C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
The Old Woman of Berkeley
By Robert Southey (1774–1843)
T
And the Old Woman knew what he said;
And she grew pale at the Raven’s tale,
And sickened, and went to her bed.
The Old Woman of Berkeley said;
“The Monk my son, and my daughter the Nun,
Bid them hasten, or I shall be dead.”
Their way to Berkeley went;
And they have brought, with pious thought,
The holy sacrament.
And she cried with a voice of despair,
“Now take away the sacrament,
For its presence I cannot bear!”
The sweat ran down her brow:
“I have tortures in store for evermore;
But spare me, my children, now!”
The fit it left her weak;
She looked at her children with ghastly eyes,
And faintly struggled to speak.
And the judgment now must be;
But I secured my children’s souls:
Oh, pray, my children, for me!
The fiends have been my slaves;
From sleeping babes I have sucked the breath;
And breaking by charms the sleep of death,
I have called the dead from their graves.
My witchcrafts to atone;
And I, who have troubled the dead man’s grave,
Shall never have rest in my own.
My children, I beg of you;
And with holy-water sprinkle my shroud,
And sprinkle my coffin too.
And fasten it strong, I implore,
With iron bars, and with three chains
Chain it to the church-floor.
And let fifty Priests stand round,
Who night and day the Mass may say
Where I lie on the ground.
Beside the bier attend me,
And day and night, by the tapers’ light,
With holy hymns defend me.
Be tolled by night and day,
To drive from thence the fiends who come
To bear my body away.
After the even-song;
And I beseech you, children dear,
Let the bars and bolts be strong.
My wretched corpse to save;
Till the fourth morning keep me safe,
And then I may rest in my grave.”
And her eyes grew deadly dim;
Short came her breath, and the struggle of death
Did loosen every limb.
With rites and prayers due;
With holy-water they sprinkled her shroud,
And they sprinkled her coffin too.
And with iron barred it down,
And in the church with three strong chains
They chained it to the ground.
And fifty Priests stood round,
By night and day the Mass to say
Where she lay on the ground.
Beside the bier attend her,
Who day and night, by the tapers’ light,
Should with holy hymns defend her.
It was a goodly sight,
Each holding, as it were a staff,
A taper burning bright.
Did toll so loud and long;
And they have barred the church-door hard,
After the even-song.
Burnt steadily and clear;
But they without a hideous rout
Of angry fiends could hear;—
Like a long thunder-peal;
And the Priests they prayed, and the Choristers sung
Louder, in fearful zeal.
The tapers they burnt bright:
The Monk her son, and her daughter the Nun,
They told their beads all night.
From the voice of the morning away:
Then undisturbed the Choristers sing,
And the fifty Priests they pray;
As they had sung and prayed all night,
They prayed and sung all day.
Burnt dismally and blue,
And every one saw his neighbor’s face
Like a dead man’s face to view.
That the stoutest heart might shock,
And a deafening roaring like a cataract pouring
Over a mountain rock.
As fast as they could tell;
And aye as louder grew the noise,
The faster went the bell.
As they trembled more and more;
And the Priests, as they prayed to Heaven for aid,
They smote their breasts full sore.
From the voice of the morning away:
Then undisturbed the Choristers sing,
And the fifty Priests they pray;
As they had sung and prayed all night,
They prayed and sung all day.
A frightful stench did make;
And they burnt as though they had been dipped
In the burning brimstone lake.
Grew momently more and more;
And strokes as of a battering-ram
Did shake the strong church-door.
Could toll the bell no longer;
And still, as louder grew the strokes,
Their fear it grew the stronger.
They fell on the ground in dismay;
There was not a single Saint in heaven
To whom they did not pray.
Faltered with consternation;
For the church did rock as an earthquake shock
Uplifted its foundation.
That shall one day wake the dead;—
The strong church-door could bear no more,
And the bolts and bars they fled;
And the Choristers faintly sung;
And the Priests, dismayed, panted and prayed,
And on all Saints in heaven for aid
They called with trembling tongue.
The Devil, to fetch the dead;
And all the church with his presence glowed
Like a fiery furnace red.
And like flax they moldered asunder;
And the coffin lid, which was barred so firm,
He burst with his voice of thunder.
And come with her Master away:
A cold sweat started on that cold corpse,
At the voice she was forced to obey.
Her dead flesh quivered with fear;
And a groan like that which the Old Woman gave
Never did mortal hear.
There stood a black horse there;
His breath was red like furnace smoke,
His eyes like a meteor’s glare.
And he leaped up before,
And away like the lightning’s speed they went,
And she was seen no more.
For four miles round they could hear;
And children at rest at their mother’s breast
Started, and screamed with fear.