dead. And the wild midnight storm raved around his tall form, as he sought the chapel's gloom, and the sunk grass did sigh to the wind, bleak and high, as he searched for the new-made tomb, and forms dark and high seemed around him to fly, and mingled their yells with the blast, half-seen shadows did fall, as in horrid he onward passed. And the storm fiends wild rave o'er the new-made grave, and dread's shadows linger around. The monk called on God his soul to save, and in horror sank on the ground. Then despair nerfed his arm to dispel the charm, and he burst Rosa's cough in a thunder, and the fierce storm did swell more terrific and fell, and louder peeled the thunder, and laughed in joy the fiendish throng, mixed with ghosts of the mouldering dead, and their grizzly wings as they floated along, whistled in murmur's dread, and her skeleton form, the dead nun reared, which dripped with the chilled dew of hell, in her half-eaten eyeballs two pale flames appeared, and triumphant their gleam on the dark monk glared as he stood within the cell, and her lank hand lay on his shuddering brain, but each power was nerved by fear. I never, henceforth, may breathe again. Death now ends my anguished pain. The graveyorns, we meet there, and her skeleton lungs did utter the sound, so deadly, so lone, and so fell, that in long vibrations shuddered the ground, and as the stern notes floated around, a deep groan was answered from hell. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sister Rosa, A Ballad by Percy Biss Shelley, read for LibriVox.org by Scott Sherris. October 18, 2007, Atlanta, Georgia. The death bell beats, the mountain repeats the echoing sound of the knell, and the dark monk now wraps the cowl round his brow, and he sits in his lonely cell, and the cold hand of death chills his shuddering breath, and he lists to the fearful lay, which the ghosts of the sky, as they sweep wildly by, sing to departed day, and they sing of the hour when the stern fates had power to resolve Rosa's form to its clay. But that hour is past, and that hour was the last of peace to the dark monk's brain, bitter tears from his eyes, gushed silent and fast, and he strove to suppress them in vain. Then his fair cross of gold he dashed on the floor, when the death bell struck on his ear. Delight is in store for her evermore, but for me is fate, horror, and fear. Then his eyes wildly rolled when the death bell told, and he raged in terrific woe, and he stomped on the ground, but when ceased the sound, tears again began to flow. And the ice of despair chilled the wild throb of care, and he sat in mute agony still, till the night stars shone through the cloudless air, and the pale moonbeams slept on the hill. Then he knelt in his cell, and the horrors of hell were delights to his agonized pain, and he prayed to God to dissolve the spell which else must forever remain. And in fervent prayer he knelt on the ground, till the abbey bell struck one, his feverish blood ran chill at the sound, a voice hollow and horrible murmured around, the term of thy penance is done. Grew dark the night, the moonbeam bright, waxed faint on the mountain high, and from the black hill went a voice cold and still, monk, thou art free to die. Then he rose on his feet, and his heart loud did beat, and his limbs they were palsied with dread, whilst the graves clammy dew or his pale forehead grew, and he shuddered to sleep with the dead. And the wild midnight storm raved around his tall form as he sought the chapel's gloom, and the sunk grass did sigh to the wind bleak and high, as he searched for the new-made tomb. And forms dark and high seemed around him to fly, and mingle their yells with the blast, and on the dark wall have seen shadows did fall, as in horror he onward passed. And the storm fiend's wild rave or the new-made grave and red shadows linger around, the monk called on God his soul to save, and in horror sank on the ground. Then despair nerved his arm to dispel the charm, and he burst Rosa's coffin asunder, and the fierce storm did swell more terrific, and fell and louder peeled the thunder. And laughed enjoy the fiendish throng mixed with ghosts of the moldering dead, and their grisly wings as they floated along whistled in murmur's dread. And her skeleton formed the dead nun reared, which dripped with the chill dew of hell in her half-eaten eyeball's two pale flames appeared, and triumphant their gleam on the dark monk glared as he stood within the cell, and her lank hand lay on his shuddering brain, but each power was nerved by fear. I never henceforth may breathe again, death now ends my anguished pain, the grave yawns we meet there. And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound so deadly, so lone, and so fell, that inlong vibrations shuddered the ground, and as the stern notes floated around, a deep groan was answered from hell.