 | THE MURDERED LADY. Legends of New-England |  |
THE MURDERED LADY.
[In the 17th century, when the sea-robbers were ravaging the commerce of
Spain, a vessel of that nation was brought into the port of Marblehead, by a
pirate brig. For the better security of its rich cargo, the unfortunate crew
were barbarously massacred. A lady was brought on shore by the pirates,
and murdered, and afterwards buried in a deep glen or valley, at a little distance
from the village. The few inhabitants of the place, at that early period
of its history, were unable to offer any resistance te the fierce and well armed
buccaneers. They heard the shrieks of the unfortunate lady, mingled with
the savage shouts of her murderers, but could afford her no succor. There
is a tradition among some of the old inhabitants of Marblehead, that these
sounds have been heard ever since, at intervals of two or three years, in the
valley where the lady was buried.]
Within the still and moonlight bay,
And round its black, portentous sides
The waves like living creatures play!—
And close at hand a tall ship lies—
A voyager from the Spanish Main,
Laden with gold and merchandize—
She'll ne'er return again!
The fisher in his seaward skiff,
Creeps stealthily along the shore,
Within the shadow of the cliff,
Where keel had never ploughed before;
And hurries down the silver bay,
Where, like a demon still and dark,
She watches o'er her prey.
The midnight came.—A dash of oars
Broke on the ocean-stillness then,
And swept towards the rocky shores,
The fierce wild forms of outlawed men;—
The tenants of that fearful ship,
Grouped strangely in the pale moon-light—
Dark, iron brow and bearded lip,
Ghastly with storm and fight.
They reach the shore,—but who is she—
The white-robed one they bear along?
She shrieks—she struggles to be free—
God shield that gentle one from wrong;
It may not be,—those pirate men,
Along the hushed, deserted street,
Have borne her to a narrow glen,
Scarce trod by human feet.
And there the ruffians murdered her,
When not an eye, save Heaven's beheld,
What sounds upon the night air swelled
Woman's long shriek of mortal fear—
Her wild appeal to hearts of stone,
The oath—the taunt—the brutal jeer—
The pistol-shot—the groan!
With shout and jest and losel song,
From savage tongues which knew no rein,
The stained with murder passed along,
And sought their ocean-home again;—
And all the night their revel came
In hoarse and sullen murmurs on,—
A yell rang up—a burst of flame—
The Spanish Ship was gone!
The morning light came red and fast
Along the still and blushing sea;
The phantoms of the night had passed—
That ocean-robber—where was she?—
Her sails were reaching from the wind,
Her crimson banner-folds were stirred;
And ever and anon behind,
Her shouting crew were heard.
And sought with fear the fatal glen;—
The stain of blood—the trampled earth
Told where the deed of death had been.
They found a grave—a new-made one—
With bloody sabres hollowed out,
And shadowed from the searching sun,
By tall trees round about.
They left the hapless stranger there;
They knew her sleep would be as well,
As if the priest had poured his prayer
Above her—with the funeral-bell.
The few poor rites which man can pay,
Are felt not by the lonely sleeper;
The deaf, unconscious ear of clay
Heeds not the living weeper.
They tell a tale—those sea-worn men,
Who dwell along that rocky coast,
Of sights and sounds within the glen,
Of midnight shriek and gliding ghost.
And oh! if ever from their chill
And dreamless sleep, the dead arise,
That victim of unhallowed ill
Might wake to human eyes!
Is struggling with the gloomy even;
And over moon and star is drawn
The curtain of a clouded heaven—
Strange sounds swell up the narrow glen,
As if that robber-crew were there—
The hellish laugh—the shouts of men—
And woman's dying prayer!
| THE MURDERED LADY. Legends of New-England | |