University of Virginia Library

THE LEGEND OF THE HAUNTED TREE.

What need to thee of mail and crest,
Of foot in stirrup, spear in rest?
Over far mountains and deep seas,
Earth hath no fairer fields than these;
And who, in Beauty's gaudiest bowers,
Can love thee with more love than ours?”
The Minstrel turned with a moody look
From that sweet scene of guiltless glee;
From the old who talked beside the brook,
And the young who danced beneath the tree.
Coldly he shrank from the gentle maid,
From the chiding look and the pleading tone;
And he passed from the old elm's hoary shade,
And followed the forest path alone.
One little sigh, one pettish glance,—
And the girl comes back to her playmates now,
And takes her place in the merry dance,
With a slower step, and a sadder brow.
“My soul is sick,” saith the wayward boy,
“Of the peasant's grief, and the peasant's joy.
I cannot breathe on from day to day,
Like the insects, which our wise men say
In the crevice of the cold rock dwell,
Till their shape is the shape of their dungeon's cell,
In the dull repose of our changeless life,
I long for passion, I long for strife,
As in the calm the mariner sighs
For rushing waves and groaning skies.
Oh for the lists, the lists of fame!
Oh for the herald's glad acclaim!
For floating pennon, and prancing steed,
And Beauty's wonder at Manhood's deed!”
Beneath an ancient oak he lay;
More years than man can count, they say,
On the verge of the dim and solemn wood,
Through sunshine and storm, that oak had stood.
Yet were it hard to trace a sign
On trunk or bough of that oak's decline:
Many a loving, laughing sprite,
Tended the branches by day and by night,
Fettered the winds that would invade
The quiet of its sacred shade,
And drove in a serried phalanx back
The red-eyed lightning's fierce attack:
So the leaves of its age were as fresh and as green
As the leaves of its early youth had been.
Fretful brain and turbid breast
Under its canopy ill would rest;
For she that ruled the revels therein
Loved not the taint of human sin:
Moody brow with an evil eye
Would the Queen of the Fairy people spy;
Sullen tone with an angry ear
Would the Queen of the Fairy people hear.
Oft would she mock the worldling's care
E'en in the grant of his unwise prayer,
Scattering wealth that was not gain,
Lavishing joy that turned to pain.
Pure of thought should the mortal be
That would sleep beneath the Haunted Tree.
That night the Minstrel laid him down
Ere his brow relaxed its peevish frown;
And slumber had bound his eyelids fast,
Ere the evil wish from his soul had passed.
A song on the sleeper's ear descended,
A song it was pain to hear, and pleasure,
So strangely wrath and love were blended
In cvery note of the mystic measure.
Sir Isumbras, in doubt and dread,
From his feverish sleep awoke,
And started up from his grassy bed
Under the ancient oak.
And he called the page who held his spear,
And, “Tell me, boy,” quoth he,
“How long have I been slumbering here,
Beneath the greenwood tree?”—
“Ere thou didst sleep, I chanced to throw
A stone into the rill;
And the ripple that disturbed its flow
Is on its surface still.
Ere thou didst sleep, thou bad'st me sing
King Arthur's favourite lay;
And the first echo of the string
Has hardly died away.”
“How strange is sleep!” the young Knight said,
As he clasped the helm upon his head,
And, mounting again his courser black,
To his gloomy tower rode slowly back:
“How strange is sleep! when his dark spell lies
On the drowsy lids of human eyes,
The years of a life will float along
In the compass of a page's song.
Methought I lived in a pleasant vale,
The haunt of the lark and the nightingale.
Where the summer rose had a brighter hue,
And the noon-day sky a clearer blue,
And the spirit of man in age and youth
A fonder love, and a firmer truth.
And I lived on, a fair-haired boy,
In that sweet vale of tranquil joy;
Until at last my vain caprice
Grew weary of its bliss and peace.
And one there was, most dear and fair
Of all that smiled around me there,
A gentle maid, with a cloudless face,
And a form so full of fairy grace,
Who, when I turned with scornful spleen
From the feast in the bower, or the dance on the green.
Would humour all my wayward will,
And love me, and forgive me still.
Even now, methinks, her smile of light
Is there before me, mild and bright;
And I hear her voice of fond reproof
Between the beats of my palfrey's hoof.
'Tis idle all: but I could weep;—
Alas!” said the Knight, “how strange is sleep!”
He struck with his spear the brazen plate
That gleamed before the castle gate;
The torch threw high its waves of flame
As forth the watchful menials came;
They lighted the way to the banquet hall,
They hung the shield upon the wall,
They spread the board, and they filled the bowl,
And the phantoms passed from his troubled soul.
For all the ailments which infest
A solitary Briton's breast,
The peccant humours which defile
The thoughts in this fog-haunted isle,
Whatever name or style they bear—
Reflection, study, nerves, or care,
There's nought of such Lethean power
As dinner at the dinner-hour.
Sefton! the Premier, o'er thy plate,
Thinks little of last night's debate;
Cowan! the merchant, in thy hall,
Grows careless what may rise or fall;
The wit who feeds can puff away
His unsold tale, his unheard play;
And Mr. Wellesley Pole forgets,
At eight o'clock, his duns and debts.
The Knight approved the roasted boar,
And mused upon his dream no more:
The Knight enjoyed the bright champagne,
And deemed himself himself again.
Sir Isumbras was ever found
Where blows were struck for glory;
There sate not at the Table Round
A knight more famed in story:
The King on his throne would turn about
To see his courser prancing;
And when Sir Launcelot had gout
The Queen would praise his dancing;
He quite wore out his father's spurs
Performing valour's duties,
Destroying mighty sorcerers,
Avenging injured beauties,
And crossing many a trackless sand,
And rescuing people's daughters
From dragons that infest the land,
And whales that walk the waters.
He throttled lions by the score,
And giants by the dozen;
And, for his skill in lettered lore,
They called him “Merlin's Cousin.”
A troop of steeds with bit and rein
Stood ready in his stable;
An ox was every morning slain
And roasted for his table:
And he had friends, all brave and tall,
And crowned with praise and laurel,
Who kindly feasted in his hall,
And jousted in his quarrel;
And minstrels came and sang his fame
In very rugged verses;
And they were paid with wine, and game,
And rings, and cups, and purses.
And he loved a Lady of high degree,
Faith's fortress, Beauty's flower;
A countess for her maid had she,
And a kingdom for her dower;
And a brow whose frowns were vastly grand,
And an eye of sunlit brightness,
And a swan-like neck, and an arm and hand
Of most bewitching whiteness;
And a voice of music, whose sweet tones
Could most divinely prattle
Of battered casques, and broken bones,
And all the bliss of battle.
He wore her scarf in many a fray,
He trained her hawks and ponies,
And filled her kitchen every day
With leverets and conies;
He loved, and he was loved again:—
I won't waste time in proving,
There is no pleasure like the pain
Of being loved, and loving.
Dame Fortune is a fickle gipsy,
And always blind, and often tipsy;
Sometimes, for years and years together,
She'll bless you with the sunniest weather,
Bestowing honour, pudding, pence,
You can't imagine why or whence;—
Then in a moment—Presto, pass!—
Your joys are withered like the grass;
You find your constitution vanish,
Almost as quickly as the Spanish;
The murrain spoils your flocks and fleeces;
The dry-rot pulls your house to pieces;
Your garden raises only weeds;
Your agent steals your title-deeds;
Your banker's failure stuns the city;
Your father's will makes Sugden witty;
Your daughter, in her beauty's bloom,
Goes off to Gretna with the groom;
And you, good man, are left alone,
To battle with the gout and stone.
Ere long, Sir Isumbras began
To be a sad and thoughtful man:
They said the glance of an evil eye
Had been on the Knight's prosperity:
Less swift on the quarry his falcon went,
Less true was his hound on the wild deer's scent,
And thrice in the list he came to the earth
By the luckless chance of a broken girth.
And Poverty soon in her rage was seen
At the board where Plenty erst had been;
And the guests smiled not as they smiled before,
And the song of the minstrel was heard no more;
And a base ingrate, who was his foe,
Because, a little month ago,
He had cut him down, with friendly ardour,
From a rusty hook in an ogre's larder,
Invented an atrocious fable,
And ruined him quite at the royal table:
And she at last, the worshipped one,
For whom his valorous deeds were done,
The star of all his soul's reflections,
The rose of all his heart's affections,
Who had heard his vows, and worn his jewels,
And made him fight so many duels,—
She too, when Fate's relentless wheel
Deprived him of the Privy Seal,
Bestowed her smiles upon another,
And gave his letters to her mother.
'Tis the last drop, as all men know,
That makes the bucket overflow,
And the last parcel of the pack
That bends in two the camel's back.
Fortune and fame—he had seen them depart,
With a silent pride of a valiant heart:
Traitorous friends—he had passed them by,
With a haughty brow and a stifled sigh.
Boundless and black might roll the sea,
O'er which the course of his bark must be;
But he saw, through the storms that frowned above,
One guiding light, and the light was Love.
Now all was dark; the doom was spoken!
His wealth all spent, and his heart half-broken;
Poor youth! he had no earthly hope,
Except in laudanum, or a rope.
If e'er you happened, by a twist
Of Destiny's provoking wrist,
To find yourself one morning hurled
From all you had in all the world,—
Seeing your pretty limes and beeches
Supply the auction-mart with speeches.—
By base ingratitude disgusted
In him you most esteemed and trusted,
And cut, without the slightest reason,
By her who was so kind last season,—
You know how often meditation
Assures you, for your consolation,
That, if you had but been contented
To rent the house your father rented,
If, in Sir Paul you'd been inclined to
Suspect what no one else was blind to,
If, for that false girl, you had chosen
Either her sister, or her cousin,
If anything you had been doing
But just the very thing you're rueing,
You might have lived your day in clover,
Gay, rich, prized friend, and favoured lover,
Thus was it with my Knight of knights;
While vanished all his vain delights,
The thought of being dupe and ass
Most galled the sick Sir Isumbras.
He ordered out his horse, and tried,
As the leech advised, a gentle ride;
A pleasant path he took,
Where the turf, all bright with the April showers,
Was spangled with a thousand flowers,
Beside a murmuring brook.
Never before had he ridden that way;
And now, on a sunny first of May,
He chose the turning, you may guess,
Not for the laughing loveliness
Of turf, or flower, or stream; but only
Because it looked extremely lonely.
Yet but that Megrim hovering here
Had dimmed the eye and dulled the ear,
Jocund and joyous all around
Were every sight and every sound.
The ancient forest, whose calm rest
No axe did ever yet molest,
Stretched far upon the right;
Here, deepening into trackless shades,
There, opening long and verdant glades,
Unto the cheerful light:
Wide on the left, whene'er the screen
Of hedgerows left a space between
To stand and gaze awhile,
O'er varied scenes the eye might rove,
Orchard and garden, mead and grove,
Spread out for many a mile.
Around, in all the joy of spring,
The sinless birds were carolling;
Low hummed the studious bees;
And softly, sadly, rose and fell
The echo of the ocean swell,
In the capricious breeze.
But truly Sir Isumbras cared as much
For all that a happier heart might touch,
As Cottenham cares for a Highland reel,
When counsel opens a Scotch Appeal,
Or Hume for Pasta's glorious scenes,
When the House is voting the Ways and Means.
He had wandered, musing, scarce a mile,
In his melancholy mood,
When, peeping o'er a rustic stile,
He saw a little village smile,
Embowered in thick wood.
There were small cottages, arrayed
In the delicate jasmine's fragrant shade;
And gardens, whence the rose's bloom
Loaded the gale with rich perfume;
And there were happy hearts; for all
In that bright nook kept festival,
And welcomed in the merry May
With banquet and with roundelay.
Sir Isumbras sate gazing there,
With folded arms and mournful air;
He fancied—'twas an idle whim—
That the village looked like a home to him.
And now a gentle maiden came,
Leaving her sisters and their game,
And wandered up the vale;
Beauty so bright he had never seen,—
Saving her Majesty the Queen;—
But out on ugly doubts and fears!
Her eyes were very full of tears,
Her cheeks were very pale.
None courted her stay of the joyous throng,
As she passed from the group alone;
And he listened,—which was vastly wrong,—
And heard her singing a lively song,
In a very dismal tone:
“Deep is the bliss of the belted knight,
When he kisses at dawn the silken glove,
And goes, in his glittering armour dight,
To shiver a lance for his lady-love!”
That thrilling tone, so soft and clear,
Was it familiar to his ear?
And those delicious drooping eyes,
As blue and as pure as the summer skies,
Had he, indeed, in other days,
Been blessed in the light of their holy rays?
He knew not; but his knee he bent
Before her in most knightly fashion,
And grew superbly eloquent
About her beauty, and his passion.
He said that she was very fair,
And that she warbled like a linnet,
And that he loved her, though he ne'er
Had looked upon her till that minute:
He said, that all the Court possessed
Of gay or grave, of fat or slender,
Poor things! were only fit at best,
To hold a candle to her splendour:
He vowed that when she once should take
A little proper state upon her,
All lutes for her delight would wake,
All lances shiver in her honour:
He grieved to mention that a Jew
Had seized for debt his grand pavilion,
And he had little now, 'twas true,
To offer, but a heart and pillion;
But what of that? In many a fight,
Though he who shouldn't say it said it,
He still had borne him like a knight,
And had his share of blows and credit;
And if she would but condescend
To meet him at the priest's to-morrow,
And be henceforth his guide, his friend,
In every toil, in every sorrow,
They'd sail instanter from the Downs;
His hands just now were quite at leisure;
And, if she fancied foreign crowns,
He'd win them,—with the greatest pleasure.
“A year is gone,”—the damsel sighed,
But blushed not, as she so replied,—
“Since one I loved,—alas! how well
He knew not, knows not,—left our dell.
Time brings to his deserted cot
No tidings of his after lot;
But his weal or woe is still the theme
Of my daily thought, and my nightly dream.
Poor Alice is not proud or coy;
But her heart is with her minstrel boy.”
Away from his arms the damsel bounded,
And left him more and more confounded.
He mused of the present, he mused of the past,
And he felt that a spell was o'er him cast;
He shed hot tears, he knew not why,
And talked to himself and made reply;
Till a calm o'er his troubled senses crept,
And, as the daylight waned, he slept.
Poor gentleman!—I need not say,
Beneath an ancient oak he lay.
The sun has risen, and Wilfrid is come
To his early friends, and his cottage home.
His hazel eyes and his locks of gold
Are just as they were in the time of old:
But a blessing has been on the soul within,
For that is won from its secret sin,
More loving now, and worthier love
Of men below, and of saints above.
He reins a steed with a lordly air,
Which makes his country cousins stare;
And he speaks in a strange and courtly phrase,
Though his voice is the voice of other days:
But where he has learned to talk and ride,
He will tell to none but his bonny Bride.