The Burden of the Bell and Other Lyrics :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Late, late yestreen, I saw the new moon,
With the old moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my master dear,
We shall have a deadly storm.”
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence.

The North Wind summoned his legions all,
At the dead midnight, from their dungeon thrall;
And he said with a shout, that as it rose,
Stripped bare the forests and shook the snows,—
“Away, to your work of ruin!”

Fierce and fell—fierce and fell,
Over rock and over dell,—
Through the tossing Norway pines,
Through the wreaths of southern vines,—
Fierce and fell—fierce and fell,
Passed they with a savage yell,
As for earth's undoing.

And the Raven, that sits on the blasted bough,
He hath flapped his wing and followed, I trow.

There's a crag on the Brocken, the topmost of all,
That standeth solemn, and black, and tall,
With a jagged top, where the moon-rays fall
Sudden and sharp—you may see it shine
Far down in the vale, at the day's decline.
And circling around it, round and round,
Eddy the winds, with a muffled sound,
As of wierd witch-laughter, stealthy and low;
And ever, as round and round they go,
There's a flapping of wings on the dead pine-bough—
A flapping of wings, and a voice doth call—
“Crag of the Brocken, Crag of the Brocken,
Stoop to thy fall!”

Then silence awhile—not a sound replies,
But the moon looks out from the darkened skies,
And still in its grandeur, stately and tall,
Towereth the Brocken-Crag, topmost of all.

But louder and louder the laughter grows,
And fiercer the strength of the viewless foes;

The loose rocks spin in the air, the trees
Groan 'neath the stress of their agonies,—
And again, through the tumult, is heard, I trow,
That flapping of wings on the dead pine-bough,
Again, hoarse and sullen, that boding call—
“Crag of the Brocken, Crag of the Brocken,
Stoop to thy fall!”

And the peasant, far down in the vale below,
Looks forth from his casement in terror, and lo!
By the fitful moonbeams, that come and go,
He seeth the Brocken-Crag sway to and fro,
Then dash down the rocks with a headlong rout,
While still in its track doth that wild voice shout
Hoarser, and louder, and high over all,
“Crag of the Brocken, Crag of the Brocken,
Haste to thy fall!”

Fierce and free—fierce and free,
Over land and over sea,
To their work of ruin—
Through the valleys, still and deep,
Where the nestling hamlets sleep,—
Through the cities, wide and fair,
Working wreek and ravage there,—

Fierce and free—fierce and free,
Passed they, with a savage glee,
As for earth's undoing.

And the Raven that sits on the blasted bough,
He hath whetted his beak and followed, I trow.

The Lord Baron he sits in the northern tower,
In his old grey tower, alone—
With a frowning brow, and a cruel eye,
And he laugheth loud—“Sir Guy, Sir Guy,
My will must unbend, or this tower descend,
Ere thou comest to claim thine own!
Ha, ha! 'twas a fair young bride,” quoth he,
“That smiled in my face, and knelt at my knee,
But I drove them forth together,—
I drove them forth from my sight, pardie,
With a bitter curse, for all company
To brighten the mad weather!”
And the Baron, he strideth up and down,
With a sterner smile, and a darker frown,
But he stoppeth ere long, for a sudden knell,
Falls on his ear, like a passing bell,
That tolleth solemnly.—

And anon, through the sound of the lashing rain,
There's a flapping of wings at the lattice pane,—
A flapping of wings, and, piercing and high,
With scream of ill omen, a voice doth cry,
“Lord Baron, Lord Baron, that passing bell
Tolleth for thee!”

Dread looks the Baron, and white of ble,
But he looseth the casement full manfully,
And he looketh forth—lo! the moon on high
Glares through the clouds, as they hurry by,
With a ghastly face, as of witchery.—
Lo! the boughs of the forest trees, one and all,
Toss, like black plumes at a funeral;
And circling the battlements, round and round,
He hears the winds eddy with boding sound,
An angry murmur, that groweth ere long,
Moment by moment, more wild and strong,
Till that grim old tower, so mossy and grey,
Trembles and rocks 'neath their hurricane sway.

Still, the Baron he paceth up and down,
And his brow is knit with the same black frown,

And back to his face hath crept, the while,
The baleful light of that cruel smile,—
Ah me, ah me!
He seeth perchance the knight, Sir Guy,
And the bride, that he loveth so tenderly,
Wandering, wandering, sad and forlorn,
Heart-broken, shelterless, weary and worn,
And the smile groweth brighter!—he seeth them flee,
O'er the dark hills, followed relentlessly
By the tempest that rageth with evil will,
And the curse, that o'ertaketh them, fleeter still,
And fiercely he laugheth!—but hark, the knell
Soundeth anew, as of passing bell
That tolleth solemnly;—
And anew, in the pause of the beating rain,
Comes the flapping of wings at the lattice pane,—
The flapping of wings, and from out the gloom,
Freezing his life-blood, that voice of doom,
“Lord Baron, Lord Baron, you passing bell
Tolleth for thee!”

Down, down, down!
With a roar, and a crash, and a mocking cry
From the whirling winds, and piercing through all,
A scream, as of mortal agony,

That grim old tower, so mossy and grey,
That hath braved for ages the battle fray,
Doth shake and totter and fall—
Down, down!
Massive and vast, to the fosse below,
It sinketh in ruin—each mighty stone,
From basement to battlement overthrown;
But thrice, ere the terrible strife is o'er,
Is heard, I wot, 'mid the general roar,
That shrieking voice of woe,—
And thrice, as in triumph, a weird-like sound,
As of hoarse wild laughter, echoeth round,
While faint in the distance, floatcth the knell
Of a solemn deep-toned funeral bell.—
Ave Maria! guard us well!