Bertram A Poetical Tale, In Four Cantos. By Sir Egerton Brydges. Second Edition |
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| I. |
| II. | CANTO II.
CAPTIVITY. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | Bertram |  |
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CANTO II. CAPTIVITY.
I.
Now Norville counted many a sorrowing day,And many a month had linger'd on its way;
Yet of his parted friend no tidings came:
As if at once had sunk his life and name!
In pensive solitude he sooth'd his grief;
And only in that image sought relief,
Which long within his bosom's inmost fold
An idol's sacred place was wont to hold.
To her he wrote again; to her he sigh'd
A heart, no female could with her divide:
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And Grace did all her shape, and looks adorn;
And tenderness was in her languid eye,
And in her bosom sensibility.
II.
Grateful to Norville, she confess'd her love;But faint, as if she only could approve!
For she, whom every intellectual ray
Lighted to hopes of fairer, loftier day,
Had wish'd a lover, whom each shadowy form
Of Fancy's wand to energy could warm.
III.
The time was come, when from the martial plainNorville releas'd, once more recross'd the main,
And sought with beating heart his home again.
Then at the feet of her, who long had sway'd
His bosom, his eternal vows he laid:
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And in his arms the trembling virgin bore.
IV.
Not long were given within that glad embraceThe days each other rapidly to chase,
When, once more summon'd to the rage of arms,
He paus'd at parting from the fair one's charms;
And she, at toils and perils unappall'd,
Shrunk not from duty when her husband call'd.
Faithful she follow'd o'er the foaming main,
And smooth'd his pillow on the tented plain.
V.
But yet for noble Bertram dead he wept,And o'er his memory ceaseless vigils kept;
Lucasta too (for such the sacred name
That, known of yore, now honour'd Norville's dame;)
Had heard of Bertram, till, within the shrine
Her fancy built, she deem'd him half divine.
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VI.
One evening when the festal board was set,And round it many a belted soldier met;
And every one, of much that he had heard,
And much that he had seen, the tale preferr'd;
Fitz-John, for by that name the warlike crew,
By his own choice, the daring Bertram knew,
Fitz-John, the hero of a tale became.
“Fitz-John!” half breathless, Norville 'gan exclaim;
But listen'd on, and tried his breath to hold,
Till more of that heart-shaking tale was told.
VII.
Fitz-John, it seem'd, (no other could it be!)Had pass'd long months in deep captivity;
For some rash deed, some bold attempt to break
His chains, the Foe full vengeance will'd to take.
In dark dank massive dungeon deep immur'd,
Cold, hunger, solitude, he long endur'd:
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Was cast upon the captive's misery:
A female eye! the Gaoler's daughter saw
The wretched victim stretch'd upon the straw;
And quick resolv'd to soothe those cruel pains,
And loose or lighten those inhuman chains.
VIII.
Then came again more gentle days: Fitz-JohnNow roam'd at large, and saw the Morning dawn,
And saw Eve's mantle gather round the Heaven,
And blest the Maid, by whom those boons were given.
Ah! Maid, soft-bosom'd! Thou didst vainly throw
That melting eye on him thou sav'd'st from woe!
Though deeply he thy kindness felt; yet he
His fancy fed with fairer dames than thee!
Yet still he press'd thy tender hand, and tried
By gentle tones to soothe thine injur'd pride.
But thou would'st lean upon his arm in vain,
And plead with melting eye and sorrowing strain;
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He could not pledge, poor Maid, eternal truth!
IX.
Restrain'd again, but not to dungeons deep,A watchful look they o'er their captive keep:
Converse with friends the maiden's eye, which Love
Had render'd sharp and jealous, could remove.
X.
Now Norville vow'd no care nor art to cease,Till he could gain his long-lost friend's release:
Letters and messengers were sent in vain;
No distant tidings brought they back again.
Then fair Lucasta, whose heroic mind
For every noble effort was design'd,
Heedless of toils that meaner spirits shake,
Devoted, sought the task to undertake.
Norville, though deeply pang'd with her to part,
Whom every day made dearer to his heart,
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Those efforts that his duty urg'd, should spare;
And e'en though all his earthly bliss he lent,
Lucasta on the dangerous errand sent.
XI.
With silent step, and many a trembling thought,Th' ill-omen'd prison of Fitz-John she sought.
To distant parts by vague enquiry bound,
At length a spot retir'd and hid she found,
Where a dark fortress o'er a village frown'd.
And there, 't was said, some captives of the state,
Closely immur'd, dragg'd on their hapless fate.
XII.
Worn with suspense, and with the length of road,“Here, here, (she cried) I'll fix my short abode;
And thus, methinks, Hope whispers in my ear,
Some tidings of the youth I seek, shall hear.”
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And still from Hope beam'd forth no second ray.
But sometimes Rumour whisper'd, that a maid
Walk'd with her lover veil'd by Evening's shade:
And from that fortress it was said they came;
But shunn'd th' enquirer's eye, as if for shame.
XIII.
In truth, by many a gossip they were seen,As ghosts that glided o'er the village green.
Of moody feats they told strange, shuddering tales,
Of hollow sighs and shrieks that fill'd the gales:
But others held, that moping Madness there
Was plac'd beneath some tender maiden's care,
Whose task it was to soften his despair.
And when she sooth'd his burning cheek, and prest
Her gentle hand upon his burning breast,
Upon his fever'd heart it pour'd a balm,
And o'er his raving frame ensued a calm;
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His blood's o'er-swelling currents to restrain.
XIV.
Lucasta heard, and trembled, as 'twas told:“It is a tale, (she cried) I must unfold.
Wild o'er his woes beneath that mantle broods
Perchance the captive, who my search eludes.
But careful must I watch, and many a wile
Employ to meet that female keeper's guile.”
XV.
Then many a night she wander'd, and would traceThe mystic pair their various paths to pace:
Oft as she wont by nearer steps pursue,
Like ghosts they vanish'd, and escap'd her view:
Oft as she listen'd while the silent air
Their whisper'd converse could distinctly bear,
The words all from the Maiden seem'd to come,
While he mov'd onward in unbroken gloom.
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XVI.
Now other acts 't were wiser to begin,And entrance in that fort by day to win:
A female stranger no suspicion rais'd;
She saw each court, and still around she gaz'd;
No captive met her search; no hero, veil'd,
Her prying glances e'en in fancy hail'd.
But soon, light-tripping by her side, was seen
A nymph of youthful air and sprightly mien;
A little sharp brunette, of sloe black eyes,
Who deem'd unask'd each female ear her prize.
XVII.
She told her many a tale of vanity,And of her beauty's triumphs many a lie:
Lucasta listen'd; 't was the game she sought;
And as the girl her stores of conquest brought
Before her ear, sigh'd many an anxious thought.
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That roguish eye shot forth, she deem'd some wile
Lurk'd undivulg'd: but, if the prattling fool
Pleas'd not, she hop'd some happier hour to rule.
XVIII.
Another and another morning rose,And Juliet still her new companion chose;
And told her of an hundred loves: then smil'd;
And said a soldier had her heart beguil'd.
He was so brave a youth; and in his face
There shone such mingled dignity and grace,
And in his vigorous form, which birth refin'd,
The warrior and the lover so combin'd,
That she had pledg'd to him eternal vows;
And earthly barriers should not interpose:
But he was moody; and such pride would fly
In threatening glances from his fiery eye;
And sometimes such a deep and silent grief,
That seem'd beyond the reach of her relief,
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And steel'd his bosom to all human charms,
That she was often fearful, that by fits
Some unknown evil had derang'd his wits.
XIX.
“Sure Juliet's charms may well,” Lucasta cried,“At such a captive feel a generous pride.
To rule o'er heroes is to rule the world,
While Conquest's banners at your feet are hurl'd.”
The spell was strong; th' intoxicating draught
Of flattering praise with eager lips she quaff'd:
Then beat her heart those triumphs to display,
And shew the youth who yielded to her sway.
“Meet me,” she said, “when Evening's mantle grey
Begins with grateful shades to veil our way;
Meet me beneath that row of sombre limes,
When from yon holy tower the curfew chimes:
Then leaning on my arm the noble youth
Will sigh in whispers soft his wonted truth.
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And mark the ringlets of his raven hair,
That curl upon his speaking brow; but spare
To try that voice, which oft in silence sleeps!
For Juliet only he that treasure keeps!”
XX.
Lucasta smil'd; and joy'd to see the spell,She conjur'd, work beyond her hopes so well:
But hid her gladness; and with doubtful tone,
“Ah, Juliet!” said she, “shall I roam alone
In darksome paths by twilight hours to view
Those triumphs, which I cannot doubt for you?
It boots not me this warrior to behold!
It boots not me his virtues to unfold!
In climes remote my fond affection lies,
Deep fix'd on one, whose faith all change defies!”
XXI.
Lucasta's coldness did but fan the flameOf Juliet's bosom to display her fame:
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Beyond denial, granted the request.
XXII.
A soft autumnal day began to close;All Nature hushing to a calm repose:
The moon, half-crescented, began to gleam
Along the twilight with a silver beam,
And throw a pale ray 'cross the rippling stream,
When as Lucasta, trembling, watch'd the stroke,
The curfew the appointed summons spoke.
Now to the spot her doubtful feet she bent,
With hopes and fears conflicting as she went.
She deem'd she heard a voice in every wind;
And her own breath like footsteps seem'd behind.
At length she thought, those distant limes among,
Two silent figures seem'd to glide along.
Her heart beat high in fearful tumult tost;
Trembled her feet; her breath was almost lost!
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XXIII.
Near they approach'd; the maiden whisper'd high;But not a murmur did the youth reply:
Sullen he seem'd, with mantle 'cross him flung;
And o'er his face his deep-flapp'd beaver hung.
“Well-omen'd thus, sweet Confidante, we meet!
Her dearest friend let Juliet's soldier greet!”
Forth Juliet stretch'd her hand; and forward, too,
Her sullen soldier's from her grasp she drew.
“Here, Lady, take this hand! it is the hand
Of one, who shone in many a brave command;
Till chance of war with-held the sheltering shield,
And scarce with life he 'scap'd th' ensanguin'd field!
To me he owes —” “Enough, my Juliet!” cried
A still faint voice, that half in murmurs died!
But as he spake, convulsions seem'd to tear
His heart with such a pang of deep despair,
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He struggled with unutterable grief!
XXIV.
“'Tis strange,” within herself Lucasta thought;But deem'd it could be only him she sought.
Yet wherefore silent? Why this troubled brow;
And all these starts of wild mysterious woe?
Why hid that face with so much care; and why
That mantle thrown to thwart the searching eye?
Did Juliet's selfish wishes so ordain;
Did Juliet with such power despotic reign?
Yet rather seem'd, as wounds and sorrows, join'd,
Had touch'd with madness that illumin'd mind!
XXV.
Whoe'er he was, or whatsoe'er the cause,Ere more she ventur'd, it was wise to pause.
“Juliet, adieu,” she said, “another night
Again I meet thee. Now the Moon her light
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Shall scarcely trace by her diminish'd ray.”
Some half-form'd utterance then she thought she heard;
Some murmur in her native tongue preferr'd:
“Ah! come, Enchanter!”—“Yet 'twas Fancy fram'd
Sounds on my ear!” she to herself exclaim'd.
Then down she rush'd along the limes, and trod
With trembling steps to her retir'd abode.
There Sleep refus'd her anxious eyes to close;
And deep she ponder'd on the captive's woes.
XXVI.
Long wish'd came dawn of day; and long the time,Till wak'd again the curfew's grateful chime.
Juliet in vanity undamp'd, meanwhile,
Her soldier sooth'd with many a wanton smile:
More subtle he, by softness intermix'd
With moody humours, her affection fix'd.
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XXVII.
A day of yellow splendour had pass'd o'er;All round had shone the harvest's golden store;
And e'en Lucasta had begun to feel
Nature's sweet calmness through her bosom steal;
When through the still air came with hollow sound
The chime that summon'd to th' appointed ground.
XXVIII.
With pace less slow, and less embarrass'd mien,Now through the silver light the pair were seen:
Juliet approach'd her friend: with cautious air
The Youth bow'd coldly to the trembling Fair.
“Dear Soldier!” Juliet said, “if in the pain
Of adverse fate, my care has not been vain,
Thus shrink not from my friend: nor spare to tell,
If in thy sorrows I have serv'd thee well!”
“Juliet!” he cried, “to thee my life I owe;
And thou hast sooth'd me in severest woe!”
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And from his lips strange words imperfect broke.
Lucasta caught them: not to her unknown,
They breath'd a signal she would wish to own.
XXIX.
The Moon shone clear; Lucasta's eager sightCaught the Youth's features by the pallid light.
Dark was his brow; and in his darker eye
Seem'd Sorrow with indignant Pride to vie.
“That burning hand,” Lucasta softly cried,
“Bespeaks within thy veins the fever's tide:
Will night-dews harmless round those temples play,
If on thy frame the fever's tumults prey?”
“Lady,” he said, “'tis Juliet's hand that guides
My footsteps, wheresoe'er her will decides!
Relying on her care, and tir'd of life,
While through my veins the fever holds its strife,
It boots not me, whate'er befalls this frame,
That sickness tortures, and that wrongs inflame!”
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Has not thy Juliet soften'd every moan?
Hung o'er thy writhing form, and gently spread
The tender pillow 'neath thy beating head?
Say, rather thou wilt live for her, and own
By dear returns the kindness she has shewn!”
XXX.
He groan'd; and, bursting from the frighted Maid,Ran till her shrieks his flying footsteps stay'd.
Then Juliet, falling wildly at his feet,
Clung round his knees his pardon to intreat;
And sweet Lucasta on his shoulder hung,
While tenderest pity issued from her tongue.
“Be calm:” she cried with melting voice, “be calm:”
And pour'd into his breast an heavenly balm.
XXXI.
Homeward they wander'd slow; while, each an arm,His soft associates seem'd his grief to charm.
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Of yon Moon touches, will his senses stray!”
He caught the words, yet, seeming not to hear,
Drop'd on Lucasta's hand a burning tear.
Then bade they to the dame a kind farewell;
And wild she hurried to her lonely cell.
END OF CANTO II.
| Bertram | |