Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

I am indebted to local circumstances for the foundation of the following tale. The house, in which I am now writing, was erected on the site of an ancient mansion formerly inhabited by a distinguished Roman-Catholic Family. I well remember, not many years back, playing in the secret room, described in the poem; the entrance to it was through a sliding pannel, so well concealed by the carved work that covered the wall, that it greatly excited the admiration of the workmen employed in taking down the house. All the neighbourhood came to view and wonder at the priest's hiding-place, the name all the old Inhabitants agreed in calling it by, and told tales as wild and romantic as the story that I have invented respecting this mysterious cell.

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Where yonder villa rises fair,
A gloomy mansion rear'd its head:
No sound of mirth had echoed there,
Since its proud Lord affrighted fled.

'Twas when for Scotland's captive flower,
Fond Norfolk felt the axe so keen;
And glory wept the baleful power
That stain'd thy fame, O Virgin Queen!

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Then all who Norfolk's friendship shar'd,
And all who own'd the aucient faith,
'Gainst jealous power must timely guard,
Or share the traitor's loathed death.

O all are fled; within the walls
Two feeble beings only stray,
To mourn the lone and cheerless hals,
And pray for those far, far away.

The holy Francis linger'd there,
Servant of God, and friend of Man;
The load of life he scarce could bear,
With age and sickness faint and wan.

To tend his wants young Agnes staid,
An orphan innocent and mild;
And peacefully they liv'd and pray'd,
That saint-like man, that gentle child.

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Days, weeks, had pass'd, ere at the gate
A band of armed men appear'd;—
Fear'd not the priest to meet his fate,
As high those glittering arms were rear'd

But Agnes knelt, and pray'd, and wept,
“O shroud thee in the secret cell,
They seek but thee,”—cold shivers crept
Through her fair form, as peal'd the bell.

“But thou, my child, to leave thee so,
“Midst soldiers harden'd, wild, and free,”—
“They seek not me, my Father, go!
“Fear nothing; God will succour me.”

She drew the Father to the cell,
She touch'd the carv'd work's secret spring,
With quick rebound the pannel fell;
And wild shouts through the mansion ring.

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Poor Agnes hurried from the place,
With fluttering heart and blushing cheek,
“O may no eye my footsteps trace,
“No hand the mystic pannel seek!”

Scarce thirteen springs had Agnes seen,
But woman's graces deck'd her form;
Her black eye sparkled bright and keen,
And her soft roses mantled warm.

Dark Cuthbert saw the lovely child,
His glance his soul's foul passion told:
“Ah Traitress, with the look so mild,
“Say where lies hid the buried gold?

“'Tis death the Traitor's wealth to hide,—
Confess and live to love and pleasure!—”
“No gold is here,” the maiden cried,—
And thought upon her living treasure.

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So past the weary day: at night,
Dark Cuthbert to his comrades said,
“Guard you our royal Sovereign's right,
“Whilst I to London bear the maid.”

The rain fell fast on Agnes' form,
She felt it not, yet wild her cries!
They mingled with the raging storm,
“No food! no drink! he dies, he dies!”

That night the elemental war
Rock'd sea and river, tree and ground;
And thunder-clap and tempest-jar,
Drown'd mortal plaint and earthly sound.

The next they heard, or seem'd to hear,
Faint groans of mortal agony:
Groans such as pierce affection's ear,
Ere mounts th' enfranchis'd soul on high.

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Trembling they search'd; the search was vain;
Yet awe-struck, mute, and scar'd, they lay:
Still fainter grew the dismal strain;
And all was hush'd ere break of day.

At noon, with eye all haggard-wild,
Dishevell'd hair and panting limb,
Rush'd madly by the lovely child,
“He dies, and I have murder'd him!”

She mounted quick the spacious stair;
She cross'd each room on Frenzy's wing;
Struck the carv'd oak with frantic air,
And press'd upon the secret spring.

There lay the Friar as if at rest,
The holy Cross was in his hand;
She flung her fair form on his breast;—
But never shall those lungs expand!

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She plac'd her red lips on his cheek,
She strove to raise each stiffen'd limb;—
O dreadful, Agnes, was thy shriek!
“He dies, and I have murder'd him!”

Nor other word she ever spake!
Nor ever reason lit her eye!
And down by yonder tangled brake,
In the lone pool, doth Agnes he.