| |
| THE MISTS 1 lay dreaming on the mountain’s breast, | |
| The lazy winds were sinking into rest, | |
| And softly breathing as they died away, | |
| Sigh’d o’er the splendors of departing day. | |
| In awful grandeur ’mid a blaze of light | 5 |
| That threw its countless hues, of colors bright, | |
| O’er clouds and hills, o’er dells and babbling streams, | |
| The sun of even shed his crimson beams. | |
| The hollow murmurs of the rushing rill, | |
| The mellow horn that sounded ’cross the hill, | 10 |
| The nightly anthem of the feather’d host, | |
| All golden sounds and sober evening’s boast, | |
| Mix’d their sweet discords with seraphic skill, | |
| And held the wanderer listening at their will. | |
| The lowing herds crept slowly ’long the vale, | 15 |
| And distant echoes bore the hunter’s hail. | |
| The curling smoke above the foliage flew, | |
| Fantastic wreathing as the zephyrs blew. | |
| The merry tabor, and the pipe’s shrill sound | |
| Made buoyant light the village-maidens’ bound, | 20 |
| As in the mazy grass they beat the ground. | |
| The evening breeze bore fragrance on its wing, | |
| O’er all the richest odors scattering. | |
| In frowning grandeur, on the distant height, | |
| An antique castle lower’d in its might; | 25 |
| Its lofty turrets blushing with the hue | |
| That now o’er all the scene the red sun threw. | |
| Its lord the bold Sir Brian de Valance, | |
| The pride and boast of all chivalric France, | |
| Here held his court amid Provençal peers, | 30 |
| Stranger alike to pity and to fears. | |
| ’T was evening’s hour, when down the mountain’s road, | |
| A stranger Minstrel solitary strode. | |
| Fatigued he seem’d, and faint—his gait was slow, | |
| And oft he stopp’d to listen to the flow | 35 |
| Of streams precipitate, that fell with sound | |
| Of soothing music on the ear, and found | |
| Their devious paths o’er all the rugged ground. | |
| Or else he gazed on all the fairy scene | |
| Of rocks and hills, and laughing plains between; | 40 |
| The towering mounts that in succession grew | |
| Up to the clouds, and all their shadows threw | |
| On richest vineyards, where the bursting grape | |
| Blush’d ’mid the tendrils that its clusters drape; | |
| Which, intertwined in light and meshy rings, | 45 |
| Like feathers on the bird of Eden’s wings. | |
| Onward he came, and o’er his back was slung | |
| A harp—and from his graceful shoulders hung | |
| The garb that poets of the time then wore, | |
| While nature’s richest, noblest stamp he bore | 50 |
| Of light etherous on his open brow, | |
| Though something sad was on his features now. | |
| His port was such as ladies love to view, | |
| Haught and chivalric—yet besides there grew | |
| A poet’s sadness o’er his speaking face, | 55 |
| That paled his front, but stole no single grace. * * * * | |
| In Bryan’s hall the revels were begun, | |
| Many a heart had now been lost and won. | |
| Blazing with light the rich and festive room, | |
| With scorn shut out the coming night’s dull gloom. | 60 |
| The pride of France and chivalry had met, | |
| And winsome pleasure wanton’d without let: | |
| The joyous laugh from lip to lip went round, | |
| And sense enchanted drank the thrilling sound. * * * * | |
| The moon held pale dominion o’er the scene, | 65 |
| While light and fleecy clouds were oft between | |
| Her and the earth in all their beauty seen, | |
| Alt’ring their vaporous forms and sailing on, | |
| Their magic changes hardly seen ere gone, | |
| Veiling the silver graces of that orb, | 70 |
| Whose modest charms all other charms absorb. | |
| A bugle’s call then sounded from the gate. | |
| The warder enter’d, and with feudal state, | |
| Whisper’d his lord, who cries “throw ope the door, | |
| And let us welcome greet the Troubadour, | 75 |
| He comes with skilful harp, and soft’ning lay: | |
| Ne’er to such guests can courtly knights say nay.” | |
| The doors flew open, and with graceful mien, | |
| The Minstrel enter’d in his garb of green. | |
| In wild luxuriance o’er his front there play’d, | 80 |
| Thick, clustering locks that even blacker made | |
| The swarthy hue that darken’d in his face, | |
| And lent his flashing eye a gloomier grace; | |
| While in the lowly bow he made around, | |
| More of the knight than peasant there was found. | 85 |
| Now ceased the lively dance, and dames drew near | |
| The harp’s full tone and melody to hear. | |
| Then lowly bending o’er the strings he rung | |
| A wild and mournful prelude ere he sung. * * * * | |
| With wilder’d eye the lady Ella stood, | 90 |
| Watching the Troubadour as though she would | |
| Recall some well-known air, or former tone, | |
| Shadow or light that o’er his face had flown. | |
| “It is—and yet it cannot be—that air! | |
| And yet his brow was wont to be so fair. | 95 |
| That voice and I should sure be well acquaint.” * * * * | |
| The Minstrel watch’d the changes of her thought, | |
| And when the warm and well-known glance he caught, | |
| Like Egypt’s statue kiss’d by golden beams | |
| Of mantling morn new-waking from her dreams, | 100 |
| A full, harmonious peal of music threw | |
| From chords melodious—soft as summer dew. | |
| He ceased—and bowing lowly once again, | |
| The melting echoes of his wondrous strain, | |
| Borne on the bosom of the evening breeze | 105 |
| Died ’mid the shadows of the distant trees. | |
| Then came a burst of rich and noble praise, | |
| The poet’s choicest meed for all his lays, | |
| From pleasure-beaming eyes and lips where smiles, | |
| With wildest sporting, flung around their wiles. | 110 |
| O’er one fair face the hue of joy was thrown; | |
| With lustrous gladness every feature shone. | |
| She look’d her thanks, but trusted not her voice, | |
| Content in blissful silence to rejoice. | |
| With courteous grace his thanks the Baron made, | 115 |
| And turning to his glittering menials, bade | |
| Them bear the gold-embossed beaker near, | |
| Then pledged his guest and every high-born peer | |
| But as he quaff’d the sparkling liquor down, | |
| His searching eye was lower’d with a frown; | 120 |
| A sudden thought seem’d crossing o’er his mind, | |
| And with his falcon-glance he seem’d to find, | |
| As every lineament he sternly scann’d, | |
| With look so long accustom’d to command, | |
| Some well-known feature in the Minstrel’s face, | 125 |
| Whose dusky forehead gave of change no trace. * * * * | |
| While through the hall loud peals of rapture rung | |
| And pleasure’s accents dwelt on every tongue, | |
| A happy moment then the Minstrel caught, | |
| Whispering, to tell the tidings that he brought. | 130 |
| “Oft, my loved Ella, since that hated morn, | |
| When fierce—and more—when unrequited scorn, | |
| Fell withering from thy father’s lip, to blast | |
| My fair and knightly fame—but that is past, | |
| I will not strike upon a chord that rings | 135 |
| No mellow music—but that wildly flings | |
| Its piercing discord on the shuddering air. | |
| Oft with various guise and subtle care | |
| I watched thy casement—under which I sung | |
| Some air of kinder days past by, and hung | 140 |
| On quivering lights, and gliding forms that past | |
| With breathless hope, still praying that at last, | |
| Thy form would glad my sight, and once again | |
| Thy melting accents chase acutest pain. | |
| Alas! you came not—then with desperate hand, | 145 |
| I caught the harp of Minstrels of our land; | |
| Threw o’er my face the nut-brown olive hue, | |
| And from the knight a wandering poet grew, | |
| Hoping amid the revels of the time, | |
| An entrance for the Trouvere and his rhyme; | 150 |
| Then won with melody, like him of old, | |
| A prize denied to conquering love of gold.” | |
| Here glancing on a stern and martial form | |
| Whose features bore the impress of the storm; | |
| Like some fierce figure by Salvator drawn, | 155 |
| Darkling and towering in his strength of brawn; | |
| ’Mid rocks and gloomy woods and savage men | |
| Waiting at th’ entrance of some banditt’s den; | |
| The fire’s dull embers pouring their red light | |
| On stern, wild features, and on armor bright: | 160 |
| The brow of Guiscard darken’d, and his eye | |
| Threw out a light, as though he would defy, | |
| In th’ hour of gasping death, the warrior dark, | |
| Who took of song and dance but slender mark. * * * * | |
| While old age lives on mem’ry of the past, | 165 |
| Youth feeds on hope delusive to the last; | |
| A cheating phantom follows as it flies, | |
| Deck’d with gay promise though embalm’d in lies. | |
| In rapt and burning syllables he told | |
| His lover’s tale—while smooth and swiftly roll’d | 170 |
| In course untired and same the heedless hour. | |
| The morning-moon, half hid amid the bower, | |
| In streams of silver light descending, shed | |
| Her rays soft melting on the flow’ring bed, | |
| That seem’d with dewy fragrance to repay | 175 |
| The wand’ring kisses of each smiling ray. | |
| The fleeting wind too bore upon its breast | |
| The grateful essence—and with odors dress’d, | |
| Lavish’d its perfumed riches all around, | |
| On dames—knights—marble—and the verdant ground. | 180 |
| And now not mark’d, the lovers stood beside | |
| A lofty, narrow casement—opening wide | |
| Its painted leaves (whose glowing colors told | |
| Some tale chivalric, where a Baron bold | |
| For love had died—struck by a rival’s hand, | 185 |
| Who smiled and waved aloft his bloody brand.) | |
| Ella look’d up into her lover’s face— | |
| And round her mouth with melancholy grace, | |
| A faint smile languish’d, as she earnest pray’d | |
| No fate of theirs should be like that portray’d | 190 |
| With cunning skill, upon the polish’d glass. | |
| Laughing, her lover bade the boding pass. | |
| Yet still the gentle girl in silence sigh’d, | |
| O’er her wild fancies brooding, strove to hide | |
| Even from her timid self her chilling fear, | 195 |
| Her soft eye glistening with the heavy tear. * * * * | |
| The lady listen’d to his ardent theme | |
| Like one entranced in a rapturous dream. | |
| “My arms and horse,” then said the youthful knight, | |
| Those that must serve me in the morrow’s fight, | 200 |
| Conceal’d, I left amid the forest’s gloom, | |
| Hard by the rough-wrought cross and ruin’d tomb. | |
| Thou must remember, love, ’t was there I first, | |
| In fond, but low and broken accents durst | |
| Tell thee I loved—amid the awful scene | 205 |
| Of towering trees—wild streams and rude rocks green | |
| With antique moss—and ’neath that sacred sign, | |
| All holy men have ever deem’d divine, | |
| Our faith we mutual pledged. Now I retread | |
| That path, and at the dwelling of the dead | 210 |
| The coming morn must bide.—If in the just | |
| Yon haughty Julian and thy Guiscard thrust, | |
| Thy lovely image still will brace my arm, | |
| Still lend new vigor, and preserve from harm. | |
| Then should he fall, thy father may relent | 215 |
| And pitying yield his oft withheld consent. * * * * | |
| At once to shun remark or curious glance, | |
| Aside each turn’d, to watch the entangling dance, | |
| Where floating lightly through its endless maze | |
| Young beauties sought and won th’ admiring gaze. | 220 |
| From rich-gemm’d ringlets spicy odors flew, | |
| From streaming curls of every sunny hue. | |
| In Grecian folds the snowy draperies hung, | |
| While wreaths of velvet flowers were o’er them strung. | |
| Love-darting eyes in melting softness shone, | 225 |
| And vermeil lips dropt words of mellowest tone. | |
| Their white, impearled arms, thrown light in air, | |
| Strew’d rose, and hyacinths, and blossoms rare. | |
| The dewy freshness of the leafy showers | |
| Rain’d essence o’er the hall, now strewn with flowers. | 230 |
| Soft voices sang with air and tone as sweet | |
| As those of sea-maids when they haply meet | |
| Some blooming boy, who rides the foamy wave, | |
| Drinks the rich music, and forgets the grave | |
| That yawns—and gazes on the syren’s hairs | 235 |
| That stream unearthly beautiful, and dares, | |
| Of billows’ wrath unmindful, still to feed | |
| Enrapt upon their smiles—and seems, indeed, | |
| To deem it bliss t’ obey th’ enticing sign, | |
| And plunge in awful depths for love divine. | 240 |
| His billowy tomb then quickly rears | |
| Its foam-topp’d pyramid—and disappears. * * * * | |
| With fragrant breath the morning now arose, | |
| On joy gay smiling, and on keenest woes: | |
| The stars, sown o’er the jetty head of night, | 245 |
| In brilliance paled before the orb of light; | |
| Dark seas of mist roll’d back their murky wave | |
| Before the bright, young beams that richly lave, | |
| In tints prismatic all his vaporous throne, | |
| In glittering splendor, awful and—alone. | 250 |
| The cool breeze, rambling, woke the sleeping leaves, | |
| With that soft breathing that alternate heaves | |
| The yellow harvest and the quiet lake, | |
| And balmy freshness showers o’er the brake. | |
| Ella arose, and from the casement hung | 255 |
| Enchanted, on the quiet scene that flung | |
| Its still and fragrant spell on all around. | |
| Far up the sloping hills the merry sound | |
| Was heard of early shepherd’s pipe, and bell | |
| Of grazing flocks, re-echoed from the dell. * * * * | 260 |
| The hours flew onward, and in crowds the dames | |
| And low-born serfs and knights of haughty names, | |
| Gay in the rich array of gaudy dress, | |
| In expectation, to the lists now press. | |
| A lovely mead, romantically wild, | 265 |
| Stretch’d at the feet of rocks and cliffs uppiled | |
| In forms grotesque—inclined its verdant breast, | |
| Just swelling from the hills, in quiet rest. | |
| The hoary forest cast its sombre shade, | |
| In darkling masses thrown athwart the glade; | 270 |
| While, here and there, an aged, branching oak | |
| The lengthen’d sameness of the green plain broke. | |
| De Valance’ lofty towers on the left, | |
| Of beauty now and chivalry bereft, | |
| With splendor glowing of the morning beam, | 275 |
| With richest tints of brightest purple gleam. | |
| ’T was here the lists enclosed with palisade, | |
| Ran far across the smooth and grassy glade. | |
| At each extremity was placed a gate, | |
| Where heralds—pursuivants—and trumpets wait, | 280 |
| And men at arms to guard the portal’s way, | |
| Watch o’er the order of the gay tournay, | |
| Decide the quality of knight, and fame | |
| Of those who peril’d in the warlike game. | |
| Pavilions, rich with gold and every dye, | 285 |
| At measured distance regularly lie; | |
| Squires beside them, in grotesque array, | |
| Guard the bright war-worn shields that near them lay, | |
| Caress the foaming steed that rears from joy, | |
| His gold bit champs or bites some martial toy. | 290 |
| To rich and lofty seats with velvet spread, | |
| The lady guests, with Ella, now were led, | |
| Soft eyes shone brightly, and some hearts beat high. | |
| From one there came a deep, though smother’d sigh. | |
| As queen of love and beauty on that day, | 295 |
| Peerless in rank young Ella led the way. | |
| She passed like Luna on her azure sea, | |
| In beauty sailing—yet reluctantly; | |
| Like visions seen by Castaly’s pure stream, | |
| In the rapt poet’s airy, radiant dream. | 300 |
| For her the acclaim of rapture bore no charm; | |
| To one so gentle it echoed alarm; | |
| And on her snowy lid and long eye-lash | |
| Black care with laughing pleasure seem’d to clash. | |
| Up to her sparkling throne she trembling pass’d, | 305 |
| Gazing on knights and plunging steeds—aghast. | |
| Pallid she sat, and on the entrance-gate | |
| Her deep gaze planted—as if fix’d by fate. | |
| As yet, through all the waving plumes in sight, | |
| Her anxious eye still sought the nodding white. | 310 |
| It came—and trumpets sounding, wildly threw | |
| Their warlike clamors all the barriers through. | |
| Clarions and cymbals cast their echoes round, | |
| Fair women smiled, and chargers paw’d the ground. | |
| The Heralds “Largess” cried, while golden showers | 315 |
| Fell plenteous o’er their heads, like falling flowers, | |
| From hands of gallant peers and lovely dames, | |
| Of martial line and far-famed, ancient names. | |
| The Marshals too, arm’d cap-a-pie now stand, | |
| Prepared at once to judge and to command. | 320 |
| With shouts and wild huzzas the lists resound, | |
| To this knight first—and then to that redound. | |
| Full twenty knights now ranged on either side, | |
| Sternly impatient, for the signal bide. | |
| Firm in the stirrup—and the spear in rest, | 325 |
| Each pants to put his armor to the test, | |
| O’er one fierce party dark-brow’d Julian sways, | |
| His polish’d armor glistening in the rays. | |
| While through the steel-clad ranks he quickly glides, | |
| And keenly eyes each warrior as he rides; | 330 |
| With careful glance he views each barbed steed, | |
| And knight impatient for the warlike deed. | |
| In firm array the adverse squadron stands, | |
| With rich-dyed streamers, and with well-tried brands. | |
| And from the martial column Guiscard brooks | 335 |
| With burning ardor all his rival’s looks. | |
| Unknown, he asks a knightly rank and post, | |
| Claims a front station in the armed host. * * * * | |
| Now blew the loud shrill trump its warrior cry: | |
| The breathless audience waited silently; | 340 |
| While, circled in a cloud of blacken’d dust, | |
| Each party clash’d and mingled in the just. | |
| The sounds of clarions and of clanging arms | |
| Falling with horrid jar—the wild alarms | |
| Of martial outcries and the trampling steed, | 345 |
| Fled howling to the mountain from the mead. | |
| A mist of darkling dust enwrapt the field; | |
| The lance now shatter’d, fell before the shield; | |
| Horses and men now roll’d along the plain, | |
| Bleeding—struck down—and writhing in their pain. | 350 |
| Cries of fierce agony with shouts were heard, | |
| Dreadful commingling—as the coursers spurr’d, | |
| With hoofs ensanguined tore the fallen knight, | |
| Who helpless, shriek’d amidst the furious fight. | |
| Gay, streaming plumage drifted on the gale, | 355 |
| As leaves autumnal with the loud breeze sail. | |
| The piteous cries and groans of those who fell | |
| Stole tremulously fearful o’er the dell. | |
| Still o’er the scene spectators shouted loud, | |
| And kerchiefs waved from out the beauteous crowd. | 360 |
| With skill and gallant guise young Guiscard fought, | |
| Sternly impatient for his rival sought. | |
| Willing they met, and ’mid the horrid din, | |
| With fury strove the mastery to win. | |
| How fared that maid who madly gazed intent, | 365 |
| With eye distended and her fair neck bent? | |
| With throbbing heart she gazed and madden’d brain, | |
| On bright swords gleaming—and the bloody stain. | |
| The pale and panting girl beheld the steel | |
| On high bright beam and then beneath it reel, | 370 |
| Her lover prostrate—and she saw no more | |
| Than that he fell, ensanguined with his gore; | |
| A cry in deep, but still half-stifled wo, | |
| (Like moan of loud winds baffled as they go. | |
| Through dreary caverns speeding or some vault, | 375 |
| Angry or frighted at th’ unlook’d-for halt,) | |
| In plaintive agony she gave, and sunk, | |
| A pale and lovely—yet a breathless trunk. | |
| Sir Brian saw his beauteous daughter fall, | |
| And sternly motion’d for the trumpet-call, | 380 |
| That rolls its peaceful clamors all around, | |
| And drowns of mimic war the harsher sound. | |
| With wildest uproar teem’d the tournay scene, | |
| As borne off, lifeless, disappear’d its queen. | |
| Whilst squires attending on each suffering Knight, | 385 |
| The deep wound stanch’d—unclasp’d the helmet bright; | |
| Thirsting and faint the hapless Guiscard lay, | |
| Wailing the fortune of th’ unhappy day, | |
| Till o’er the lists the Baron’s rambling eye | |
| With anger lighten’d—then fix’d instantly. | 390 |
| The fallen Knight he knows, and unquench’d hate | |
| With rapid vehemence decides his fate; | |
| That wakeful hate that burning, never dies | |
| Till in the silent tomb its victim lies; | |
| That canc’rous rots the heart where it has sway, | 395 |
| And night’s dull hue spreads o’er each smiling day. | |
| He turn’d with quick decision and command, | |
| And scornful pointing with his unsheath’d brand, | |
| Bade his arm’d menials to a dungeon bear, | |
| And guard with fetters and their studied care, | 400 |
| The stubborn fool whose obstinacy led | |
| Where meet reward should shower on his head. * * * * | |
| Full oft the sun had bathed his glorious ray, | |
| Crimsoning the waters of the distant bay; | |
| Dyed golden masses of the evening’s cloud | 405 |
| With streaks of blushes, and with purple proud; | |
| Dropt on the leaning bark’s white-swelling sail | |
| Those tints that brighten e’en the canvas pale: | |
| And lapt the glowing landscape in rich hues, | |
| Whose dazzling’s mellow’d by the falling dews. | 410 |
| Long months had pass’d since Guiscard hapless lay, | |
| Shut from the genial smiling of the day: | |
| But now flew on the happy hour, when | |
| Young Hope and Love might shed their joys again. | |
| With passion’s eloquence and conquering gold, | 415 |
| Rich in the latter—with the former bold; | |
| With tears and melting words, the lady brought | |
| That tearful meeting she so fondly sought, | |
| Entranced she sunk upon her lover’s breast, | |
| Content t’ enjoy that happy—breathless rest, | 420 |
| Till by the trembling jailor roused in fear, | |
| Th’ escape she plans and dries the fruitful tear. | |
| Long-told adieus—and frequent, then were past, | |
| More mournful each and tenderer than the last, | |
| Till pale with dread, the trembling soldier bore | 425 |
| His lingering mistress from the dungeon’s door. | |
| Noiseless as one of Autumn’s stilly days, | |
| When sluggish winds ne’er rouse the veiling haze | |
| Which wraps in deep’ning mist the distant height, | |
| Soft’ning the radiance of too brilliant light, | 430 |
| With stealthy pace they trod the vaulted way, | |
| (Ne’er seen nor brighten’d by the cheering day,) | |
| Nor dream’t suspicion’s glance, with subtle art, | |
| Divined the secret of the maiden’s heart. * * * * | |
| Turn we to that fierce father once again, | 435 |
| The storm of passion raging in his brain. | |
| With hurried pace he treads the princely hall, | |
| While two dark menials summon’d at his call, | |
| Their stern lord’s mandate in the distance wait. | |
| Sudden he turns and checks his rapid gait, | 440 |
| Beckons the ruffians to a nearer stand, | |
| With haughty air delivers his command. | |
| “Ye know the prisoner in the western tower? | |
| ’T is well—then ere the coming morning’s hour, | |
| See that he dies; and when the deed is done, | 445 |
| Pluck out his heart—I ’ve use for such a one.” | |
| Turning he marshals them their murderous way: | |
| Wildly impatient chides the tardy day. | |
| The breezy morn sped o’er its orient path, | |
| Nor frown’d indignant on th’ assassin’s wrath: | 450 |
| Too well and swiftly done, the bloody deed | |
| Nor darks its rising, nor controls its speed; | |
| Heaven’s pure rays with equal bounty shed | |
| Their balmy kiss on Crime and Virtue’s head. | |
| With smile malignant and with fiendish sneers, | 455 |
| The villains’ full recital Brian hears; | |
| Lists the whole history of his victim’s death, | |
| The last deep sighing of his fleeting breath: | |
| His wild hate gluts with long and gloomy gaze | |
| On the dread relic that before him lays: | 460 |
| Now bids a servant, with ferocious air, | |
| A deep gold goblet to his presence bear. | |
| Throws in the bleeding object of his ire; | |
| Then as a gift from fond and doting sire, | |
| Commands they bear it to his darling child, | 465 |
| “Fair as obedient—as sincere as mild.”— | |
| O’er that sad daughter’s brow the night-breeze flew, | |
| Her fever’s heat unbated by the dew. | |
| The fresh’ning moisture of the morning air | |
| Threw no soft coolness on that forehead fair: | 470 |
| Each snowy eye-lid swoln and drooping hung, | |
| Told of a heart with speechless misery wrung. | |
| Her tearless, mournful glance, towards heaven now led, | |
| Spoke the dead calm of soul when hope is dead: | |
| That cold, undying agony of mind, | 475 |
| Too keenly poignant e’er to be defined; | |
| That sinks but rarely to its short-lived rest, | |
| And waking burns still fiercer in the breast. | |
| A young and weeping page now slowly bore | |
| That gorgeous beaker, chased with clotted gore, | 480 |
| Laid the dread offering at the lady’s feet, | |
| Trembling essay’d his message to repeat. | |
| With sobs and faltering then he told his tale, | |
| Deeply intent upon his mistress pale. | |
| “My noble lord has sent,” ’t was thus it ran, | 485 |
| “That which he says will pleasure ye to scan, | |
| ’T was kind, he says, such precious gift to send, | |
| ’T was what ye prized e’en more than sire or friend. | |
| I cannot tell, dear lady, what is meant, | |
| But his eye burnt fiercely and his brow was bent, | 490 |
| And round his mouth there lurk’d a laughing scorn, | |
| That seem’d of fiercest Hatred to be born.” | |
| With mien unchanging and with steadfast look, | |
| The blood-stain’d goblet hapless Ella took. | |
| The page’s words now made its meaning plain, | 495 |
| All prayer or piteous plaint were now but vain: | |
| Despair too, lent a calmness to her tone, | |
| Nor fell one tear—nor solitary groan. | |
| “My father hath done wisely,” then she said, | |
| “In such rich sepulchre should e’er be laid | 500 |
| A heart whose feeblest pulse to honor beat, | |
| The home of Courage—sacred Virtue’s seat! | |
| The richest tribute of my thanks then bear | |
| That doting parent for his fostering care: | |
| This precious gift is all I ever sought, | 505 |
| ’T is far too costly e’er to have been bought.” | |
| The heavy, scalding tear o’erflowing then, | |
| Her slumb’ring maiden-softness woke again. | |
| With deep, unsated look of love intense, | |
| That fix’d, unwandering gazing of the sense, | 510 |
| Her glance now fasten’d on the blood-stain’d urn, | |
| While her pale cheek still paler ’gan to turn. | |
| From the wild gipsy’s casket then she took, | |
| With mild and pensive but determined look, | |
| A dark thick liquid, and with upturn’d eye, | 515 |
| She faintly smiled—and drank it instantly. | |
| The deadly poison coursed its lightning way; | |
| Death’s hue now wandered o’er her, as she lay. | |
| The young and faithful page had gazed with air | |
| Of love respectful—tender brother’s care: | 520 |
| But when he saw that ghastly shadow creep | |
| O’er his fair mistress’ face, he ceased to weep: | |
| Swift flew to summon to her couch’s side | |
| Her weeping maidens ere the lady died. | |
| And when they came, they found that goblet prest | 525 |
| Closely and tightly on her panting breast. * * * * | |
| Now all grew silent—and pale Ella’s eye, | |
| Languid and glassy, sought the azure sky: | |
| A gentle motion o’er her lips then ran, | |
| As if she pray’d for that dark-hearted man; | 530 |
| And then they closed—and with convulsive throe, | |
| The spirit fled this scene of earthly wo. | |
| On her fair face a holy calm was spread, | |
| As if she slept—but not among the dead: | |
| Her fallen lid, with blue, meandering vein, | 535 |
| Seem’d Parian marble with its wandering stain. * * * * | |
| Sad wore that day in Brian’s gilded halls, | |
| And long its memory in those stately walls. | |
| The silver tones of revelry had fled, | |
| While grief’s dull notes were wandering in their stead. | 540 |
| The piercing trumpet and the martial drum | |
| Slept silent, ’mid the low and deepen’d hum | |
| Of sorrowing vassals, on vain grief intent, | |
| On mournful duties silently now bent. | |
| The hour had come, for that sad requiem said | 545 |
| By weeping friendship o’er the festering dead: | |
| That harrowing—tearful moment, when the grave | |
| Sullenly closes o’er the young and brave; | |
| When the dread sound of fast descending mould | |
| Strikes on the wounded heart so fearful cold. | 550 |
| Many that requiem heard, and told the tale | |
| To those who listen’d, e’en when it was stale. * * * * | |
| ’T was a dark, chilly morn in bleak November, | |
| Such as old, gray-bearded men remember: | |
| The clouds were heavy—dull—and scattering, | 555 |
| Large drops of rain, at times, fell pattering | |
| On red and purple leaves that strow’d the ground, | |
| While the blast blew with melancholy sound: | |
| And falling foliage darken’d all the air, | |
| Rich in autumnal dyes, of tints most fair. * * * * | 560 |
| And ever and anon a lulling note | |
| Of sadful music, air-borne, seem’d to float | |
| Through all the windings of the brown hued grove, | |
| And with the harsher sounds rich sweetness wove. | |
| Then the full, solemn hymning for the dead | 565 |
| Fell, sullen on the listening ear and spread, | |
| While bursting on the sight a moving train | |
| Crept slowly onward down the shelving plain. | |
| Knights and fair women—holy priests—were seen, | |
| In robes—fair flowing plumes—and costliest sheen. | 570 |
| Then the sad bier, with dim and black array, | |
| In awful slowness pass’d upon its way. | |
| Within its dark funereal bosom laid | |
| The brave young knight beside the beauteous maid. | |
| From those who gazed (a crowd of young and old,) | 575 |
| In unaffected grief, the big tears roll’d. | |
| Of their sad passion many a tale went round, | |
| Told with the low and fearful, smother’d sound. | |
| Some said lord Brian, when his daughter died, | |
| Wept madly, even in his hour of pride: | 580 |
| Raved o’er the lovely relics of that child, | |
| In all the tempest of his passions wild. | |
| ’T was even lightly whisper’d he had sworn, | |
| That the bright helm and glaive should ne’er be born, | |
| But that the pilgrim’s staff or monkish beads | 585 |
| Best fitted one of such foul, bloody deeds. | |
| Onward the long procession sadly pass’d, | |
| Till to a lonely dell it came at last, | |
| Where moody cypress and the clambering vine, | |
| In close and loving meshes intertwine. | 590 |
| There in one grave lie maid and cavalier, | |
| Their cold tomb bathed with many a sad tear: | |
| And on its sculpture village damsels hung | |
| Fresh flowers, and frequent in the evening sung. | |
| Among the rustics too a lay went round, | 595 |
| That notes aerial wander’d o’er that ground, | |
| On moonless nights, and when the wind was high, | |
| And black clouds sailed heavily in the sky. | |
| In that lone spot—beside a quiet stream | |
| And mouldering ruin, those two lovers dream. | 600 |
