Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The following poem was written at the request of a near relation, who wished me to compose a Tale adapted to the picturesque and enchanting scenery of the ancient domains of our family, now in the possession of Bertram Mitford, Esq.

The Lord de Bertram, (one of the followers of William the Conqueror) married Sybille, the heiress of Sir Johannes de Mitford, and died, I believe, in the Holy Land. This is the only historical foundation for the story; but tradition is fertile in incident, and has assigned to the beautiful ruin of Mary's Chapel, a tale nearly similar to that, which I have attempted to relate. It has too, within a very few years, been the scene of a most extraordinary occurrence. An

unfortunate and guilty female, an inhabitant of Morpeth, resolved, when in the last stage of a consumption, to close her eyes within the sacred precincts of the Lady's chapel. She retired thither accordingly; and though every effort, that humanity could dictate, was made to remove her to a more comfortable habitation, she resisted, with wild and delirious strength, all attempts to tear her from the situation she had chosen. After lingering a few weeks, she died, and was buried on the spot. I have alluded to this circumstance in the sixth stanza of the introductory verses.

Fair Wansbeck, when thy limpid stream
Is deck'd with May's bright flowers;
And thy clear waters circling gleam,
Round Mitford's mossy towers:

How lovely is the blooming vale,
By woody mountains bound;
The spire high rises in the dale,
The village smiles around.

The modest mansion on the hill
Beams in the brightening ray;
Mitford's proud turrets crown the rill,
And all the vale is gay.

But dark is thy tempestuous flood,
When sad November lours;
And through old Bothall's gloomy wood
The foaming torrent pours.

Then e'en the oak's last lingering leaves
The slippery path-way spread;
The long brown grass the foot deceives,
And mocks th' uncertain tread.

The Lady's chapel rises there,
Amid the darkening gloom;
Its mouldering walls still brave the air;
The maniac's lonely tomb!

No roof has crown'd those mouldering walls,
For many a wintry day;
An aged ash high o'er them falls,
With moss and lichens grey.

The dreaded spot the peasant flies,
For in the torrent's swell,
He hears fair Sybille's piercing cries,
Or the sad passing bell.

And in the raging of the storm,
When the blue lightnings glare,
He sees pale Sybille's shrouded form,
Swift flitting through the air.

Gay summer smil'd on Bothall bowers;
The setting sun's resplendent beam
Illum'd fair Mitford's massy towers,
Tinging with gold the living stream.

High o'er the flood the castle steep
Rear'd its proud head in feudal state;
The banner floated on the Keep;
And darkly frown'd the arched gate.

No pleasant sound of wassail gay
Rung round Lord Bertram's splendid board;
Dark frowning, like his turrets grey,
Sate at the feast the haughty lord.

With Norman William, Bertram came;
De Mitford's lovely heir he saw;
The conqueror own'd his favorite's claim;
And William's word was England's law.

Vainly the suppliant fair-one knelt,
Vainly she spurn'd a foreign yoke;
The king nor love nor pity felt—
She wept, but yielded to the stroke.

Not long she wept. Two lingering years
Two lovely smiling babes had given;
Still faster flow'd the mother's tears,
Till her soul sought its native heaven.

Goodly and brave, the youthful heir
To battle leads his father's power;
And gay, and innocent, and fair,
His Sybille blooms, a northern flower!

And now, the Baron leaves the hall;
His chieftains pass the goblet round;
When from the castle's outer wall
Arose a harp's melodious sound.

Dark brows and rugged breasts had they;
But, who the minstrel's power withstands?
Who loves not well the rapturous lay,
Or pleasant tales from distant lands?

Well pleas'd the stubborn warriors smil'd;
The iron gates were backward flung:
And soon the harper's descant wild
Through Mitford's echoing turrets rung.

And high and haughty was the lay,
That sweetly flow'd in Provence tongue;
Of tourneys, lords and ladies gay,
A wondrous tale the minstrel sung.

Boldly he struck the martial strain;
His manly voice was deep and clear;
And rapture fires the hardy train,
Again their native tongue to hear!

The polish'd accents, as they fall,
(Long us'd to Saxon strains uncouth)
The fields of Normandy recal,
And renovate their lusty youth.

O then each well-remember'd cot,
Each blooming maid they lov'd so well,
Their earliest and their happiest lot!—
Again their steel-clad bosoms swell.

Sweet was the strain. Enchanting theme!
Of happy love the minstrel sung;
To the rapt poet's blissful dream
The magic chords responsive rung.

But soon they pause; and sad and low,
He touch'd a wildly plaintive air;
In thrilling tones of deepest woe
He told the hapless lover's care.

He ceas'd; and plaudits loud were made,
Grateful he rais'd his down-cast eye,
But scarce his modest thanks he paid
Ere the half-utter'd accents die.

For that dark eye had careless glanc'd,
To the high throne of feudal state;
And hovering there, inspir'd, entranc'd,
A lovely vision speechless sate.

O ne'er was form so witching fair!
Sweetly through recent tears she smil'd;
Loose and unbound her sunny hair
Flow'd round her sylphid figure wild.

Soft was her eye of heavenly blue;
Her cheek was like the opening rose,
Wet with the morning's pearly dew;
And pure her bosom's living snows.

In manly beauty's youthful glow
Was he, who touch'd the tuneful string;
Dark clustering o'er his polish'd brow
Hung ringlets, like the raven's wing.

Stately his form, and proud his mien;
High genius sparkled in his eye,
Softening from glances wild and keen,
To smiles of cherub infancy.

They saw, they lov'd—The harp still rung
To airs of love in Mitford tower:
Of war, of fame, no more he sung,
But high-born beauty's gentle power.

Nor wealth nor rank on Albert smil'd,
He knew no father's fostering care;
A widow'd mother rear'd the child,
Deep in the wilds of Provence fair.

But far from his romantic home
He sought Italia's blissful strand;
For Albert long'd the world to roam,
To visit every distant land.

“O he had wander'd far and wide
“Through vales, where Arno's waters flow;
“Seen the bright dames, Iberia's pride,
“And Grecian nymphs with necks of snow;

“But not in Tempe's classic shade
“Had he so sweet a valley seen;
“Nor e'er beheld so fair a maid,
“As she who tripp'd o'er Mitford green.”

The blushing girl, with accents mild
And gentle chidings, check'd his praise:
But still she listen'd, still she smil'd,
Whilst Albert pour'd his amorous lays.

No hopes had they, the Baron proud
Would e'er the minstrel's vows approve;
For noble youths to Sybille bow'd,
And sought the blue-eyed maiden's love.

Gay summer now was fading fast;
The robin twitter'd from the wood;
And scatter'd by th' autumnal blast,
The yellow leaves sail'd down the flood.

Still the fond youth his passion prest,
A smile half lit her down-cast eye;
“O! if of Sybille's heart possess'd,
“Albert can every care defy!

“Far from the scenes of pride and wealth,
“We'll seek some wood-embosom'd cot;
“Content, and innocence, and health,
“With happy love, shall crown our lot.

“At morn these sinewy limbs I'll strain,
(“How blest to labor, love, for thee!)
“At evening with the village train
“We'll join in rustic revelry.

“Haste then, my fair! a holy priest
“E'en now at Mary's chapel waits;
“Thy father loiters at the feast,
“The weary warder leaves the gates.

“My Sybille, come!” Her trembling feet
Can scarce her slender form support;
Hope, fear, and love, contending meet,
Scarce can she cross the echoing court.

“My Sybille, come!” Prophetic fears
The maiden's gentle bosom move;
Her azure eyes are dimm'd with tears,
Tears soon dispell'd by mighty love!

No more she turns; to Mitford's towers
No more her lingering footsteps stray;
Lightly she trips through Bothall's bowers,
Ting'd by the parting beam of day.

There in the virgin's chapel fair,
By Wansbeck's swiftly flowing tide,
The holy father blest the pair,
And Albert clasp'd his blushing bride.

'Twas night, and darkness veil'd the wood,
Save where the silver moon-beam shone,
Danc'd upon Wansbeck's rippling flood,
Or kiss'd the chapel's holy stone.

And nought the solemn stillness broke,
Save the clear water's rushing sound;
The night-breeze murmuring through the oak,
Or the dark bat quick flitting round.

But soon a thousand torches shine!
Wild shouts the sleeping echoes rouse!
And Sybille sinks by Mary's shrine,
Where late she pledg'd her stolen vows.

Soon, soon they pierce the holy walls!
The minstrel draws his trusty blade;
“Revenge!” the madden'd father calls,
And furious spurns the weeping maid.

They fight—the husband and the sire;
They fight—and desperate is the strife:
Still fiercer glows their mutual ire,
Nor heeds the daughter and the wife.

Frantic she darts between the foes—
The Baron's sword is dipp'd in gore,
O'er her fair form the life-blood flows,
And Sybille falls—to rise no more!

Who is that chief on Judah's strand,
Who, reckless of the mortal wound,
Hews desp'rate mid the Paynim band,
Strewing with mangled heaps the ground?

And who is he, whose raven hair
Is tann'd by sun and wet with rain,
Who lies on Mary's pavement bare,
Bathing with tears the bloody stain?

That chief—may Heaven its mercy show!
That wretched youth in woe unmov'd,—
That chief is he who gave the blow,
That youth is he whom Sybille lov'd.