University of Virginia Library

INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS. TO WALTER SCOTT, Esq.

THE FAIR ISABEL OF COTEHELE,

A CORNISH ROMANCE.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIRST.

CANTO FIRST.

I.

Arising in the moody blast
The sleety storm had well-nigh pass'd
(Ere the struggling day's first gleam)
Cotehele's old towers, and Tamar-stream.
And now a few snow-feathers light
Twinkled in the rear of night.
Still was the sullen hour and dark:
The castle-roof nor eye could mark,
Nor window-shaft, nor portal gray,
Nor oaken branch, nor ashen spray;
When, suddenly, the bulwark'd wall,
Rampires, portcullis, windows, all,
And hollows down the steep wood-side,
And rocks amidst the foamy tide,
The oak's broad crest, and far below,
Its cavern'd trunk that held the snow;
The dusky fir, the berried ash—
Discover'd in one azure flash,
No sooner shone
Than they were gone
In the elemental crash!

II.

As in a fearful pause, the air
Heavy and faint, was hush'd afar;
Save that, from the chapel-spire,
The white owl, scar'd by the levin-fire;
Sail'd down the wood, and brush'd the ice-drops
Half-molten, from the tinkling copse,
And where the boughs bent low, to close
In one deep thicket, sought repose.

III.

Penciling the gloom in paly streaks,
Athwart Cotehele the twilight breaks,
Steals o'er the parapet, imprints
On the eastern casements ruddy tints,
And touches, at “My Lady's-bower,”
The lattice of the southern tower.

IV.

There Isabel in slumber lay;
As now a lone star, the last-left
Of all the fainting lights, its ray
Sent thro' a western cloud's dun cleft,
To mingle with the uncertain day.

V.

Hour after hour, she had not slept,
But all night long had watch'd and wept.
Chill had the chapel-clock beat one—
She had not slept—her rest was gone.
As if it could that rest restore,
She rose and pac'd her chamber-floor;
While oft to eddying gusts the fane
Echoed, and rang its whirling vane,
And the gales thro' crannies told decay,
And moan'd along the cloystral way,
Then upwards whistling seem'd to scale
The buttress, and the tower assail,
And in murmurs swept the arras behind;
And the dying embers to the wind
Kindled up, a bright blue flame!
And priests and warriours in the gleam
Crested or mitred with menacing look
Shook their crosiers and pikes, as the tapestry shook!

VI.

But was it the tempestuous air,
The cold moan, or the ghastly glare
Bade her like shivering aspen leaf
Quake to the phantom of affright?
She knew not terror: it was grief.
Not the warbler, all thro' night,
That seems to wooe the moon's clear light
To its own vernal grove,
Its silvery foliage whispering love;
Not violets stealing from the dew
A sweeter breath, and brighter hue,
Its tendrils where the woodbine curls,
And soft the shaded brooklet purls,
Could in her eyes have cherish'd sleep—
Lids that only wak'd to weep.

VII.

Her chamber had she pac'd in vain,
Then sought her troubled couch again;
Till, closing, ere the dim sunrise,
Seal'd were at length her wearied eyes.
Her right hand, on the pillow laid,
Seem'd to support a throbbing head.
Her fingers, erst of roseate hue,
The ebbing blood left pale and blue.
Loosen'd from its silken braid,
A lock had down her bosom stray'd,
And on that pure illumin'd breast
Wav'd light, as if it lov'd to rest;
Tho to the bosom-fall or swell
As sighs were breath'd, it rose or fell!
For with a sigh, a shriek, a start,
Was flush'd her cheek, or throbb'd her heart
Where care or sorrow quickly pass'd—
The summer-shadow, fleeting fast,
So dims the golden air!
Till, as her lips with brighter glow
Half-opening shew'd each pearly row,
O'er her sweet features stole the while
Calm and more calm a lovely smile,
And with no shade from grief or care
That smile so lovely triumph'd there.
It was a precious dream, I ween,
Weaving some tender faery scene—
Some form, to scatter every grief,
As May's young morn in mild relief—
It was a dream which, all the while,
Created that transcendant smile!

VIII.

But hark—the blast of the war-horn—
(She wakes to a wild wintry morn!)
Grasping at her dream in vain,
She wakes to keener pain.
The neigh, the prance, and now more near
The horse-hoof clatters on her ear,
Mingled with other sounds of fear—
The Wardour's voice, the pondrous gate,
And ringing shields and spears that wait
Her valorous sire, the good old knight
In mail and high plum'd helmet dight,
And the rush of the troop in war's attire
That close around her valorous sire.

IX.

Scarce had she heard his pawing horse,
Ere had commenc'd his rapid course:
Scarce had she caught his helmet-plume
Ere he had plung'd thro' forest-gloom:
Tho' long the echoes mark'd his way,
And every echo seem'd to say,
Quivering on her startled ear,
Dying, yet in accents clear:
“Gone is thine only earthly stay!”
Then, hastening from her lattice dim,
She thought upon her orphan-state;
Her only trust (save Heaven) in him!
And her poor heart was desolate.

X.

In morning vesture strait array'd,
Nor from her Jesse asking aid
(A gentle tho' a rural maid)
Along the dusky corridore
With noiseless steps she stole;
To meet (in sympathies of soul
Such as her sorrows best might cure)
To meet a spirit, belov'd as pure!
And pure she deem'd that spirit must be,
From fleshly dross escap'd and free!
To meet (if fancy could restore)
That form alas! which never more,
She thought, could filial love descry,
Or gaze upon with mortal eye.

XI.

But when she tremulous survey'd
The cedar chamber's sombre shade;
The lone bed shuddering to behold,
The crimson curtains drear and cold,
And the pale pillow totter'd near,
And to fond love and duty dear,
Hail'd, and kiss'd it o'er and o'er;
Her faint head bending as before
When she was anxious to sustain
Her parent, and alleviate pain—
Ah! fancy's was a weak essay;
And grief absorb'd its golden ray.

XII.

Pressing that lone cold glimmering bed,
It was too much, where hope was fled,
To paint the visionary dead!
It was too much, beneath the sky,
For feeble man—'twas agony!
Yet soon came aid, her soul to calm:
And was it any earthly balm?
No! 'twas the sense of sins forgiv'n,
That, as it sooth'd the conscious heart
Commercing with its kindred Heaven,
The breath of Eden could impart;
That bade each little tumult cease,
Each fear allay'd, and whisper'd peace.

XIII.

“Adieu (she cried) dear Saint! adieu!”
And to her favourite oriel flew;
Where, open'd from the cedar-room,
Her mother, in the matin prayer,
The vesper hymn, lost every care:
And Isabel, admitted there
E'en in her infant bloom,
Priz'd more than rubies, duteous girl!
Than all Bassora's rainbow pearl,
The sacred hour of orison,
When by that mother's side she shone.

XIV.

Thro' diamond panes of storied glass
Scarce could the light of morning pass.
Yet 'twas enough, through each dim pane,
The room with richer tints to stain;
Colouring, upon the shrine below,
The crucifix with finer glow,
And from its polish'd brilliance raying,
And on the Virgin's image playing,
But, where an amber radiance fell,
Illumining fair Isabel!
No muse, in sooth, could paint it true—
So soft it was, and sombrous too!

XV.

Kneeling before the velvet shrine,
Her vest's light folds, in every line,
Her limbs, like lambent splendours, woo'd—
It was a heavenly attitude!
The bloom that tinctur'd her young cheek
From sorrow's touch was pale and weak.
But it was lovelier and more fair
Than dancing Hebes pictur'd are;
Their witching forms tho' fancy flush,
And pleasure prompt the kindling blush!
Lo, as she clasp'd her hands in prayer,
Wav'd, on one side, her chesnut hair!
Her open brow divinely arch'd
Stole softness from its shade serene,
Or, where the purple current march'd,
Was as the ivory white;
And each clear vein
Was more distinct in light!
And, as she rais'd her fine blue eyes,
Glow'd on her lips the vestal fire;
And from her heart breath'd holier sighs
Than flow from passion or desire!
Yet, midst the links of groveling earth,
Had not one sigh a humbler birth?

XVI.

Long had the beauteous fair-one pray'd
For her dear mother Alice rest:
But still the cushion, still she press'd.
And, softly from the sky-blue cieling
Her pensive eyelashes now stealing,
Were downwards cast, as if to shade
The languish of a melting maid!
And her thoughts seem'd afar to stray—
Yet, where they wander'd, who shall say?

XVII.

XVIII.

But lo! to the door's sudden creak
The colour deepen'd on her cheek,
And “Jesse!” she essay'd to speak.
“Jesu Maria! what all alone!
“Like you, laments not every one!
“But O! had I lost such a mother, besure,
“For trouble I never should smile any more!
“And your father is sent to the west, they all say,
“To fight with a rebel, and die in the fray!
“And your sister sneers at your distress—
“I dread her evil eye, no less
“Than that old hag, the Prioress!
“And that dark Monk, of shaven crown,
“Who stalks the cloysters up and down
“With giant gait and savage frown—
“From his scowl, as from a ghost, I start—
“But pray, my lady! pray, take heart.”

XIX.

“Stay (Isabel cry'd) O Jesse! stay!
“My sire—'tis true—he is summon'd away—
“I heard his steeds at dusk of day:
“And, as they did the pavement paw,
“They struck on my heart! and O! I saw
“His white crest, like the stormy spray.
“But, I trust, he will lose not a hair of his head!
“And did you see the cavalcade?
“And did you hear, when yester-night
“Lady Alice was buried by bloody torch light,
“The hymn that clos'd the funeral rite?
“My poor dear mother!—on her bier
“I shed—no—not a single tear!
“My heart was full—my senses gone—
“In the mid aisle, I dropp'd, like clay,
“On a sepulchral stone!—
“But when the fresh night-breeze had brought
“My feeling back, and wandering thought;
“When I beheld you bending near;
“I sigh'd and sigh'd, as from my breast
“A burthen went that sore oppress'd;
“And should have still return'd, to hear
“That requiem to affection dear,
“Had I not met my sister's glance—
“So scornful, as she look'd askance!
“It was a glance I could not bear—
“Amidst the dismal glare!”
“It gleam'd (said Jesse) to the torch
“Gehenna-like, I swear!
“As she forc'd me from the chapel-porch,
“And hurried you off
“With such a scoff,
“And dar'd me with threats like the day of doom,
“On my life approach the arras-room!”

XX.

“Talk—talk not so—'tis well—'tis well!—
(Half-chiding, spake fair Isabel)
“O rather, Jesse! call to mind
“Your Lady Alice thro' life so kind,
“And at the last ebb so resign'd!
“Then, could no human pencil paint
“The meekness of that blessed saint!
“When, but some hours before her death
“I fann'd her, oft as fail'd her breath,
“She look'd—it was an angel's look—
“And, with a tremulous pressure took
“My hand, and sigh'd: “‘I only grieve
“‘My orphan Isabel to leave
“‘(As my soul quits this nether sphere)
“‘A prey to guile and malice here.
“‘Would that thy heart, which often shews
“‘What prudence scruples to disclose,
“‘(Discover'd in a blush, a sigh
“‘To spleen or vaunted sanctity)
“‘Had kept, tho' I thy vows approve,
“‘Had kept the secret of thy love.’”
“O Jesse!—tho' with many a pause—
“Did she repeat his sweet applause!
“‘How I admir'd (she said) that soul
“‘Which brook'd nor art, nor base controull
“‘Generous in all the warmth of youth
“‘Was he, who doth thy heart possess;
“‘And Heaven (I thought) his manly truth,
“‘His virtues rare, must surely bless!
“‘Yet have I suffer'd much distress,
“‘Oft in your loves foreboding ruth!
“‘For ah (she said and faintly smil'd)
“‘He is a heretic, my child!—
“‘Ee'n now doth Mary bid thy sire,
“‘Ere two short wintery days expire,
“‘Hunt over heath, thro' fen and flood,
“‘All who may boast Trevanion's blood.
“‘And well, alas! too well we know
“‘The queen, an unrelenting foe!
“‘My Isabel! beware!
“‘O there are some, who, not far hence,
“‘In treachery leagued, but set the snare
“‘To trap thine innocence!
“‘That Jacqueline, whom beneath our roof
“‘The good Sir Richard yet protects,
“‘Did wickedly—(my soul suspects)—
“‘Deceive us by an artifice
“‘I dread to name!—Sir Richard cries,
“‘The mind's persuasion is not proof.
“‘All I would say—the Prioress, still
“‘And Mawd I fear, are brooding ill.’”

XXI.

Creak'd the harsh doors. A moment pale
Sweet Isabel resum'd her tale.
“Who, Jesse! who, I said, could paint
“The last hours of that blessed saint?
“Much less—that meekness on her face
“Which, after death, yet left its trace
“As in a sleepy lustre weak,
“But fix'd in her undying cheek?
“Much less—that love whose quenchless fire
“Yet featur'd in a languid streak
“Not death itself could bid expire?
“O! I have seen in autumn-sky—
“(The sun's last beams had met my eye)
“Like that, a tincture have I seen,
“So soft, so tender, so serene!
“O! when in stillness husht was all,
“(A sear leaf did distinctly fall)
“And the twilight air was as the dead,
“Like that I saw the unfleeting red,
“A feeble stain the heaven that cross'd:
“The brilliance of the hue was lost:
“Lovely, tho' faded was the flame—
“Tho' faint, it linger'd yet the same!”
Again the hinges jarr'd—near drew
Some steps; when off light Jesse flew

XXII.

Lone were the hours. The dinner-bell
To her was like that Curfew-knell
Which in elder time to the night-bird toll'd
When freedom died away, and linkt
With cordial worth was joy extinct;
When home was comfortless and cold.—
Yet the fair maid now meets the blaze
That brighten'd up to festive days,
And wakening no dishonest mirth
Illum'd the hospitable hearth!
Ah! cheerless now as shadows fall,
It wavers on the wainscot wall.

XXIII.

Of good Sir Richard's menial train,
All had been suffer'd to sustain
A part in his too perilous course;
Each arm'd with spear, and mounting horse;
Save the old wardour, drooping low,
Who pac'd the gateway, to and fro;
The boteler, who now serv'd the hall,
The armourer and the seneschal,
And he who once, when minstrel France
Was one wild region of romance,
Had harp'd to Richmond's royal train
The deeds of heroes battle-slain,
And triumph'd in the proud array
That blazon'd Bosworth's sanguine day.

XXIV.

The boteler, (such we grant to age)
Had us'd an old man's privilege,
And, acting still a faithful part,
Tried to speak comfort to her heart;
But that he saw her musing mood,
As solitary yet she stood,
And less and less (it seem'd) forlorn,
A balsam from the portrait drew
Refreshing to her spirits, as dew
To hyacinth that scents the morn!
Still, as each picture's eyes she caught,
She found a friend—the old man thought—
In pity to a starting tear,
Where'eer she look'd, each look'd on her!
It was a sort of pensive gaze
From the pale forms of other days,
That sooth'd the anguish of her soul,
And from herself her sorrow stole.
On a gray dame the fire-blaze stream'd:
And, kindling as her features beam'd,
Defiance they appear'd to dart
On malice and insidious art,
Then, soften'd to expression mild,
To bless her unprotected child.

XXV.

And long did Isabel's fancy rest
Complacent on the scarlet vest,
And gorgeous buttons wrought in gold,
Brilliant from many a fluid fold;
The chain on either side that hung,
And its linkt radiance richly flung;
Full round the neck the plaited ruff,
Stiff on the coalblack hair the coit;
Gemm'd bracelets that adorn'd the wrists,
The fingers, rings of amethysts.
But there came up at once a hollow sound,
From the stone-stairs winding round and round!
And to heavy footsteps as they rang,
From her fond trance the mourner sprang,
And at the sight of sullen Mawd,
Shudder'd as if by guilt o'eraw'd.

XXVI.

Yet, tho' their tempers were at strife,
She never had, in former life,
From Mawd recoil'd with fear—
Tho' now she shook like the hunted deer!
Ah loveliness! thine air serene,
Thy simple blush, thy pensive mien,
Do they accord with pride and spleen?
But ill assorted, from the first,
Together had they seldom play'd,
As frolic led their infant hours
Down sunny lane, thro' hedgerow-shade;
Or pluck'd, in green mead, pearled flowers
While drops the petals did depress;
Or cull'd from brook the cooling cress;
Or, pleasant to impatient thirst,
The sorrel sought when all was parcht,
Thro' glades by summer-blooms enarcht;
Or from their palms the rivul et quaff'd;
Or caught, perhaps, a dancing straw
The stream did to its eddy draw,
And carol'd to that straw, and laugh'd!
Yes! where in childhood deftly meet
Health rosy-fresh, and temper sweet,
Ere yet the world a bud doth blight,
Each gambol tells, the heart is light.
E'en in their shouts the Rhodian boys,
Meek tho' her unobtrusive mind,
Could little Isabel have join'd,
And mix'd in all their vernal joys;
Hailing, herald of the spring,
The first dear swallow's airy wing.
Far other, Mawd. The cheerful morn
To her was clad in murky weeds!
And, if she met a floret gay
Snapt from its stem, or rudely torn,
Full soon its withering shreds
Mark'd out her lonesome way!
The beetle did she love to greet,
And on her bodkin's point impale,
And of its house despoil the snail;
And, as the girl her aves said,
Oft did the turf attract her feet,
If with the crackling race o'erspread;
And, with alternate fall and tread,
Stamp'd was the sod, and dropp'd a bead!
Then could she deem the herald dear
That sweetly told the springing year?
No!—whilst beside the chapel dim
(Casting devotion to the sky,
If father Nicholas were nigh)
She measur'd out—no seraph strain;
Oft would she aim, enrag'd, to arrest
The twitterers that disturb'd her hymn,
Brisk as they circled round the fane,
Or tear away their cloystral nest.
Nor did that viciousness disgrace
Her form, or lineaments of face.
Eyes, in petrific torpour cold,
(Unless a sudden glare
Did burst of angry passion speak)
The mole that etch'd a sallow cheek,
And red thin locks of frizzled hair—
Say, was one trait to truth inclin'd,
One, unrepulsive nor unkind,
Nor mark of a distorted mind?
Lo, to each dire prediction true,
To age mature the damsel grew.
Still, as of marble or of clay,
Her eyes seem'd quench'd without a ray.

XXVII.

Alas! Lady Alice dead and gone,
Could no grief melt those orbs of stone?
Half-bowing, and Isabel brushing by,
On her pendent cross she squinted her eye,
And beckon'd the Prioress up to her seat,
And father Nicholas, full meet
(His garb of sanctity put on)
To sympathize with fiend or nun!
Tall was his figure, stern his air;
His visage furrow'd, as if there ran
Along its deep lines, pale and wan,
All that malignant is in man,
Leaving the dregs to blacken there;
While cunning with ferocity
Sat brooding in his gloomy eye.
And Isabel! for dames and sires
In whom still “liv'd their wonted fires,”
Ah! what a dread exchange was thine!—
That Monk, so harbouring dark design,
And that hoar Prioress Jacqueline!

XXVIII.

Ah! Jacqueline!—not arm'd with switch
And mumbling curses, shrivel'd witch
Did e'er awaken such dislike,
Or as thy frown, with terror strike!
They said indeed, (and all believ'd
That death would shroud her up unshriev'd
Her form was shadowless!
Still Lady Alice (ah too good
Herself, to fear in others fraud)
Was her indulgent patroness
Whilst undissolv'd her nunnery stood;
And midst the nunnery-walls carest,
Matilda (so baptiz'd was Mawd)
A babe, was trusted to the breast
Of a creature of the Prioress,
But soon reclaim'd to Tamar-stream.
Yet Mawd in temper and in face
So like old Jacqueline did seem,
And so unlike the Edgcumbe race,
Strange things, in malice or in sport,
The tongue of satire did report.

XXIX.

Thus, mid these spirits by sad constraint
As sate dejected Isabel,
Tho' in her features all the saint
Had resignation pictur'd well
Sudden, he, who whilom strang
To old romance his travel'd harp,
(A panel sliding back) appear'd!
His placid look, his silver beard,
Those tones which so divinely rang—
Say, could they soothe reflexion sharp
In minds unconscious of a ray
Of heavenly light, as flow'd the lay?

XXX.

XXXI.

The wintery sun had sunk to rest:
A glow yet linger'd in the west.
And high amidst that western glow,
Brighten'd the crescent moon to throw
Thro' the glimmering of the day,
A silver, solitary ray.
The air in dim transparence cold,
A pause of stillness seem'd to hold:
And, as the horizon's frosty blue
In crimson radiance flush'd anew,
The ivy, that its meshes flung
O'er shafts and clustering panes, and clung
To the chapel's northern wall,
Fell, deepening like a funeral pall.

XXXII.

It was within this wall was laid
Amid the charnel shade,
(Tis but a vault can grandeur claim!)
The Lady Alice's mortal frame.
Contiguous to the wall, a tomb
Fast receding into gloom
Scarce could the eye discern.
There Isabel, her loss to mourn,
Lean'd, for a while in sorrow mute;
And now, preluding to her lute
Low tones (as ere the throstle's trill,
Faint whisperings breathe from dale or hill)
Bade the dulcet measure flow,
To lull the throbs of filial woe.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

But, ere the last note died,
“Beware that vault! Begone!”
A voice she heard, tho' form was none.
Again—“That vault—that vault beware!”
It said: and somewhat seem'd to glide
Half-visible, into empty air
Vanishing. Pale fancy's sprite
So glides, and so eludes the sight.

XXXV.

As if to fly impending wrath,
She hasten'd, by a shorter path,
And reach'd, where black an ancient yew
Across the armoury-window threw
Its ominous boughs. Sullen and sad
Murmur'd a sound thro' all its shade;
Now rustling, where she enter'd, crept;
Now rising, the cold armoury swept.
Sudden, along the lofty wall,
On many a warriour-ghost to call,
The morion clank'd; and hoarselier sigh'd
The mail that sabre-stroke defied;
And shook the spear, that had made sport
On the plains of Azincourt;
And sobb'd the corslet to the shield
That had drunk blood in Cressy's field.

XXXVI.

Isabel, with hurried gaze,
Thro' the wreathed window high,
Beheld the thin clouds scattering fly
Across the ruffled sky,
And, thro their fleecy fragments white,
A smokey, fiery light;
When, quick as vision trail'd afar
And, shooting to the earth its blaze,
Burst into myriad sparks, a star.

XXXVII.

“Hark to the voices in the blast!
“See—see that spirit—thy sire—it pass'd
“On the careering cloud!
“It is his winding sheet! his shroud!”
She thought, she saw a lifted cowl;
She thought, she saw a demon-scowl!
“What means”—(she cried) “for mercy say!”
A gleamy figure sank away.

Conclusion to Canto first.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SECOND.

CANTO SECOND.

I.

It was a mild and open day;
And warm was the meridian ray,
And rich upon Cotehele's calm tower.—
Amidst December-frowns was rare
An azure heaven so still and fair:
But we distrust the treacherous noon,
And feel its smile must vanish soon,
Where all in sky and glen and bower
Is gentle as the summer-hour.

II.

Up to the bulwarks, green
In softer swell, the park was seen,
As it sloped round with ample sweep;
Save, where now in shadow deep,
Open'd, low-arch'd, a postern-door,
To a white marble floor
That autumn's leafy wreck
Had ting'd with many an oozy streak.

III.

Thence, to a path a wicket led
Where ancient laurels, overhead,
Flung wide their long-leav'd branches high,
Green in perennial majesty
Grouped the southern bastion near,
Stalk'd an old stag amidst the deer;
And his beamy frontlet white
Shone for a moment dazzling-bright,
As aloft his antler-boast
To the sun he exulting toss'd:
And the spotted fawns in many a maze
Frisk'd thro' the noontide blaze.

IV.

Circling the castle-walls and park
With shades for generations dark,
Above, from the hill's rocky brow,
And from the shelving grounds below,
A march of woodland rang'd afar—
Extensive trees of various height!
But oaks, to strike the wondering sight,
Their extravagant arms outstretch'd
Wildly thro' the waves of air—
Oaks—to whose ambitious tops
The inferior grove were lowly copse,
As in brown vigour whole, or white
In sapless age, they reach'd
The ethereal canopy!
So that embosom'd all in oak,
To the distant traveller's eye,
The lordly mansion broke.

V.

In better days, when nature wore
To her a universal smile,
When not the young roe frolick'd more;
Isabel, with airy feet
Skimm'd the conspicuous park, to greet
A flower, a plant, a lady-bird—
No envious demon seen or heard;
And vaulted o'er the parkway stile;
And, heedless by what eye pursued,
Danc'd, or saunter'd down the wood.
But now, one little hour to seize,
Stealing amidst the laurel-trees,
She had soon pass'd a sunny glade,
And strait was veil'd by forest-shade;
To visit her neglected cave
That overbrow'd the Tamar-wave.

VI.

Rugged with fibrous roots and flint,
The dimwood footpath downwards bent,
And wound where birches spir'd above,
Or wander'd thro' an elmy grove,
Or darken'd to a beechen screen,
While mountain ashes peep'd between.
There were no blooms; no verdure bright,
No scions that love vernal light;
No lithe ash-spray that whispering waves
The soft green of its feathery leaves.
Yet polisht stems of silver hue,
The browner bark, where ivy threw
Its tendrils, and its topmost rings
Clasp'd the young shoots with deadly stings;
The oak-leaf, tawny in decay;
And, weetless of the winter's rage,
Hollies that gave their green to aspire
Without a prickle to the sky,
As in negligent attire
They grew with growing years more gay
And smooth'd their wrinkles in old age;
And pale the birch's purplish dye;
And firs that duskier lift their crests
Proud as they boast unfading vests—
Bade, round the steep, the pathway flints
Gleam thro' diversity of tints.

VII.

And shone (tho' whilom from below
Shut out by the full summer-flow
Of lavish leaves) the river's course;
Its gentler tide, its torrent-force;
Here, flashing in a sudden break;
There soften'd, a long silver streak;
Here, chequer'd by a gliding sail;
There glimmering but in glimpses pale;
As seen hard by, or view'd afar
Mid bosky dingle, lawn or lair.

VIII.

Turning abrupt, the o'ershadow'd path
Descends, where in a rock beneath
A wide-scoop'd cavern yawns. Far down
From the cave's entrance, lichens brown
Encrust the limerock's chasmed side—
Its broad base wash'd by Tamar's tide.

IX.

Dear was this cave to Isabel—
Secluded as the nunnery-cell,
Or as the silent hermitage—
Dear was this cave from infant age.
Here might, in sooth, the hermit gray
His quiet rosary love to say.

X.

And more did she the cavern prize;
As (when the red-rose and the white
Flar'd ominous to decide in fight
Of many a house the destinies)
Her great grandsire had nigh this spot
Eluding his pursuers shot,
(While the copse deepen'd as to wrap
His body in a denser gloom)
Dash'd to their seeming in the wave—
They heard the plunge; and his floating cap
Sure signal of immersion gave—
The inscription on his watery tomb!
And when fierce swords again were sheath'd
And with the peaceful olive wreath'd,
He rear'd, at the cavern-rock,
A fabric that his praises spoke,
Nor shall to ages speak in vain—
He rear'd the monumental fane!

XI.

From the cavern's roof, a rill
Did rippling in pure drops distil;
Tho' late its trickling paus'd, to emboss
In silent ice, the virid moss.
Now fluid, half-way-down, it curl'd,
And in the fretted rockstone purl'd,
To bid its restless whirling wear
An alabaster basin there;
Thence briskly bubbled, to o'erflow
And tinkle on the floor below;
And, parted into many a thread,
Where shaggy tufts the chasm o'erspread,
Long, ere it reach'd the river's course,
Expended all its pigmy force,
As in soft dews and milky spray
It froth'd its little life away.

XII.

Wild o'er the cave the sweet woodbine
Had lov'd in amorous folds to twine:
And tho' the jasmine, which its stars
Erst twinkled to favonian airs,
Weak and leafless, shrank from sight,
The myrtle revel'd in the light.

XIII.

And what at this uncertain hour
Was to the pensive Isabel
The sweetest pleasure of her bower?
The sunbright rill, the jasmine flower,
The myrtle-bloom she valued well.
For not alone, she bade the rill
Down the cavern-roof distil;
And not alone, the myrtle blow,
Or jasmine wink its stars below.
And she could paint, as memory's spell
Did all her soul to love attune,
Midst icy rigours, genial June.

XIV.

But, hovering o'er her woodbines wild,
Had fonder dreams her grief beguil'd.
The summer-nests that still were seen
Tho' arid now, or dusky green,—
Ah! crept not from one summer-nest
Something like tremour to her breast?
And lo! that moment flitting by,
And (now less diffident and shy)
Glancing back his lively eye—
Say, was the little trembling wren
That flies so far the haunts of men
To huddling brook and gloomy glen,
Yet seem'd to seek her former care—
Say, was he an intruder there?

XV.

There Isabel nor tried to suit
Her voice to dulcet strings, that mute
Now slept in her suspended lute;
Nor utter'd word; but sigh'd distress,
And gazing long, stood motionless;
Nor heeded Jesse's presence nigh;
Nor ask'd for Jesse's sympathy!
Yet both were roving, sooth to say,
In fancy the same faery way.

XVI.

‘Six moons ago (thought Isabel)
We fondly hail'd our favourite cell.
These trendils were our mutual care;
My Edward look'd with pleasure there.
Ah, perish'd is their purple hue!
And shall sweet hope thus perish too?
That moss by parching winter dried—
Young joy thus withering died!
Yet doth it still adorn my bower,
Pale relic of a precious hour!
It was on that enchanting eve,
When village-ghosts their churchyards leave
To visit each enamour'd maid,
And give to fear the deepening shade,
He bade the adieu to memory dear—
His voice still vibrates on my ear!’

XVII.

But Jesse's were far softer sighs;
And sparkled her young hazel eyes;
Tho' seriousness would intervene,
And lightly cloud the smiling scene!
O'er all that night of pleasing pain
She wander'd back in thought again,
When, tranc'd in momentary swoon,
She rose and shriek'd to the glimpsing moon.
Yet, tho' she own'd misgiving fear,
And her eye was dimm'd with a frequent tear;
Yet hope vouchsaf'd a gladd'ning ray,
And fancy chas'd each tear away!

XVIII.

Sudden, the stilly trees between,
(As first the rolling fog is seen)
From the distant woodland broke
And strait aspir'd a cloud of smoke.
‘Whence could the vapoury volume rise?’
Thought Jesse, kindling with surprize,
And listening with attentive ear—
‘Perhaps, of him I yet may hear.’
For she had ask'd, with eager eye,
Of every stranger passing by,
Each day, and almost every hour,
‘If any seaman to the bower
‘A mile just off, by Tamar's side,
‘Had shot his shallop o'er the tide?’
Again she glanc'd o'er all the scene,
Thro' her dark eyelashes I ween,
And winc'd and blush'd, and smiling arch
Decided on a wildwood march:
And nimbly did she go, like faery,
Her form so slender, small and airy,
And, ere an eye could note her flight,
Like faery, vanish'd from the sight.

XIX.

Soon Jesse deem'd her trip was vain;
For she had almost sprung amain
Where jabber'd a rude gipsey-train.
From out their tent the cranelike neck,
The sunburnt brow, the tawny cheek,
The sloeblack eye's observance keen,
Plump boys, and wrinkled hags were seen.
But one, in tatter'd garments drest
Limping, advanc'd before the rest;
Her broad hat o'er her features flapt—
With a scarf her head profusely wrapt.

XX.

“My pretty nymph—God bless thee well!”
“My mistress waits beyond the dell!”—
“Sweet girl! together will we go!”
The fear-struck Jesse whisper'd—“No!”
But, the crone follow'd, (tho' before
Her crutch she appear'd bending o'er)
And cross'd, as fleets a shadowy gleam,
The old pine-bridge that arch'd the stream.

XXI.

Panting and breathless Jesse reach'd
The cavern, and her arms outstretch'd
As if imploring aid:
But Isabel, left all alone,
Wist not, that Jesse had been gone
And started from her sudden shade.

XXII.

“Nymph of delight! hold out thy palm!
(The gipsey cried) “I give thee balm
“To quiet every lovesick qualm!
“Come, let me read those mystic lines—
“Ah! thy assenting blush inclines!
“For pleasure thou art born, I trow!
“Then lovely maid! why tremble so?”

XXIII.

Still more with heighten'd colour blushing,
A deeper dye her bosom flushing,
As in the sunblaze yet more bright
The rich carnation drinks the light,
She bade her rural muse impart
A strain to try the gipsey's art.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

Scarce paus'd the song; when Isabel flew
(And wonder'd at the stupid trance
That had with-held her instant glance)
Into the gipsey's arms!
A lover's eye can mimic geer,
Can sound deceive a lover's ear?
No! tho' the gipsey-strain was new,
And the crone character'd so well,
How often trembled Isabel!
O! it was Edward's self so true!
He had, long gazing on her charms,
And panting to throw off disguise,
Now bid a cadence, now a tone
Awake in her a wild surprize—
Till one sigh stamping him her own—
Rush'd back upon her heart whole years—
His words, his actions, wishes, tears!

XXIX.

“My Edward!”—“O my life (he cried)
“Could I but say, my heaven-linkt bride!
“By stealth I came these woods to explore,
“Scarce picturing such an hour!
“Tho' in my hopes I met you here,
“(What hope will not a lover bless!)
“Where all to childish pastimes dear,
“And to our fond vows dearer still,
“Summons back bliss, and shuts out ill,
“Elysian happiness!
“Yes! tho' amid the inclement waste,
“Or black from rains, or hoar from rime,
“Be all the woodland; yet we taste
“The flavour of the vernal prime.
“Our little bower of bloom still glows
“Midst naked trunks and shivering snows.”

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

“Trifle not so—but tell me all—
“What incidents Heaven bade befal,
“As now six lingering moons are pass'd,
“Since here we held sweet converse, last.
“Already hath my fate, I guess,
“My terrors and distress,
“Left as I am an orphan here,
“Already hath they met thine ear.
“Alas! our bigot queen's command
“Bade my poor sire with armed band
“Speed westward as to seize his prey!—
“Hah!—some dire ill thy looks betray!—
—“He linger'd, day succeeding day,
“Dispatching heralds to excuse
“By fair pretences such delay;
“When lo, a second mandate came,
“That menac'd fortune, life and fame:
“And, sudden tho' our brightest views
“My mother's death now plung'd in gloom,
“To dally, were to court the doom
“Of those who disobey!”—

XXXIV.

She stopp'd, and trembled. And he cried—
“Thy sire is safe! I joy to say—
“Tho' yester was a bloody day!”—
When his gipsey-dress flung half aside,
High youth appear'd in manly pride.
And a radiance from the sun, aslant,
Thro' sprays that veil'd the sylvan haunt,
Was, on his brow, a lustrous streak,
A blush, on his brown glowing cheek,
And (gradual beauty to unfold)
On his dark eyelash, a shadowy ray
That languish'd as in amorous play,
And on his bright hair, fluid gold.
But, as the breeze, his locks between,
Fann'd the left temple's azure vein,
The sunbeam touch'd a recent scar
Disclos'd amidst the parted hair!

XXXV.

“My love!”—in pale alarm she cries—
And tearful met their glistening eyes.
O, in a stream, so soft, so bright,
Were mix'd the mutual rays;
(Thus had they look'd in earlier days)
That, chain'd as by a wizard charm,
They shook with tremulous delight!
And she forgot her “pale alarm,”
Delirious in the sweet suspense!
It was a rapture too intense!
They totter'd both from dizziness;
Till, as he mark'd the fainting maid,
He clasp'd her waist, and sighing said:
“O! to relieve my love's distress,
“And give to her fast-beating heart
“All that I suffer'd, all I did,
“Since we were doom'd to part—
“Ere ceas'd my story, could I bid
“In morrow's dawn the stars grow pale,
“And still protract the various tale!
“Long, long could I unwearied tell,
“How Cornwall's youth, ere Calais fell,
“Still foremost where high honour calls,
“Drove back the assailants from the walls,
“Nor sheathing the terrific blade
“Still hail'd their Edward's sable shade!
“But I must hasten to portray
“The heroic deeds of yesterday.

XXXVI.

“Scarce wafted from a foreign strand
“Had I regain'd my native land,
“Ere on the white cliffs o'er Caerhayes
“I saw the hostile beacon blaze,
“And flickering in the ghastly glare,
“The banner'd scallops wave in air.
“Over woodland beach and lawn,
“Its dusky shadows eve had drawn.
“But, where with light the crags were flusht,
“Up the rude beacon-rock I rush'd:
“And to my ear the torchmen told,
“How thence had sped Trevanion bold;
“And how the kindled beacon bade
“His tenant-train from hill or glade
“Pursue his steps where sylvan Glen
“Would aid their cause with gallant men;
“And how Sir Richard, from Cotehele,
“Smit by queen Mary's merciless zeal,
“And girt with formidable force,
“To meet Trevanion bent his course.

XXXVII.

“Sudden I felt a fearful chill,
“From some presentiment of ill.
“Sudden, I felt the coward's pang,
“As, far below me, lances rang,
“And bowmen their full quivers slang
“And on the cliffstone where I stood
“Some fell magician seem'd to brood,
“Whilst the balefire broad and red
“Bade darkness deepen overhead,
“Like the vast copeing of a cave,
“And edg'd with flame the distant wave.

XXXVIII.

“Yet I dismiss'd my boding fear:
“And, as a hope obscurely rose,
“That I might haply interpose
“Between old friends and seeming foes,
“I headed now in martial geer
“Soldiers who rival'd Scottish clan—
“To whom might Scot the bonnet vail
“From Yarrow-cleugh to Nithisdale;
“Whose valorous fathers claim'd the van!
“Then eastward strait our route began.

XXXIX.

“Scowl'd the spirit of the night;
“And it seem'd to gather tenfold shade
“And fierce amidst the flambeau light
“Swept on our cavalcade.
“Sail'd tremulous on the eye St. Ewe;
“And the pinnacles of old Polmear
“Shook their blasted ivy drear,
“And vanish'd from the view.
“And full display'd St. Austel-tower
“Fleeted away as it toll'd out one—
“And St. Blazey's rock to the spectred hour
“A moment glimps'd and the next was gone.
“And we clatter'd nigh Tregrean, the ground
“Where oft with hawk and horn and hound,
“My father twanging his cross-bow,
“I leap'd to see the quarry laid low.
“Onward we sped;
“And still as the dead,
“Where slept Lestwithiel's steepled town,
“Impetuous down
“Thro' its hollow street
“We descended like the torrent sheet!
“Breaking from the vale hard by,
“A ruin'd fortress caught the flame.
“But again in gloom, thro' the yawning wall
“A sparkle I met from a fiery eye;
“The sparkle was lost; and without aim
“I bade my random arrow fly;
“Nor whistled it in vain—
“The prowling felon fox was slain!
“Brave omen! cried our archers all.
“And now, ere yet Lanhydroc's moat
“Swam on our sight, the hills between,
“A whirlwind arose;
“And, sharp and big, its hail-bolts smote
“Our ringing armour—(dire the din—)
“And dash'd along the drifted snows.
“And lo, as frighten'd from his lair,
“A red stag in the flambeau glare:
“I saw his shadowy antler'd form
“Majestic amidst the storm!
“It was a troublous night!
“Still we press'd on with an eagle's flight!
“When suddenly with dread astound,
“Our cavalry all wheeling round,
“Stood as if fasten'd to the ground.
“In truth, it was a blaze
“That extinguish'd at once the flambeau rays!
“I heard a hissing in the blast!
“O'er dreary Roche the fireball pass'd:
“And its hermit-rock, with wild approach,
“Seem'd as if whirl'd away from Roche!
“Brownwilley too, primeval mass!
“And Rowtor, as rent from its base,
“Rush'd in an instant forth—
“Mighty crags that blend with heaven,
“By lightnings molten oft and riven!—
“Again one undistinguisht waste
“Were the low-brow'd sky and the glimmering earth—
“One blackness, that did blacker grow
“From the cold gleam of moorland snow.

XL.

“Long with sleety influence frore
“Did the grim morn salute the moor;
“Tinting, on hillock, pool, or swamp,
“The paly reeds and rushes green,
“As with a dubious moonlight sheen;
“Ere our steeds with a rapid tramp
“Smok'd down Glynn-dale. With shrill war-hoop
“There had I join'd my uncle's troop,
“When “yonder comes high Valetort!”
“Ran thro' our ranks the pale report;
“And, sounding its wild note,
“Bray'd the clarion's brazen throat.

XLI.

“Full on his foe Sir Richard rode;
“And fierce the impatient charger glow'd,
“And neigh'd and beat each fiery hoof,
“As he beckon'd his lancemen to hang back aloof!—
“You would have thought, in tourney-fight,
“They were met rival knight with knight.
“'Twas in a dell they seem'd clos'd in
“Below the mansion-dome of Glynn.
“A brook, here cross'd by wooden bridge,
“To howling winter swell'd its roar
“As it dash'd its cavern'd floor;
“And there, high-pinnacled, a ridge
“Of granite all retreat denied—
“Deep forests darkening either side.
“There Valetort had from Glynn-dome,
“Spurr'd down the hill his steed in foam,
“Ere yet Trevanion could emerge
“To meet him on the upland verge.
“Plung'd in the flood the war-horse white;
“And, dreadful as the water-sprite,
“From out the torrent leap'd, and champ'd
“The burnisht bit, and pawing tramp'd
“All of his purple housings vain;
“And, like the meteor, stream'd his mane,
“Whilst for the battle he neigh'd again!
“Aloft by ermin'd herald rais'd
“The bristling boar in argent blaz'd!

XLII.

“Scarlet and black was Trevanion's plume,
“That waving wildly seem'd to spread
“O'er his red-roan horse a baleful shade,
“Like the fiery skirts of the thunder-gloom!

XLIII.

“Hemm'd in between the flood and rock,
“The chieftains, each with wary eye,
“Bending pois'd their spears on high,
“And aim'd the deadly stroke!
“Mutual was the mighty shock.
“Rattled Trevanion's ribs of steel
“To the stoutest weapon of old Cotehele!
“And, tall in stature and large in limb,
“As giant Corineus grim,
“Yet back he began to reel!
“When, snatching his battle-axe, the fierce knight
“From his saddle arose in all his might,
“And struck on the crest of Sir Richard amain!
“The casque was cleft almost in twain;
“And danc'd, I trow, Sir Richard's brain—
“We for a moment thought him slain.

XLIV.

“In vain did I a parley call—
“All had rush'd in—aye, one and all!
“My voice was scorn'd, and vengeance flash'd;
“On either side as broadswords clash'd!
“And deafening were the dissonant jars
“Of hawbecks and of visor-bars;
“And like hoar-frost, was scatter'd round
“The plumage that had helmets crown'd;
“And flew from the troop of the western chief
“Of cross-bow arrows oft a sheaf;
“And splinter'd were spears of long tough yew,
“And iron corslets were pierc'd thro':
“And lances were shiver'd, and daggers embru'd
“In fountains of fraternal blood!
“And the brook that brawl'd thro' Glynn was red;
“And rough knarled trunks and branches bled,
“As if its vital fluid broke
“From the heart of the forest-oak!
“And the old wreath'd roots were clotted with gore;
“When I heard—“Trevanion's bowmen are fled!
“And many lie low to rise no more!”
“And lo! some struggled the crag to scale;
“Some buffeted, from terror pale,
“The stream, and struck into the glen,
“Or flounder'd in the sedgy fen.
“His rider gone, from his nostrils a horse
“Here snorted forth lightnings or trampled a corse!

XLV.

“His teeth Trevanion gnash'd in rage,
“As he saw Sir Richard, to engage
“His matchless strength, again advance,
“And couch'd his menacing lance.
“The threaten'd stroke was lost in air—
“When Caerhayes's charger high
“Rear'd up his glittering panoply,
“Then, downwards dash'd the furious hoof.
“That moment did the knight assail
“Right-manfully Trevanion's mail,
“Where o'er the breast it clos'd:
“For lo, no longer interpos'd,
“The guardian shield was gone.
“The mail-plates-were not weapon-proof:
“And the long lance quivering there,
“The fierce red-roan
“O'er full two roods impetuous sprang,
“And tumbling (as the echoes rang
“From within their rocky bed)
“Of limbs and armour a huge heap,
“Man and horse roll'd among the dead.
“So tumbles and so rolls the deep!
“Trevanion, midst his overthrow,
“For an instant darted on the foe
“A look as if madness had seiz'd his mind,
“Then sternly calm his sword resign'd.

XLVI.

“'Twas then, where I observ'd a priest
“A dying man in act to shrieve,
“I hasten'd, willing to assist
“(If any effort could relieve)
“A fall'n antagonist.
“For I had slain that man, I fear'd,
“Alas! his merited reward.

XLVII.

“Trickt in oriental garb,
“All on a fine Arabian barb,
“He had singled me out in the dire affray.
“And leap'd, as a tigress on her prey,
“And as if in revenge, tho' my beaver was down,
“Had hack'd my helmet-crown!
“All as a combatant unskill'd,
“A sabre was he fain to wield,
“And in my heart-blood would have drench'd;
“But the weapon from his hand I wrench'd
“And plung'd it in his side:—
“'Twas by his rashness that he died.

XLVIII.

“'Twas now, his beaver all unbarr'd,
“His targe whilst I essay'd to unclasp,
“Ferocious that he stared,
“And seiz'd my hand, and wrung,—
“It was an agonizing grasp!
“And faulter'd, as choakt by his last gasp,
“‘Isabel’”! feebly from his tongue!
“I had escap'd without a wound;
“But chill'd by his comfortless cold moan,
“And lost to all around,
“As I heard that sacred name
“Which like a deathnote came,
“I was rous'd by a stab from a hand unknown!”

XLIX.

Ere Edward ceas'd, she started oft,
And deem'd a crackling thro' the trees
(They were unshaken by a breeze)
Was haply from some wandering deer!
Again a sound she seems to hear,
And (tho' no form she sees)
These were the solemn notes yet soft:—

L.

LI.

“What tones are these that meet our ear?
“Fly Edward! for thy life I fear!
“Go—nor thy course a moment slack,
“And speed my sire's returning track!
“Fly, fly” (she cried—but ill-supprest
The griefs, the terrors of her breast)
“And guard thy wound! And may this bower
“Veil in soft shade some happier hour!”

LII.

“Yes! I must go and haste away—
“Trevanion's fate forbids my stay!
“Yes! I must go, where, death his aim,
“The priest unfurls his oriflame!
“O may the pitying powers above
“From every ill protect my love!”
He spoke—And “take (his parting eyes
Express'd)—“O take this tender pledge!”
The motto round its golden edge:
“FEAR NOT: FROM GLOOM AGAIN WE RISE:
“LOVE LIGHTS THE WAY TO BALMIER SKIES.
Once more he look'd, and lost in shade,
To heaven resign'd his darling maid.

LIII.

“O! in this still recess so deep,
“That I should deem all sunk in sleep,
“What sights and sounds, as phantoms rise,
“Have struck my wildering sense?”—She cries.
“Is it a dream? or, have I seen
“In truth unchang'd my Edward's mien?
“And whose that voice I seem'd to hear?
“O; had illusion met my ear!
“Hark! other sounds—Ah! what are these?
“How gently they caress the breeze.”

LIV.

LV.

As the last words were lost,
The glimpse as of a turban'd head
Not like an air-drawn vision fled,
But with a stately march
(Where wreath'd the foliage to enarch
Its glimmering flints) the pathway cross'd:
It was a turban lily-white
Receding slowly from the sight.

Conclusion to Canto second.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THIRD.

CANTO THIRD.

I.

The infant year now dusky, cold,
In the dun East came glimmering on
Thro' the fracture of a rock-like cloud
Which, as immoveable, o'erbrow'd
A dawning waste of tears!
The melancholy knell had told
Its parent was for ever gone
Amidst departed years!

II.

But open'd scarce the orient scene
Of boles and brake, and mournful green,
Which from that cloud seem'd clad
In yet nocturnal shade;
Ere Jesse down the coppice flew,
To meet, if he indeed were true,
Her sailor where, thro' forest-wood,
His cabin peep'd, by Tamar's flood.

III.

To lift the lid long long afraid
Her moss-rose had the melting maid
Drawn fragrant from its chest,
And plac'd it on her kindling breast!
Tho' paler, yet its tints were fine,
And O! its essence was divine!
To lull a moment every pain
Delicious anodyne!
Ah! doubt and fear came fast again,
Then hope and fancy's fondest train
That such a fair illusion wove,
As if the object of her love,
Already were possest!

IV.

And was her bosom flush'd with hope,
As, her eye searching all the slope,
She saw some form ascending near?
And did that bosom throbb with fear?
How wild were her disorder'd charms,
Clasp'd in her William's straining arms!
To those dear arms had Jesse rush'd
Ere, glancing where the moss-rose blush'd,
He pluck'd the crimson pledge of bliss,
And printed deep the burning kiss,
And press'd her panting heart to his!

V.

Not thus had Isabel her love
Murmur'd to the laughing grove.
Strait to her chamber, yester-eve,
Had she retreated from the cave,
And, wildering in a maze of thought,
Fear'd every hour with danger fraught.
Nor could she from that maze escape,
Pursu'd by many a hideous shape;
When Jesse, fast as words could speak,
Told eager, how a fair young Greek,
A Palmer, and a reverend Friar
Had thither come in strange attire;
Said, she had seldom seen resort
To old Cotehele, from far or near,
A guest of such a noble port
As he who did the turban wear!
But little had poor Isabel
Heeded what flippant tongue would tell.

VI.

And now (whilst Jesse met her swain)
All in her oratory lone,
'Twas Isabel's to think in vain
O'er yester pleasure quickly flown—
Her love no sooner seen than gone,
And from the ills that mark'd her doom
To picture crosses yet to come!

VII.

Of parents yet a child bereft
Was Edward to his uncle left,
(Rough as the North, yet not unkind)
And to Sir Richard's care consign'd.
And many a year the orphan-boy,
And little Isabel had stray'd
Amidst Cotehele or Edgcumbe's shade,
Their bliss without alloy.

VIII.

There had they rov'd, the summer hour,
From glen to grove, from brake to bower;
But look'd not with incurious eyes
On nest or shrub or sylvan flower.
'Twas not enough that varied dyes.
From nature's pencil fancy pleas'd:
Each moment, was to memory's store
Consign'd, what observation seiz'd.
And, if the short quaint note was heard,
Where wooed his mate the blithsome bird,
They trac'd the lover to his nest.
For her how oft had Edward press'd
Thro' blossoms and concealing leaves,
Where the gay finch its cradle weaves:
Or rang'd, where to some brooklet's bank
From mouldering roots and rushes dank,
The water-ouzel steals away;
Or pierc'd the deeper thicket gray
Where quiver'd the noon's sultry ray;
And fond the dingle to explore,
From his slumberous bed the dormouse tore;
And, where between the branchy fork
Of elm or ash her mossy work
The sprightly squirrel lov'd to raise,
Bade Isabel note her wanton ways—
Her feign'd escape from paramour,
As gleam'd amidst the twinkling sprays
The bright-red tincture of her fur,
And, still as she would seem to fly,
The glistening of her ebon eye,
And her white brush jerk'd merrily!

IX.

But soon to manlier sports addrest,
He scal'd, where the young foxes rest,
The o'erhanging cliffs, and oft pursu'd
The wild cat thro' the darkening wood;
And led the hunter troop, where fear
In screaming throat, or fluttering plume
Proclaim'd the brindled caitiff near,
That, ambush'd in the umbrageous gloom,
Might prowl ere night for living food,
And her gray whiskers bathe in blood,
And (reckless of the burnish'd blue,
The scarlet gloss) their feathers too!
Nor ever own'd his soul dismay;
Tho' hunted long the desperate prey
From holme to beech, from ash to oak
Above his head in vengeance broke,
And down on men and dogs impell'd,
Flew up again, and foam'd and yell'd;
Till now at bay, with yawning jaws
And bloodshot eyes and unsheath'd claws
She darted, with new venom fir'd,
And in the huntsman flesh'd, expir'd.

X.

Yet, tho' he hied, where scented gales
The horn and hound entice,
Up steeps, o'er heaths, down hollow dales,
Or clambering, brav'd the precipice
And rock that bridg'd the hoar abyss,
And courting danger deem'd it bliss;
Yet had he murmur'd tender tales!
Yet had he trill'd the inglorious lay:
And early was the soft essay.

XI.

Yes! “many a year” with Isabel
'Twas his to traverse lawn and dell;
Now touching an impassion'd wire,
Nor ought suspecting amorous fire;
Beaming on her a brother's eyes—
And what were her's but sister-sighs?

XII.

But nearer and still nearer drew
The hour, when they must bid adieu,
The jealous uncle deals the blow,
And o'er rude seas must Edward go.
The hour was come. If more be meant
Oft in one look than words can speak!
If language the most eloquent.
Oft to one little tear be weak;
Their's was the meaning, and the force—
Fraternal love! how pure thy source!—

XIII.

With little talent to foresee,
(For he had small sagacity)
Trevanion, bidding Edward share
In old Cotehele Sir Richard's care,
Heard, one sad moment, with dismay
The girl her ave-mary's say.
Rush'd on his mind, at once, the view
Of danger in the deadliest hue.
“The saints! the virgin! how I dread
“Slow poison dropp'd with every bead!
“And Edward will but swell the list
“Of victims to the cunning priest!”

XIV.

In sooth, Trevanion, bluff and brave,
Spurn'd mystic meanings, spurn'd a knave!
There was a savage dignity
E'en in his mild complacent eye.
But, if he felt disdain or ire,
His shaggy eyebrows grew more dark;
Curl'd was his lip; or the kindling spark
Was in his eye the levin fire!
Unpolisht in his speech, his gait,
His every nod denouncing fate,
How gaunt was the old knight, and grim,
If passion shook each sinewy limb!
But, ever and anon, he laugh'd
At all the wiles of priestly craft,
The vigils of the votarist's night,
The pomp of each papistic rite;
And, scorning the whole venal trade,
Liken'd sly nuns and specious monks
To pandars and imposing punks,
And, at the bigot's rage inveigh'd
That had so foul a havock made;
And curs'd, in fine, (to whom or where
No matter—'twas to him no care)
Striding with a ferocious mien,
The bloody bonfires, and their queen!

XV.

So hard their fates. And, ere eighteen,
Had Edward warr'd in Erin green.
And would that Isabel
Had been allow'd her griefs to tell
To brooks and dim shades, all alone!
Ah! scarce was Edward gone
Ere suitors from the East and West,
By her cold looks how ill represt,
But chief Erizey's saintly son
Presum'd in proud Mount Edgcumbe's grove
Abrupt to breathe the tale of love!

XVI.

Sprung from a race who, vers'd of yore
In knightly lists and paynim lore,
Mix'd with the enthusiast's glowing creed
The spirit of many a martial deed,
And had for ages won the acclaim
Of valour to Erizey's name,
Tho' late, midst priests and hooded friars
Had languish'd their adventurous fires,
He was a child of chivalry,
But more a monkish devotee!
And, whilst to love he offer'd sighs
That might some tender bosom melt,
And wildly brooded o'er the emprize
To dazzle or delight the fair;
Still would Erizey rather wear
The girdle than the knightly belt,
As superstition bade incline
His soul to every mystic tale,
Enveloping with holy veil
Loretto's or e'en Mecca's shrine.

XVII.

Proud of his sires, and fond to paint
Their puissance (tho a puling saint
Above a soldier's worth he priz'd,
And thirsted to be canoniz'd)
He would relate how great Sir Hugh
The mighty Saladin o'erthrew,
When lion Richard's golden shield
Beam'd to the cross on Salem's field;
And how, when they repass'd the brine,
Red from the plains of Palestine,
To haughty Tancred Richard gave,
Where Sicily o'erbrows the wave,
(A hasty gift for aye deplor'd)
High Arthur's necromantic sword!
And there, embalm'd and buried deep,
How it repos'd in charmed sleep!
And one of old Erizey's race
(Such was tradition's voice, he said)
Would win back that enchanted blade,
And Arthur's castled rocks embrace,
And sway the sceptre Arthur sway'd!
Yet had his great grandsire in vain
With princely Edward plough'd the main.
And some, that treasure to regain,
To Merlin idly look'd for aid;
Or, pilgrims, to the Virgin pray'd!
Still was Erizey doom'd to mourn
In fond regret o'er Kaliburn!

XVIII.

Thus as he talk'd, in girlish play
Fair Isabel would archly say:
“Give me from Arthur's sword, a dust,
“Or but a little spicy rust;
“Or give me but a bloody scale—
“And may the lover's vows avail!”
He saw, perhaps, the fair-one jeer'd—
And sigh'd, or frown'd, and disappear'd.
Not that he thought she scorn'd the theme;
(What will not lovesick fancy dream?)
Still hoping by some enterprize
To steal, ere long, her softer sighs!

XIX.

But quickly with his form, his face,
From memory well nigh fled the trace
Of vows, fictitious or sincere,
Which never met her patient ear.
And to her Edward at the cave,
While glided fast “the haunted eve,”
She had not of Erizey told—
To her, his warmest suit was cold.
'Twas then, amidst their favourite bower,
Was pass'd by stealth the unvalued hour!
If to her mind Erizey came;
Perhaps to speak that suitor's name
Were but to wake a jealous flame!

XX.

A few short moments, yesterday,
Trevanion hail'd, to haste away—
Moments of fearful joy were they,
How troubled by Erizey's lay!
And it was just six moons before,
Had ‘pass'd by stealth the unvalued hour!’

XXI.

And now, where she had often clung
To her dear mother's side, and hung
On lips of pure devotion there;
And (as to the rais'd hands in prayer
That parent her attention drew)
Her little hands had lifted too;
There, to the Virgin bending low,
She bade a soul of sorrow flow.

XXII. Hymn to the Virgin.

XXIII.

Died, as seraphic airs expire,
The melodies of fond desire—
Ah! not so sweet the streamlet sighs;
So sweet, the vernal zephyr dies.

XXIV.

But scarce was the last echo gone,
Fainting as in prophetic tone,
Ere at her door, what seem'd a Friar
Clad in Mount Carmel's coarse attire,
With downcast look and half a grin,
Was by father Nicholas usher'd in.
Tho' his demeanor mark'd the tribe—
The assassins from Phenicia's height,
Nor heart had he, resisting bribe,—
He was self-call'd a Carmelite.
In truth, he was of British race;
But flying from his native place,
Had long conceal'd dishonour foul
Beneath a sanctimonious cowl.
Alas! nor cowl, nor foreign clime
Can hide from Heaven, or cancel crime.
And follow'd one in Palmer's vest
Who his long staff a moment ey'd,
Then, stooping, lower'd his pilgrim-pride,
And the damsel thus address'd:

XXV.

“Thee, only, matchless maiden! thee
“Would I salute on bended knee!
“She, at whose shrine I daily kneel,
“Bade me go worship in Cotehele
“The nymph of my idolatry!
“'Twas by her secret whisper sent
“I sail'd to where his holy tent
“King Richard pitch'd—with his red-cross men—
“Foredoom'd to slay the Saracen.
“For thee o'er angry seas I pass'd;
“For thee I brav'd the parched waste
“Where no rill flows, nor breezes bless
“The interminable wilderness;
“But the faint camel gasps for breath
“And looks with piteous eyes
“To sands that in red columns rise
“Darkening in storm the noon day skies;
“'Midst brittle shrubs no shade that cast,
“And bleaching bones where serpents glare,
“And whistling thro' the lurid air
“With sudden fiery haze Simoom
“From its pestilential plume
“Shakes destiny and death!”

XXVI.

Erizey stopp'd in sudden pause
As in expectance of applause;
But, as he uplifted his palm tree branch,
The blood in his cheek did terror blanch!

XXVII.

Then “hear me!” cried the Carmelite—
“The vows thou didst to Erizey plight,
“This day renew,
“And vow them true,
“Ere the sacring bell
“The mass shall tell!
“And, when the first nuptial sun shall arise,
“Thy parent shall your hands unite:
“Lo! he approves the spousal rite
“And bids me knit the ties!”
He said; and, to freeze up her soul,
Shook, with a sneer, a crackling scroll;
And departing flung from sprigs of rue
On the threshold, drops of holy dew.

XXVIII.

From horrors direr than the grave,
(Again she sung,) thy suppliant save!
“O save me from a fearful doom,
“If pure my soul thy shrine adore;
“But rescue from the gathering gloom
“One kind, one gentle spirit more.”

XXIX.

In sooth, assistance well were ask'd,
Where villainy, devotion-mask'd
Beset a solitary maid—
Well were implor'd celestial aid.
For, whilst that groveling figure short
A reptile meanness seem'd to mark,
And stratagem made horrid sport
In ambush beneath eyebrows dark;
And zeal but ill affected grace,
As often the sarcastic grin
Discover'd thro' its wrinkled skin
The experience of an olive face;
And mingled (poor resource of guile)
With spleen the prompt obsequious smile;
And the swart fire of eyes deep sunk
Lighten'd or gleam'd from Carmel's Monk;
In friendlike league that spirit so fell
To father Nicholas could tell,
Without the help of wordy wings,
Things full of fear—unearthly things!

XXX.

And see, where Erizey, the Palmer-saint,
Droops from wounds and watchings faint,
From toil and guilt and terror weak,
Now flusht with flame his hectic cheek,
Now ashy-pale as shrouded corse;—
Whilst, to banish sick remorse,
The Prioress, tottering at his side,
Struggles to sooth, but fain would chide!
Behold her at the chapel stand,
Where dimples in its basin pure
The consecrated fount! Demure,
And frisking her shrunk scorched hand
(Divine ablution!) lo the nymph
Flings o'er her charge the cleansing lymph!

XXXI.

“My son! the valourous knight resume!”
(Her voice was as her visage sharp!)
“Let nought on earth thy courage warp
“From its firm bent—Throw off thy gloom!
“Oft with success its influence crown'd,
“I have a balsam for thy wound.
“To me, where erst Plym's limpid wave
“My ruin'd nunnery lov'd to lave,
(“Now foaming 'midst polluted scenes)
“One of dire Hal's devoted queens
“A plant of wond'rous virtue gave,
“Of power to heal—said Anne of Cleves—
“The frame that faints, the heart that grieves.
“'Twas there, where sovereign sway I bore,
“I bade its potent oils restore
“One, who had felt the broadsword's bite!
“From his right-breast as from a sluice
“Gush'd out our champion's blood!
“But that rare herb's salubrious juice
“Soon stopp'd the crimson flood
“Our champion did I say?
“My kindness how did he requite!
“'Tis true, he sank amidst a fray
“Opposing the Inquisitors fell
“Who search'd our nunnery, cell by cell—
“Who, wish unmanly disrespect
“No female modesty could brook,
“In all our chambers prowl'd about,
“As if assur'd they could detect
“And by their hunting ferret out
“Some secret sin from every nook!
“The wounded man, tho' long and much
“Of saintly things he sung or said,
“Yet ill became the grave Capuch!
“For O! recover'd from his wound,
“He stole from me a damsel fair
“Who had watch'd him with a sister's care—
“His “ministering maid!”
“One night they disappear'd:
“Nor from that moment hath been found
“The girl to all our hearts endear'd!
“Ah, nurtur'd from a babe by me
“Sweeter than all the sister-hood,
“By his base art was she subdued,
“And (ere sixteen 'twas hers to see)
“Plung'd in the meretricious grove—
“But thou art sanction'd in thy love!”

XXXII.

She said. And tho' her quivering lip
From Circe's cup had ceas'd to sip;
Yet luscious fancies linger'd still,
Where she had never quaff'd her fill.
And, tho' her hoar locks might you mark
Like mildew, or the grizzled moss
On some old sallow's canker'd bark;
Yet did she seem with quaint address
Fond to display her favourite tress
Still sleek in all its summer gloss!
And, tho' her eye no more did swim
In langours soft to pleasure's glance,
And palsy every sapless limb
(Sure harbinger of death) did shake;
Yet would she melt in sensual trance,
And, (weaving the libidinous tale
That show'd at heart the rake)
Against voluptuous beauty rail!

XXXIII.

Meantime, across the level green
With downcast eye and pensive mien
Pacing, the stranger-Greek was seen.
And now he stopp'd, and now beneath
The oratory-window stood,
And (sculptur'd well where each stone-wreath
The slender shafts in roses crown'd)
Was waken'd from his musing mood,
As his black eyes from off the ground
He rais'd, look'd up, and caught by chance
Fair Isabel's enquiring glance!
And, all unveil'd the observing Fair,
Her eyelids silky-shading fringe,
Her deepening blush, her modest air
So lovely in the sombre light
As she retreated from his sight,
Did, from a quick emotion, tinge
His cheek, and all his frame unhinge!
Chaste beauty, in so bright a blaze,
Had seldom met his ardent gaze:
No; not such charms, tho' luring most,
Could his Elysian Chio boast.

XXXIV.

'Twas there, amidst the hostile jars
Of Moslem scymitars,
Erizey had heard the wild war-shriek,
And snatch'd from death the Chian Greek.
And, grateful for a life so won.
Had the Greek, to Lebanon
Erizey led, a trusty guide;
And, close to his preserver's side,
To visit Albion's cliffs now came
With seeming philosophic aim.

XXXV.

Where glided o'er smooth seas the sail,
Had the Greek heard his comrade's tale;
As, whining to the impostor-priest,
Erizey said: ‘Much, much, I fear,
‘I am in vain a votarist.
‘If she regard my pilgrimage,
‘'Tis the wild feature of the deed,
‘That would alone her soul engage,
‘And bid her grant a Palmer's meed!
‘For ah, unlovely in her sight
‘Is every penance, every rite.
‘But, if she listen to my prayer,
‘Thro any force or art of thine,
‘With treasures my religious care
‘Shall hasten to enrich thy shrine!’
Such had he heard. And hence, that lay,
(Soon as the Palmer's song had ceas'd
And the Palmer had trac'd a devious way)
That strain which, at the cave, increas'd
Her wonder and dismay.
Oft too, o'er ocean as their bark
Was whirl'd, he caught the grave remark
Follow'd by sighs of fond desire:
‘If to her share some weakness fall,—
‘If blemish slight, or fault at all,
‘It is that as on wings of fire,
‘Or in soft passion's mood,
‘She soars or sinks away, subdued
‘And ravisht by the lyre!
‘By sounds that trance the spirit alone
‘The dear enthusiast can be won!’

XXXVI.

Such young Callimachi had heard:
And love romantic thrill'd the bard.
Faint is the glow of gratitude!
It languishes, alas! too soon
E'en in the generous and the good.
But, if no moral sense attune
A soul disturb'd by fond desire,
Its sickly embers strait expire.
And hark! beneath her window rise
From Grecian chords strange melodies.

XXXVIII.

XXXVIII.

From the chapel now rang the last quick chime,
And peal'd the organ in loud swell,
Like a burst of thunder over-head,
Or, by the whirlwind's sweep
Arous'd in all its grandeur dread,
The long roar of the rolling deep.
Lo, thro' the portal-arch sublime
The procession moving slow,
By Mawd and Jacqueline led,
Mute spectacle of woe
Went lovely Isabel
Up the dim vaulted isle Between
The altar and the burnish'd screen
Where, sculptur'd in compartments blue,
Apostles hoar and saints were seen,
Were plac'd the couple full in view!
And now, from holy censers breath'd
And slowly curl'd around
And in dun columns wreath'd,
Aspir'd the incense-cloud
To the chancel-roof; and erst so loud
The organ's last faint sound,
(As some lorn spirit that bids adieu
To its cold yet struggling clay)
Lingering, shivering, died away.

XXXIX.

But, whilst curiously design'd
Branches of palm with roses twin'd
And cedar-leaves, in many a braid
On the crimson altar were display'd,
The golden chalices to shade;—
The pictur'd window cast
A light portentous from the East;
And wav'd the banners from on high;
And the mail-plates shook without a blast
Suspended from their massy bar;
And trembled, with no breath of air,
All the ancient panoply!

XL.

“By that ever sacred rose
“Whose parent-stem in Sharon grows;
“By the cedar pluck'd for thee;
“By those branches from the tree
“That loves the waves of Galilee;
“I adjure thee—by that wreath—
“Here ratify thy plighted faith!”
Echoed a voice of fear.—“I vow'd
“No vow!” She cried, and meekly bow'd.
“If thou relent not, thou shalt rue
“Thine angry sire—the Virgin too!
“Daughter, beware! The hour is come!
“We give thee to the immuring gloom!”

Conclusion to Canto third.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FOURTH.

CANTO FOURTH.

I.

The swelling notes of organ grand,
Sancebell and sanctuary were still:
They had subserv'd the priestly will!
Ah! pageants but by treachery plann'd!
Such mockery as brings vengeance down
Oft on many a monkish crown!

II.

And lo! that solemn service o'er,
Smiles she had witness'd ne'er before,
From Mawd a cringing-like caress,
And bows from priests and prioress,
Were her “immuring gloom:”
And he, too, (anxious to resume
A young knight's more enticing dress)
The pilgrim—as in scorn away
Flung his palm-staff and amice gray.
Yet Isabel, without surprize,
Saw, 'twas a specious poor disguise,
An artful mummery, to impose
On her domestic train—on those
Who own'd for her kind sympathies.

III.

And now, (tho' to dark guilt and guile
She often forc'd a wintery smile,
Thro' a big tear of pale regret)
It seem'd as if they all were met
In friendly concert round the hearth
Of social minstrelsy and mirth!

IV.

In strains attention's ear to hold,
All of his voyage Erizey told—
Told, how an unexpected gale
Drove from its course the struggling sail;
Where, scatter'd round, each Grecian isle
Resum'd, erelong, a faery smile.
And “light (he said) how light the breeze
“In whispers kiss'd the deep-blue seas!
“And many a little fair caique
“Glided on the smooth expanse,
“Or waver'd in some shadowy creek;
“And all seem'd visions of romance!
“From every shore, as shrubby blooms
“Amidst the exuberant leaves
“Darken'd and flush'd in lights and glooms,
“Was incense wafted o'er the waves!
“And, as I enter'd Chio's bay,
“Delicious was the closing day.
“Brilliant and vivid were the dyes
“Across the lovely Western skies—
“Above, a streak of crimson glow,
“And a long yellow line, below!
“And, the rich red and gold between,
“The tints so deepen'd into green,
“That one wide stripe of verdure soft
“Seem'd lifted like a lawn aloft!
“But landing. I full soon perceiv'd
“The fury passions were at work;
“And heard, as glimps'd the avenging Greek
“And fled the janissary Turk,
“The death-shot, and the dying shriek,
“E'en where ambrosial fruitage heav'd!
“All—all was still. The woodpath way
“As up with dubious steps I wound,
“Sudden there came a rushing sound
“As of some bird that snuff'd her prey,
“And far off a low groan
“That pictur'd agony!
“Again, I caught the sufferer's moan
“That yet at distance seem'd to die!
“And, breaking thro' the twisted bowers
“O'er virid plants and matted flowers,
“Where the mulberry's silky flow
“And arbutus below,
“And almond's silver blossoms bright
“Wanton'd in the soft clear light,
“Long did I thro' the thicket creep,
“And panting climb from steep to steep,
“Ere, beneath a mastic's shade,
“In princely armour all array'd,
“I saw (in death I deem'd) a Greek!
“And black upon his weltering side
“Wings flapp'd, and did with carnage reek!
“And in a wound that open'd wide
“Plung'd often was a vulture-beak!
“Nor ceas'd the bird, tho' I drew near,
“Unsated, and as void of fear;
“Till, scarce by brandish'd sabre scar'd,
“'Mid the close shrubs she disappear'd.”

V.

“Yes! (cried the Greek) Mohammed's bird
“'Twas thine, brave chief! to fright away;
“Or, helpless, I had died its prey!
“Fainting I fell; and scarcely stirr'd
“The pulses of my heart;
“And fluttering life just wak'd to part!—
“Alas! my sire, of Chio lord,
“With treasures too attractive stor'd,
“The imperious Turk had rudely seiz'd:
“And his fir'd mansion blaz'd.
“Him had I rescu'd from their hands;
“And in their rout the russian bands
“Were slain, or fled down hill or dell;
“When by a random shot I fell.
“Nor long, as from a towering height,
“In a hiss, and now in a whistling flight,
“I heard the sound of wings draw nigh;
“And looking up with dizzy eye,
“Scarce saw the monster-bird, ere mist
“Obscur'd my swimming sight;
“And blotted was the solar light.
“When scatter'd sense returning gleam'd,
“From my torn wound the life-blood stream'd;
“And a thrilling scream the vulture scream'd,
“As with desperate effort I seiz'd in vain
“Her feathery talons, to resist
“Too feeble, and sank back again!”

VI.

“If, ere thy people offer'd aid,
“My prompter arm such help essay'd,
“To thee I owe (Erizey cried)
“The care that every want supplied;
“That led, where rich Engedi glows;
“That taught me to embalm the rose.
“Yes! when so many a beauteous maid
“Fix'd on thy face her dark eyes wild,
“And things of tender meaning said,
“For sorrow sigh'd, for pleasure smil'd—
“That girl so graceful, as she threw
“O'er the silk robe, her castan blue,
“And bade thee such a dear adieu—
“And that sweet nymph, whose long eyelash
“Veil'd in soft shade luxurious fire,
“Whilst blushingly the crimson sash
“Confin'd her bosom's fond desire—
“Were they not trying tests, to prove
“Thy friendship paramount to love?”

VII.

Yet did their odd demeanour speak
No cordial friendship unconstrain'd.
Oft, dropping a dark hint, the Greek
Still more would utter, but refrain'd:
And oft the Palmer's frown confess'd
A rival fire, and rage supprest.
But, when her sweet looks, as they stray'd,
Met his—the Chian chief, by chance;
Detecting in each feature guilt,
Erizey grasp'd his sabre's hilt;
And there were lightnings in his glance!
Then, conscious of a jealous flame
So meanly waken'd and betray'd,
He bow'd his head, and blush'd for shame;
And, calling with a quick forc'd smile
For some soft air of Chio's isle,
Thus challeng'd, in relief
Of ire that had such tumult made,
With his own strains the Chian chief!

VIII.

IX.

X.

For spirits deprav'd nor lyre nor lute
Hath any fountain of delight.—
Yet song averts the venom'd bite
Where India rues her serpent fang,
Darting oft the deadly pang.
Charm'd by the flageolet or flute,
The spotted cobra's rage is fled!
She gently lifts her hooded head,
To every note her ear inclines,
And moves in undulating lines,
Nor from the time a moment swerves,
But bends, still bends her graceful curves!
Each simple tone prolongs her trance;
And all innocuous is the dance!

XI.

Ah! to those lays the Prioress
‘Like the deaf adder’ stopp'd her ears!
Nor could the music of the spheres
In her the tide of crime repress,
And her confederate Capuchin!
If, for a moment's space, from sin
Their brooding minds did concord win,
Those symphonies were as the blast
That furrows up the watery waste!
But songs or hurricanes alike
Had melody their ears to suit,
As, in each other all absorb'd,
They looks reciprocally cast
By mutual machinations barb'd.
And, as the same ideas strike
Minds of a kindred turn at once,
And answer, instant in response,
They oft exchang'd a demon smile:
'Twas confidential guile with guile.
On his right breast that livid seam
He had just laid open to her eye,
With all the assassin's secresy;—
And shriek'd she not in agony?
O could she think without a tear
On that frail damsel erst so dear?
Yes! all her love was laid asleep:
And she could hug pollution deep,
As, prompt to aid her every scheme,
She hail'd the son of stratagem;
And, now in whispers all apart,
Caress'd the Capuchin, whose art
Had every sacred trust betray'd,
And had borne off “his minist'ring maid,”
Perfidious, from the vestal shade.

XII.

So, 'midst the song, the lute or lyre,
Were restless spirits afloat!
Dark were their thoughts, their ponderings dire.
But, ere was heard the Greek's last note,
(Sweet, tho' ironic was the tone)
All unperceiv'd was Isabel gone!
So vanish, ere the blush of day,
The circles of moon-loving fay.

XIII.

To her at distance from the hall,
The hour seem'd husht into repose;
Save that abrupt a murmur rose:
And then the silence was so deep,
She fancied all fast lock'd in sleep—
She heard the wildwood waterfall!

XIV.

The castle—it was deadly still—
When steps along the gallery-floor
Stealing as they approach'd her door,
She heard with an icy chill!
And strait a strong convulsive thrust
Drove at the door a massy bar:
It did its work with a dismal jar;
For time had canker'd it with rust:
And it for years had ceas'd to slide,
By force tyrannic long unplied.
Poor prisoner! was thy arras-room—
Say was it that “immuring gloom?”

XV.

'Twas now the moment of midnight;
When 'midst a stupour that had drown'd
Her sense, she started from the sound
As of surmises mutter'd low,
And then a short weak scream of woe,
And then as from a felon tread,
And trepidation as in flight,
And a howl that might have wak'd the dead!

XVI.

All into stillness laps'd again!—
But long ere the freezy dawn did stain
Her “southern tower” with pallid red,
Jacqueline and Mawd were at her bed;
And, crossing each her angry breast,
(As the viper erects its tumid crest)
Hurried her off, and dared her speak,
And gagg'd her mouth to smother a shriek,
And whirl'd her thro' the cloystral gloom,
And thence, to a small-arched room;
Whence up black spiral stairs of stone,
They a chamber hail'd, where never groan
Escap'd to touch compassion's ear,
Or draw from human eye the tear.

XVII.

“Dire heretic!” (in shadowy stole
A tall form rose,—her inmost soul
His accents pierc'd, portending ill—
His voice of terror cold and shrill—)
“Dire heretic! thy schemes forego;
“Or meet yet unimagin'd woe!
“Swear on this everlasting book—
(In his right hand the volume shook—
In his right hand it shook unclasp'd—
The sacred volume guilt had grasp'd)
“Swear, on this book, thou ne'er again
“Wilt court Trevanion's love, on pain
“Of punishment beyond the grave—
“And, thy corrupted soul to save,
“Thou wilt, thyself, beseech thy sire
“To send thee, where in cells aspire
“Beyond the reach of earthly cares,
“The sainted nun's secluded prayers.”

XVIII.

“No oath (said Isabel) will I swear:
“What Heaven decrees, be mine to bear.”
“Then bear it!”—cried the same shrill voice—
“Then bear it! Thou hast had thy choice:
“Thou hast, thyself, pronounc'd thy doom.
“Go—to the sepulchral gloom
“Where thou shalt greet thy mother's bones:
“Tho' there no groans shall answer groans;
“Unless, at each portentous pause,
“Thou catch a sound from sunken jaws;
“Where thou shalt see no gleam of light,
“Unless in the sockets of death there be sight;
“But famisht—hourly worn away,
“A skeleton (as the dead decay)
“Thou shalt hail, day after day,
“A coffin for thy resting-place,
“A putrid corse for thine embrace;
“And thy livid lips shall strive
“Voiceless, with a vain essay,
“To curse, or to the Virgin pray;
“Whilst, if thy sire thy death deplore,
“Thou shalt be heard of, never more,—
“While, to the search a clue to give,
“No trace of thee on earth shall live!”

XIX.

Down the spiral steps they go,
Silent with ghostly tread, and slow,
To the small-arched room below;
Whence to the chapel oped a door:
And, passing now the palsying aisle,
They reach'd the North-recess,—
Where paus'd, then said the Prioress,
Trembling, yet with a ghastly smile,
(So ghastly, it might curdle up
In the stoutest heart each ruddy drop)
“Isabel! thou art no more!”

XX.

Horror was in that halt—
The priest unclos'd the vault:
The charnel yawn'd.—All overhead
Its doorway's tracery was dark-red,
By the sanguine lamplight dyed;
And, you would deem, there broke
From its griesly depth the dunnest smoke.
“Fiends of malice and of craft!
“Creatures of Erebus avaunt!”
Shot from behind a pillar's shaft,
Callimachi that instant cried.
His damask'd blade he brandish'd wide—
“O let us fly this dolorous haunt—
“Bid me rescue thee from death!”
To almost senseless Isabel
He said; and bending down to kneel,
And stooping low the splendid steel,
“This arm”—he exclaim'd—“shall guard thee well!”
But, in the twinkling of an eye,
A stroke was given!
And “O!” with interrupted breath,
He utter'd—“monsters! villainy!
“Protect her gracious heaven!
“O by the cross!”—ere death's eclipse,
Died his Redeemer on his lips!

XXI.

And suddenly his soul did part—
The Monk had stabb'd him to the heart.
And: “Let us hurry her within:
“Last night, I saw her glance of guilt—
“Her blush, the burnish but of sin!
“And well that pagan blood was spilt.
“Lo! he had scymitars for palms,
“And Pontic drugs for Salem's balms;
“And, skill'd in potions pale and spells,
“In every clime, his Isabels!
“His balms were to Erizey sweet!—
“But time speeds on! Its wings are fleet!”

XXII.

Still did the charnel yawn. No sigh
Escap'd her—no tear dimm'd her eye.
She look'd with a gaze a moment wild;
Hurried within, she only smil'd.

XXIII.

Closing, as in a whirlwind, clapp'd
The massive door. Amazement wrapp'd
The fane. Loud echoes spread the alarm;
And it seem'd as a gigantic arm
Amidst the shivering shock,
Had fasten'd the adamantine lock!
The distant arches rung:
And, the cluster'd columns all among,
Sounds repercussive yet replied,
And, thro' the cavern'd shades below,
As if bewailing Isabel's woe,
In mutter'd thunders died.

Conclusion to Canto fourth.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIFTH.

CANTO FIFTH.

I.

Pale night pass'd on. To conscious Mawd
The fiends of darkness stalk'd abroad.
Staring at vacancy, she stood,
Then rous'd from her insensate mood
Leap'd up with shrieks, as if a dart
Her parched liver had pierc'd thro',
And with a sudden start
Sprang off, and flew
From the apostate Prioress;
Blasted by that cadaverous hue,
By that blood-guiltiness,
Which (tho' a too familiar screen,
A curtain, dropping oft between
Her moral sense and secret sin)
She view'd with dread! And conscience rang
Reproaches in her tingling ears:
Yet her's were disingenuous fears,
The coward's recreant pang.
So doth the pine-branch, black and bleak,
The raven's favourite perch,
On which she oft her barbarous beak
Did whet, and hoarslier croak—
So doth that branch her feathers scorch,
Smouldering from the thunder-stroke!
So doth it—its own inmate scare!
Her rustling pennons rest not there.

II.

Gasping for breath—“O let me pass!
“Where, where is father Nicholas?”
Gasping for air—“O lead me up
To the battlements—to the high-roof top!
“I hear her still!—I hear her!—No!
“Sounds come not from so far below!”

III.

“Betray us not!”—still hovering nigh,
Said Jaqueline, with a smother'd cry.
“To Jesse, (whom our prudent care
“Last evening had dispatch'd elsewhere)
“And who ran panting home,
“I have just shown her vacant room:
“And (hinting, from her mournful mood
“Disaster dire, I fear'd, would come)
“To seek her, have I Jesse sent,
“And the old boteler to the cave:
“And they will find her headdress rent,
“And deem her drown'd in Tamar-wave—
“Her veil (as I contriv'd)—her hood
“From the rock dangling down the flood!
“Then cease these idle fears. If pain
(She mutter'd in low voice again)
“If pain assail her mortal frame,
“It wings her from the undying flame.
“If we have given her to the grave,
“The body sinks, the soul to save.”

IV.

Dumb now was Mawd. Her fell revenge
Was quench'd. It was a woeful change.
The night was drear. The winds blew chill:
She clang to her dark watchtower still.
Nor art nor threats could force her down;
Not father Nicholas' dreadful frown.
“No—no! (she cried) I gasp for air!”—
Her dull eye gleam'd a transient glare,
And sank into a stupid stare.

V.

But lo along the horizon dim
There was a moving groupe:
And you might image in the gleam
Tall trees bending down the slope!
And thro' the mist descending slow;
And still less visible below,
You might observe them strait withdrawn,
Where cluster'd in the dawn
Black crags grotesque. Behind the karne
Emerging soon, might eye discern
High steeds, and on their horses, men;
And catch a glimmering, now and then,
Where flicker'd the red east, aslant,
As from gigantic warriours gaunt,
And now a glitter, a quick glance
Distinct from casque, or mail or lance.

VI.

Now in the pale light on they rush'd—
And you might see with ardour flusht
The horsemen, and thro' parting gloom
You might perceive a heron-plume,
And midst the steeds, or roan or brown
A snowy courser paw the down.

VII.

Sudden, they stopp'd above the wood
The troop, as in expectance, stood.
A herald then some story told;
And long the parley seem'd to hold.
Now helm met helm. Now more at large,
The horseman appear'd to strike the targe,
Or, each at distance, couch the spear,
As if he cried: ‘Avaunt to fear!’—
Again they paus'd. The leader's crest,
As he bow'd his head, deprest,
Now floated upwards to the sky,
While shook the heron-plume on high:
And now a banner, full display'd,
Involv'd him in its wavy shade;
When slowly the whole armed might
Wheeling off, vanish'd from the sight.

VIII.

Conjecture various thro' the day,
What sight was this could vainly say.
It seem'd it was Sir Richard's troop,
The Knight conspicuous in the groupe:
'Twas he: it was his white-war-horse:
Said guilty terror—‘'twas his corse!’
It was, in truth, a spectre-train
In Mawd's disorder'd brain.

IX.

Each moment lagg'd. The eve was still.
A trampling on the distant hill
Was heard, but only struck the ear
Of those who listen'd full of fear.
Now more distinct the clatter was nigh:
The Wardour look'd with anxious eye;
But no one yet could he descry.

X.

As expectation hung aloof;
At once the sound of horse or hoof
(Tho' whilom wafted by the gale)
Was lost amid the bowery dale,
And scarce again was heard
Ere good Sir Richard's self appear'd.
And, whilst a pleasure, that defied
The frost of age, with crimson dyed
The Wardour's honest cheek;
Tho' his old limbs were stiff and weak,
He hasten'd briskly down, to await
His master at the castle-gate.

XI.

Curvetting, his fine arched neck
Sir Richard's generous charger bent;
And (tho' the silver curb's restraint
His spirit kept in with easy check,
As now the Knight would fain dismount)
Pranc'd yet awhile with harmless sport;
Pleas'd that the friendly castle-court
And, pebble-pav'd, the channel'd floor
At his own stall, where stream'd the fount
Still spouting, met his eyes once more.

XII.

As beam'd o'er good Sir Richard's face
Benevolence its godlike grace,
His Wardour's undissembled joy
He mark'd, dismounting cheerily.
Of middle stature, firm his mien;
And, tho' from growing years were seen
Some hoary traces, on his head
But in a few thin sprinklings shed,
And bare was the white polish'd crown;
Yet, on his forehead ruddy brown
If time had drawn a furrowing line,
'Twas either smooth'd in smiles benign,
Or (as some thought he ponder'd o'er)
Seem'd in his serious musings, more
Of wisdom than of age, the sign.
Graceful his gait drew every eye;
And his fine bow, was courtesy.
Manly his accents. Yet no voice
Had sweeter tones at ball or mask:
Not sweeter, love itself could ask;
Tho' love had an unbounded choice
Of those who give the melting hour
To dalliance soft in lady's bower.
Is not such silver sweetness found
Too often a deceitful sound?
Not so, the Knight's. The poor, the rich,
The feeble folk that aid beseech,
The proud, the modish, and the gay,
All with delight his counsels heard:
For, not untaught, for, not uncheer'd,
The poor, the wealthy went their way.
Nor his advice in sees and saws
Had weight from many a solemn pause,
But, for its sparkling not less wise,
Was lighted up with pleasantries:
For his elastic spirits were gay;
And quick was fancy's vivid play.

XIII.

Late o'er his features mild, had care
And sorrow cast the pensive air.
Pale from his wound, and paler yet
From grief, the unbidden tear-drop met
His menial's glance. But piety
Fervid in faith's illumin'd eye,
Dispers'd the mist, no longer now
Gathering on his dejected brow.

XIV.

“We had just reach'd, at morning-peep,
(Sir Richard said) “that sylvan steep;
“When from Mount-Edgcumbe in full speed
“A herald came, on smoking steed.
“And “‘haste (he cried) and thither post!
“‘For, threaten'd by a vengeful host,
“‘Mount Edgcumbe's flames, ere morrow night,
“‘May fill the traveller with affright.’”
“Thither we bent our rapid course:
“And there will a sufficient force
“Protect the mansion, ere we go
“Right-marshal'd to avert the blow.
“But where is Isabel? Where Mawd?
“Come, let us the Almighty laud;
“As soon its summons down the dell
“Shall sweetly sound the vesper-bell!
“Let us, my friends! now sinks the day,
“For our good Lady Alice pray!
“And thank ye Him our swords who sway'd,
“That we have well our queen obey'd.”

XV.

Sir Richard said. But no one spoke,
Till desperate anguish silence broke.
“O! she is drown'd!—Miss Isabel!”
Cried Jesse, with a piercing yell.
“Her love is gone! She sought the deep—
“She lost her love—and is asleep.”
“See—see, Sir Knight! the flashing tide—
“Come, and I'll shew you where she died!”

XVI.

Frenzied her air, her strain was wild;
It wander'd haply, far from truth:
Yet the good Knight, suspecting ruth,
Clasp'd his hands, crying: “O my child!”
But when reflexion's clouded gleam
Had brighten'd, as a clear sunbeam,
Sure of his daughter's steady mind,
Which all the woes of earth, combin'd,
Could not (and well he thought) derange;
Sir Richard flung
On Jesse a reproachful look
Mixt with a half contemptuous air,
(If ought like scorn that brow could wear)
And to fond hope's suggestion clung!
How transient!—With emotions strange
With mingled doubt distrust and fear,
He saw, where all around him shook,
And, dreading some dire image near,
Where Jesse pointed, pass'd.
And follow'd, breathless and aghast,
(To shew what Jesse told was true,
And to perplex detection's clue)
Mawd, arm in arm with Jacqueline!
So guilt and terror intertwine!

XVII.

“There, there (exclaim'd the Prioress)
“Sir Richard! see my poor girl's dress
“Flaunting adown the cliff, and torn
“Amidst the prickly briar and thorn
“That veil—and to the pale moon's gleam
“Those ribbons twinkling in the stream!
“Oft have I dream'd 'twould come to this—
“Her cave so nigh the precipice!”

XVIII.

There was a sort of soothing ray
Fleeted o'er good Sir Richard's breast:
Whence it arose, he could not say,
Yet felt a momentary rest.
If it be true, that buoy'd on air
Minist'ring angels whisper oft
Placid peace—assurance soft,
Tho' hope expire, and joy no more
Can any human aid restore,
To save the righteous from despair;
Haply some angel-visitant
Was to Sir Richard sent—
His earthly comfort was but scant!

XIX.

As on the cliff's o'er-hanging brow,
Or in a vain pursuit below,
From dread or doubt or bitter woe
With all 'twas restless agony:—
Still was now the fine serene
Of darkling eve's untroubled scene;
The glimmering bank; the Tamar-wave
That a breeze scarcely stirr'd to heave;
And more and more the spangled glow
Of the cerulean sky!

XX.

Its rocks as into Heaven to lift
On either side where rose the clift,
Its outline, how immense! How deep
The grandeur of its shadowy sweep!
Ribb'd as with iron, smooth as glass,
Or icicled as with eve-drops,
Or from each crevice rough with copse,
Or fractur'd into chasms and caves,
Tufted with privet, shagg'd with pine,
Pinnacled its top, its base
Fretted where slumber now the waves:—
Each polish, and each curving line,
The craggs, the colours dark and light,
Were mingled in one umber'd mass
Beyond the reach of sight!—
Save where the stream at distance broke
Like molten silver thro' the gloom;
Or, a broad cataract, down the rock
Whirl'd its majestic foam:
Or, tinted in the lunar ray,
Sprinkled soft its misty spray.

XXI.

And now the Tamar, deep in shade,
Or quivering far in brightness, stray'd,
The Knight a ripling murmur hears,
Now a dashing sound more nigh;
When, gliding sudden on the eye,
A fisher's boat appears.
Rests on its oars the bark below—
Two shadowy figures on the prow.
Their silvery vests of softer white
Floated in the pale moonlight!
They were as spirits on airy clouds
And other beings fill'd the bark—
Their forms in indistinctness dark
Seem'd wrapt in funeral shrouds.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

Forms, such as angels haply are,
And sounds, as if from Heaven's own choir,
The richest treasure of the lyre,
Were, to frenzy and despair,
Like guilty beings that had burst
The cearments of the sepulchres—
Were like the howlings of the accurst
To the murderer's restless ears.

XXVI.

“I know you well—I know you well!”
Cried Mawd with a dire maniac yell—
“They beckon, beckon me to hell!”
“I did it! I did it!”—the Prioress cried,
And seizing her quick, with a mad clasp embrac'd,
And in serpent folds twisted, close, close round her waist,
With Mawd in her arms from the precipice sprang!
To the wild leap the hollow rocks rang!
O'er their bodies the water-spray flash'd;
And their teeth they in agony gnash'd,
As they sank in the foam of the tide.

Conclusion to Canto fifth.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SIXTH.

CANTO SIXTH.

I.

Full on Edgcumbe's-mount, awhile,
The sun effus'd a vivid smile;
And half the lovely wave-girt scene
Was flusht as with a faery sheen.
And, tho' they drank no genial light,
The blossom'd laurestine and bay,
And myrtles woo'd the gilding ray;
Ere-long to mourn a night
That would their green leaves whirl away,
And rifle every flowering spray.

II.

Far to the East the extensive seas
Were ruffled by the rising breeze;
Tho' the huge promontory's shade
Was o'er a smooth expanse display'd,
And soft the waters fain would flow
To kiss the silver sands below.

III.

Nearer now, the labouring deep
Arose, as one enormous wave!
Then would another billow heave,
Vast and unbroken! Without foam
It seem'd one mass of steely gloom;
Till, swelling to a haughtier height,
With shuddering sweep,
It burst against a bellying rock:
And a long ridge of white
Rush'd o'er the sea, like furnace-smoke;
Or, like the high-maned troop of horse
That, in their headlong course
All iron-black, toss fiery froth
Amidst the sabre's wrath!

IV.

And now, as with a loosen'd roar,
Did surges whiten, far and wide,
And lash the beachland, as in ire,
O'er the sands then breaking slide,
Then in revulsion quick retire
From the dark moaning shore.
And the welkin a dense cloud o'ercast
Pavilioning the Atlantic waste;
Where a sea-gull squadron wheel'd
In dizzy flight, and downwards reel'd,
And mounting their snow-pinions pour'd!
The dense cloud blacken'd as they soar'd.

V.

Firm-bas'd and garreted around,
Four stately towers the mansion crown'd.
There a lorn oak, in deep decay,
That had seen ages roll away,
Sole relic of an ancient wood
Which wav'd where now the mansion stood,
In lurid light appear'd to lour,
As frowning on the Eastern tower:
And its boughs bent low with many a creak,
Prelusive of some coming wreck:
Then, swelling o'er the rampir'd height,
As it arose in all its might,
From its vast hollow oft did part
A groan, as from a broken heart.

VI.

Sir Richard, ere the storm grew dark,
Had reach'd Mount-Edgcumbe's spacious park;
And, now assur'd from fresh alarms
That no false tale of men in arms
Had met his ear, his menials all
Arrang'd around the scutcheon'd hall;
Flung open the wide entrance-gate,
And bade them there the foe await.

VII.

Nor long ere, buffeting the blast,
The troop those island-waters pass'd
Where danger in its deadliest form
Rode on the ridges of the storm,
And now wound up in rapid march
The hill, and threaded the gate-way arch,
And the hall enter'd, unoppos'd,
Their beavers down, their vizors clos'd.

VIII.

There was a shivering thrill. But the roar
Of the winds without, scarce echoed more,
Than the clash of armour now within,
The bossy shield, the helmet's din.

IX.

It was the clash of shields dash'd down,
Of falchions o'er the rush'd floor thrown;
Of peaceful gauntlets prompt to tell
No stern defiance as they fell;
While foemen friends, and whispering masks
Obeisant plumes, obsequious casques,
Fair hands, that all so ill allied
To war, the cupids lov'd to link,
The flower-soft finger's living pink
That whilom tremulously tried
In feebleness to lift a lance—
Now wav'd, soliciting the dance;
The muscular strong arm, the wrist
Bony and rough, amidst the list
Well suited to the battle-axe,
That did its ligaments relax
To lady-palm like virgin-wax,
And many a Flora-figure gliding,
And shapes of bulky stature striding—
Were, as the vision'd trains that pass
In necromancer's glass.

X.

Above the rest, of brawny limb,
Masking, I trow, a visage grim,
Stalk'd, as inur'd to stern command,
The leader of the motley band—
He stalk'd, as from some giant haunt,
Like Ashtaroth or Termagaunt
Cas'd in a mail of adamant.

XI.

And lightly flutter'd at the side
Of this redoubted champion—
Of border-bard, it seem'd, a son;
His green-silk garb with ribbons tied:
The stripling was alert and young;
A harp across his shoulder flung.

XII.

Scarce had Sir Richard courteous bow'd,
And welcom'd the mysterious crowd,
Ere open the folding doors flew,
Disclosing to the astonisht view
A golden-fretted dome;
Rich lamps illumining the room
And flinging round a rainbow light,
Purple and green and ruby-bright,
And full upon the orchestra streaming,
On hautboy, lute and organ beaming,
But resting with a faery glow
On two slight forms that sat below.

XIII.

Both attir'd in snowy vests
Arose (the stranger guests
Now entering) and tho' mask'd each face,
And save their vizors, all was white,
Seem'd circled, as with halos light
Of glory and of grace!
Equal in stature, they both shone
Inspiring reverence. Yet was one
More like a habitant of air,
More like celestial vision fair;
While trembled to her panting breast
The little cherub Love, exprest
On a clear onyx-stone
That, set in gold, drew witchingly
To its fine sculpture every eye!
Touch'd by the tool of graver nice,
How delicate the sweet device!
Love, there, a coffin-lid unclosing,
Fann'd with his little purple plume
Some form in slumber pale reposing—
Soft lustre dawning thro' the gloom.

XIV.

The orchestra rings. The pairs advance,
To thrid the mazes of the dance;
Or tripping on the feathery toe;
Or bounding, rapid as the roe;
Or mark'd amidst the various throng
By firmer step and statelier gait;
Or, bidding, as they swim along,
Joyance every movement wait!
The laugh, the whisper quaint went round,
Feign'd tones conjecture to confound;
The hand was squeez'd, the sigh was sent
To meet some sigh congenial, meant;
And, by its cincture ill-represt,
Heav'd with high swell the tender breast.

XV.

Still the old harper's watchful eyes
Suspicious of the soft disguise
Look'd back; nor fearless yet repos'd;
But (oft from the hall-floor's rushes green
As a lance's or target's quick glitter was seen)
The folding doors with caution clos'd.

XVI.

The music ceas'd. And, opening wide
Flew back as if by magic slide,
A pannel high on either side.
And down a flight of steps, was seen
Far beneath, and far within,
A viand-cover'd board—outstretcht
Beyond where the eye straining reach'd,
And radiant to the dazzled sight
Amidst a long, long stream of light.

XVII.

Down the steps rustled now amain,
Or tramp'd the festive train.
And some aloof, and some in groupe,
Their masks thrown off, their beavers up,
Caught the hurried—the blank gaze
From terror, transport, and amaze!
Ardent gratulations rung;
Good wishes dropp'd from many a tongue—
Wishes that brought to christmas dear,
The assurance of “a happy year!”
And there were silent looks, that stole
Rapture, blending soul with soul—
But still the wild incredulous stare
And dread and pleasure mingled there.

XVIII.

Yet foremost in the social bond
And of his earliest pastimes fond,
With admiration look'd around
On knights and ladies, old Chamond!
Full many a board with friendship crown'd,
And many a scene in camp and court
Of grave debate or gay resort,
And many a chance, and many a change
Had the Knight witness'd; but, so strange
The events developed to his eyes—
Such ne'er before had rais'd surprize!
And Campernulph and rough Trelask,
Trelawney too stripp'd off his mask,
An honest independent son
Of worthies who had laurels won;
But in whose ears pride oft would ring
Perchance that hoary-sculptur'd rhyme
Which strove to send to distant time
His chivalrous old sire and king:
‘Hee that will do ought for mee,
‘Let him love well Sir John Tirlawnie!’
And he, whose sire from Lisboa's shore
'Midst blazing galleys dash'd the Moor,
Reflected from the ruddy deep
As broad fires dyed Almada's steep;
Who now in a papistic age
Offer'd his Cornwall's ready tear,
Softening the scowl severe
Of Mary's bigot rage!
And fair Mohun and faithful Saule
Dismiss'd their vizors, one and all!
And he, too, from his hoar Lanherne,
In rich ancestral honours stern,
Who bore the long-transmitted stamp
Of merit from the trophied camp,
And drew a splendour not his own
From Exon's proud prelatic throne;
And he, from Karnbre's Druid gloom
Darkening the crenallated dome;
And that warm chief, whose patriot love
First kindled in the eagle grove;
And Caerminow whom, east away,
And where pale Hesper slopes its ray,
Manerial vassals did obey,
Whose British sire bade scythed war
Hang on the Roman's routed rear;
And high Godolphin (fond to pour
His generous soul in courtly cheer,
Where all his hills were glittering ore)
To loyal zeal and wisdom dear;
And, liberal as the solar beam,
St. Aubyn sprung from Norman stem;
And he, whose sea-borne father fled,
As his white horse (the legend said)
Did stoutly cleave
The roaring wave,
Where was whelm'd, one mighty wreck,
Amidst the unearthly shriek
Of desperation and distress,
With its hundred towers, the Lionesse!

XIX.

Nor buxom beauty on the wane
Or undecay'd, shone all in vain.
Where to its horned front the Rame
Courts o'er the surge the orient's flame,
To dark Bolerium's westering shade;
Issued the laughter-loving dame,
To crimson hood with ermine dight
And graceful wimple snowy-white
And curl'd hair frounc'd and curious ruff
And broider'd vest and stiff brocade
To attract the notice that admires;
And of young damsels store enough
To raise the tumult of desires
Which “vermeil-tinctur'd lips” awake,
And tresses like that morning-break!

XX.

But Campernulph beside, sat one—
All in a nook, a fair Unknown!
And, apprehensive of some ill
The coming moment might disclose,
On Campernulph, from out her nook,
She oft did cast a timid look!
Breathing sweetness, where the rill
To lave its bank of verdure flows,
The lily, delicate and pale,
Seeks from the boisterous gale
In its deep leaves a sheltering shade!
So sweet (it seem'd) and all so frail,
The little trembler droop'd her head!
Of every murmur was afraid
That lily of the vale!
Lifting her eyes, for aid
They fain would ask she knew not why,
Spontaneous to Cotehele's fair maid,
O! they were fix'd where loveliness
The mourner did rejoice to bless!
And from Cotehele's fair maid there fell
On the meek stranger such a ray
As chas'd her every fear away!
And it repos'd—so sisterly—
So balmy—it resembled well
A sunbeam on that lily's bell!

XXI.

Claiming from all a mute regard,
Stepp'd forth the gray-hair'd bard.—
“I wonder not, in such amaze
“Still more and more the good folks gaze!
“I wonder not, Lady Alice, so lost,
“Appals every countenance here like a ghost!
“And that bright angel, Isabel!—
“But a strange tale 'tis mine to tell,
“A tale of dire and bigot strife;
“Of murder bringing death to life!

XXII.

“Far was good Sir Richard gone,
“Summon'd by duty's haughty tone.
“I pitied, now left all alone
“My poor young mistress from my heart,
“Suspecting plots from Romish art.
“But, by a lucky chance 'twas mine
“(The year's first night in terror past,
“As now the clock went one)
“To overhear that Jacqueline
“Close in converse with the Priest:
“Each word my boding fears increas'd.
“They said they had trac'd out (I ween
“Thanking high popery and its queen)
“Fair Isabel in every scheme,
“Led by her love's romantic dream.
“Much of a Carmelite old Friar
“Fostering Erizey's amourous fire—
“Much of Erizey did they speak,
“Erst prone to pray and prone to fight,
“A Palmer-saint, a gallant knight;
“And much, too, of a stranger-Greek;—
“Their guests, who scarce an hour before
“Bade the hall echoe to the roar
“Of songs and broils and drunken glee—
“Alas! no welcome guests to me!—
“The Friar with stratagems so stor'd
“How they extoll'd, and how deplor'd
“Mutual, the abortive spousal-rite
“Work of that crafty Carmelite;
“Yet whispering—‘For Erizey's gold
“‘The subtle Friar his soul hath sold!’—
“Describ'd how, worn by wounds and toil
“And by his conscience stung the while,
“Erizey had confess'd his thirst
“For young Trevanion's blood, and curst
“The duel in the dale of Glynn,
“And had disclos'd a plot
“With the arch-priest of death and sin,
“Which bore of guilt the broadest blot,
“And, dreadful to the standers by,
“Had just expir'd in agony.
“They said, indeed, that, ‘on their faith
“(Muffling up within their teeth
“Each word with a suspicious shrug)
“‘They were afraid some poisonous drug
“‘Had bid the Palmer's spirit depart—
“‘The modern Greek well knew the art.’
“But half their hints to me were dark.
“The castle in affright
“Had seen the falling, fainting Knight—
“For only in a swoon, 'twas said,
“Erizey dropp'd—he was not dead!
“And, each maneuvre tir'd to mark,
“I to my couch had slunk away,
“Had I not heard the beldame say—
“Nay, in quick concert heard them both:
“‘Isabel shall swear an oath
“‘That nun she will be, nothing loath;
“‘Or, by the mass, to greet her eyes,
“‘No—never more the sun shall rise!
“‘But, clos'd up in my lady's vault,
(“‘It is the heretic's own fault)
“‘Shall her cold arms, ere the Knight return,
“‘Have clasp'd in death her mother's urn.’

XXIII.

“As I had known, for many a day,
“A secret subterranean way,
“Up to the vault from Tamar's tide,
“Tho' shook my frame, I thither hied,
“And enter'd it, all unespied.
“'Twas, thro' a small dim iron door
(“By lichens long encrusted o'er)
“Far in the windings of Isabel's cave,
“I stole, as dash'd below the wave;
“And thro' the noisome passage crept
“To where interr'd Lady Alice slept.

XXIV.

“There, scarce as in the den of death
“For pale expectance I drew breath,
“Listening to low gales murmuring by,
“I started from a heavy sigh.
“For a few seconds all was hush'd—
“It seem'd as if to stir the shade
“The very gales were now afraid!
“But again a moan,
“A deeper sob, a human groan
“With horror did I hear!
“When, on by some strange impulse pusht,
“Where lay my lady I ventur'd near!
“And with amaze did I perceive
“Yet hardly could my sense believe
“Her body not at rest;
“And, from wild hope at once grown bold,
“Her icy hand's weak pulses press'd
“And rais'd her from her coffin cold;
“And, midst the charnel shiverings dark,
“Welcom'd her life's rekindling spark,—
“Tho' scarce,—before I heard
“The massy door above unbarr'd:
“And woefully its hinges jarr'd.

XXV.

“Ere I could reach the steps, it clos'd
“Thundering.—That instant interpos'd,
“I sav'd—I sav'd dear Isabel!
“My voice was not a funeral knell—
“She knew the poor old harper well!

XXVI.

“But to be brief. I simply say—
“They were restor'd to liberal day!
“For how they look'd, or what their plight,
“Bath'd again in balmy light,
“And what they utter'd, or how sigh'd,
“Descended now to Tamar's tide,
“No bard could tell. Their frames (from pain
“And terror feeble,) to sustain,
“It was a generous seaman's pride!
“But, of his truth and honesty
“Jesse, perchance, knows more than I.
“In his neat cabin not in vain
“Brought back to genial life again,
“And gliding in his little skiff
“Beneath the perilous cliff,
“What raptur'd eyes my ladies bless'd!
“Chaste in radiance-pure, the moon
“On forms more heavenly never shone!
“Sir Knight! I dare not tell the rest.—

XXVII.

“But, by the rood, I'll add at least,
“Full quickly disappear'd the Priest;
“Perhaps, amidst his web of wiles,
“To bask beneath queen Mary's smiles.
“Pardon—such scenes reserv'd to see—
“An old man garrulous and free.”

XXVIII.

When cried the one in emerald vest,
('Twas Edward, erst the minstrel-guest)
“In sooth, with wonder and with fear,
“Tale so romantic strikes my ear!
“Then, it was he, to reason lost—
“My love it was Erizey cross'd!
“Then, it was he (mysterious Heaven!)
“Against this arm was driven!
“Yes! by this arm I deem'd him slain,
“And mingled with my uncle's train.
“But when the desperate fray was done,
“To the same spot did I repair;
“Where one, whom I believe
“Holy as reverend fathers are,
“Hung over him, as in act to shrieve.
“Ah! bitter unction doom'd to share,
“I left the wretch full soon,
“I fell—to an assassin's care!

XXIX.

“To Launceston-keep 'twas mine to go,
“Yet trusting to a generous foe,
“To worth aye prompt its aid to lend,
“A foe of state, a secret friend!
“Thro' him, long since, our Mary bent
“On Trevanion's punishment,
“Was soften'd, ready to relent:
“But o'er her wavering mind its gloom
“Return'd; and she pronounc'd his doom.

XXX.

“My uncle to his prison consign'd,
“For some sew hours I bade farewell;
“And fleet as on the wings of wind
“Rode eastward to my Isabel!
“But, as I retrac'd my way,
“In vain my bosom sought repose—
“Ah! Isabel! that Palmer's lay!
“How sharp a thorn had Sharon's rose!
“E'en when I saw like felon-wight
“Trevanion to the scaffold led,
“All Jordan danc'd before my sight,
“And all the balms of Gilead bled.
“Yet the sweet image of a heart,
“A heart that ne'er deceiv'd,
“Bade from my soul its bodings part,
“And every grief reliev'd!
“I wish'd no more!”—(Half Edward said
In whispers to his listening maid.)
“But, as I saw advance
“The axe to deal the deadly blow,
“Recover'd from my trance,
“I recoil'd from fear and woe!

XXXI.

“O'er Dunheved's spectred towers
“Echoing the minute-moans of night,
“Had broken the morning light;
“And fate led on the pallid hours.
“The victim scaffold, (far beneath
“Chambers that terrific breathe
“The spirit of long-laps'd ages back)
“Yet frowning from on high—
“Its funereal vesture black
“To every pale uplifted eye
“Appear'd to shake disdainfully.
“The prisoner on the crowds around
“More aweful than his scaffold frown'd.
“But spare me such a story—spare—
“The axe was rais'd in air—
“The keen-edg'd axe, to strike the blow;
“When a herald as of fire
“The winding valley whizz'd along.
“To blast on blast Dunheved rung!
“And “pardon!” from above, below,
“Pardon!” proclaim'd by every tongue,
“From age to youth, from son to sire,
“Electric, lighten'd up the throng!”

XXXII.

Young Edward paus'd; then cast a look
Expressing more than muse can tell
On his own Isabel—
Then with new agitation shook,
As he his parting gift survey'd
That, brilliant on her bosom, ray'd
A light on each mysterious line.
And, sooth to say, he had little thought
How emblamatic the design
Was destin'd soon to be!
And how prophetic, how divine
Was that sweet poesy
Enamour'd virtue wrote!
For utterance Edward vainly strove.
To speak the miracles of love.

XXXIII.

Abruptly when Trevanion rose—
A heartsmile hasten'd to compose,
His curled lip of pride,
And to relax his rugged brows.
And “Generous Valetort!” he cried—
“'Twas thine my pardon to bestow:
“The scaffold to thy queen I owe!
“To Mary, oft to death inclin'd,
“It was thy first, thy last report—
“It was thy sentence, Valetort!
“That fix'd the bigot's fickle mind.
“Courteous I come, then—greeting thee!
“Forgive this martial mummery.

XXXIV.

“Crimes, axes, prisons disappear!
“Yet lurk there still two culprits here.
“Thou art turn'd coward, by my troth!
(Trevanion grinn'd and swore an oath)
“Thou, who didst couch the heroic lance,
“A dastard at a lady's glance!—
“But let us spare her timid charms—
“I give thee, nephew! to her arms.”

XXXV.

“Yes! (Valetort exclaims) he well
“Deserves my gentle Isabel!
“And when the sixth sun shall appear
“Since open'd this heart-thrilling year,
“Shall nuptial rites in fair array
“Distinguish our prime holiday.

XXXVI.

“Health to my spirit was, instant, brought
“As I approach'd the Tamar-stream:
“My good old Minstrel's smile I caught:
“His features met the bright moon-beam.
“His harp-tones bade my soul rejoice;
“And I had comfort in his voice.
“But had not Isabel been restor'd
“To a fond father's arms,
“And Alice hail'd her grieving lord
“As by a miracle from the dead,
“My heralds, strait equipp'd, had spread
“Among my wonted guests the alarms—
“The mournful hatchment trembling here,
“And sombrous shadows, for the cheer
“That now brings in the gladsome year.

XXXVII.

“Well met, my friends! tho' pictur'd out
“By troubled fancy, care and doubt,
“I own, I saw some rebel rout.
“And I had gathering fears—till late
“Expecting, at the castle-gate,
“My christmas friends—I saw not one!
“'Twas then, perchance, in Plym's fair town,
“My foeman in disguise—I guess'd—
“Had all into his service press'd;
“And, as I hop'd this night would prove
“The invader's strides but feats of love,
“I order'd my domestic train
“To lighten up these walls again!”

XXXVIII.

And now the providential scheme
That featur'd but a few short days,
Reveal'd to every eye did seem,
Miraculous, in all its maze;
When, 'midst a universal hum,
William approach'd the banquet-room:
And there was heard a heavy groan!
The festal goblet in suspense
Quiver'd! And over all
Again had apprehension thrown
Its pleasure-damping pall!
“Sir Knight! we bear” (the sailor cries)
“A man whose story, ere he dies,
“Claims instant audience.
“He, who was call'd the Carmelite,
“And father Nicholas bedight
“In raiment odd, (the Monk—a Greek—
“The Priest apparel'd, like a Shiek,
“As some one said—all Arabasque—)
“Pursued, it seems, this martial masque,
“To mingle with my lords, intent;
“Tho' with all the prowlers's scent,
“On felon acts ferocious bent.
“But to flinders on a rock
“Their skiff the boiling billows broke.
“The Priest went down, to rise no more;
“While mangled and half-dead I bore
“This Carmelite to the shore.
“Snatcht but a moment from the grave
“He saw himself a corse;
“And, goaded by remorse,
“Strait to my charge this casket gave.”

XXXIX.

The silver casket Isabel
And Lady Alice knew full well.
Thro' all their veins strange thrillings ran
The Prioress—‘'twas her talisman’—
She oft would mutter—‘on her faith,
‘To open it, were death.’

XL.

“I found it on the Tamar-bank”—
(Moan'd the Monk—his voice was choakt.)
“That sorceress—there her carcase sank!
“It would disclose a tale
“Of moment, aye how much to me—
“And mine (she said) it soon should be;
“Sworn as I was in crime to assist
“Herself and her complotting Priest.
“But her words wildly she revok'd,
“At her own promise, deadly pale.
“It tells, indeed, a tale how deep,
“To bid the greenwoods of Cotehele—
“The gayest greenwoods weep.
“Yet did I meditate a blow
“To plunge you in profounder woe—
“Lo, here the phial—here the steel!
“The casket speaks of lady fair,
“A lady of a high degree—
“(I meant a perjur'd oath to swear
“That I had rifled all her charms)
“Whom, if accorded to my arms,
“I would, as hounds explore the lair,
“Have hunted over earth and sea!
“But, if refus'd her—well I knew
“The use of drugs and daggers too!”

XLI.

O'er all his bloodless countenance
That olive hue was one dead ash;
And, flickering in their sockets tense,
From his eyes of fire did fierceness flash;
And his breath grew short—There was no cure,
As, fastening on a canker'd heart,
Stings from a demon bade him start!
As for some clue, all look'd around,
Nor meaning in a story found
So incoherent and obscure.

XLII.

Then, rising with a rending groan,
“It were some little to atone
“For guilt”—he cried—“if spar'd to tell
“What at her birth, what since befell.
“The lost Matilda, hapless maid,
“Cherisht by crime, by crime betray'd,
“That maiden (as these papers show)
“Nurst at Plym's nunnery, nurst for woe,
(He look'd up hideously and smil'd)
“Was lady Alice's own child.
“She, weetless infant! soon as born,
“Was from my lady's bosom torn
“(For on that bosom fever prey'd)
“And to the nunnery strait convey'd,
“And there, at Jacqueline's behest,
“Confided to an alien breast.
“The hireling-nurse soon died—'tis said—
“Perhaps from nunnery-poison dead—
“When a babe was to the castle brought:
“And my lady lent a mother's smile
“To her own infant—as she thought—
“It was a changeling, all the while.
“Yes! little Mawd (of lineage base)
“Who now usurp'd Matilda's place,
“That changeling—so my faith inclines—
“Was the nun's own—was Jacqueline's.
“For, tho' her meanness lick'd the dust
“Where avarice groped, and gloted lust,
“Ambition soar'd in her designs.
“And—for a Prioress—what lynx eyes
“Can pierce her chamber-mysteries?
“Meantime the girl, of noble blood,
“Brought up among the sisterhood,
“The prim superior did caress
“In pity to the motherless!
“And sweet Matilda's modest mien,
“When 'twas my fate, alas! to fall
“Sore wounded nigh the nunnery-wall—
“Her streaming eye—her tendance kind
“So won my heart, so struck my mind,
“That, ere she had attain'd sixteen,
“(Poor recompense for so much care)
“I bore away the unpractis'd fair.
“But meeting an intrepid Knight
“Ere many a mile had bent our course,
“I yielded to determin'd force
“The shrieking maid, and in quick flight
“My country fled, as one undone:
“For I had deem'd my nymph a nun;
“And knew too well, nor tears nor time
“Could expiate or wash out the crime.
“Yet undiscover'd, yet conceal'd
“(The casket says) from prying eye
“She lives! On her left breast anneal'd
“A strawberry glows, and bright the dye;
“Tho' never to my sight reveal'd—
“For me, she is all purity!
“But O! A curse I cannot flee—
“Heaven's curse pursues a wretch like me!
“O! my offences have been rank
“From Jordan's shores to Tamar's bank.
“See—see the Greek!—Again he bleeds;
“His garments clotted all with gore!
“Hark—hark—the mad waves roar!
“Ye might have wash'd this turban white;
“But O! the murderer's deeds
“Still visible in the thickest night,
“And foul to blot the fairest day
“Wild waves! ye cannot wash away!”

XLIII

Sunk down, he ceas'd—a deadly pause—
Then, while his hands he rais'd,
As if for pardon he would pray,
And mutter'd, somewhat yet to say,
Clench'd was each hand, and lock'd his jaws.
And now borne off, as all amaz'd
Look'd on that spectacle of fear,
Scarce did they heed the timourous maid
Who sate her veteran Knight so near,
And erst had shrunk, of all afraid;
But had now fall'n—and dim'd her sight—
Cold as the marble, and as white.

XLIV.

“Yes! from destruction's ready gulph
“I rescued her,” (cried Campernulph)
“She was a foundling babe, (she said)
“And ‘save me’—(she implor'd and kneel'd)
“‘From her to love and pity steel'd,
“‘And guard me in the secret shade.’
“Her griefs nine years have glided o'er!
“Still with the wren she lov'd to lurk.
“And sure it was the signal work
“Of all-indulgent Providence,
“To her own house that lur'd her thence;
“And bade old Campernulph restore
“Matilda—to that dear embrace,
“And give her, where glows every grace
“(As sighs, from some, too sorely tell)
“And all the loves—to Isabel!”

XLV.

Already in her mother's arms
Returning life had lighted up
Matilda's cheek and opening eyes,
As dawning on the cowslip's cup,
The morn, its cold dew colouring, warms!
Already did Matilda prize
Her sister's angel-sympathies!

XLVI.

Oft, many-twinkling as they swim,
Phantoms now dark, now cloath'd in light,
Fleet before the mental sight:
Unbidden, thro' the fever'd night,
Delirium weaves the dancing dream.
So were the gentle Fair-ones tranc'd!
So visions in spontaneous play
Obscuring almost reason's ray—
Bewilder'd, to retire they rose;
When lo! again the Bard advanc'd,
And “once,” averr'd, “his harp could lull.
“The flutter'd spirits to repose;”
And “tho' now fancy-reft and dull,”
Said, “with their pleasure, he would try,
“If yet he could make melody.”

XLVII.

XLVIII.

Again, not mixing with the crowd,
The venerable harper bow'd;
Once more attracting kind esteem,
As radiated a finer beam
Than love and pleasure oft inspire,
From eyes that had not lost their fire;
And fancy high breath'd fervid words
Along the deepening chords.

XLIX.

L.

He paus'd; and strait his lyric treasure
Was chang'd to a sublimer measure.

ODE.

I.

II.

III.

LI.

All as he ceas'd, from his features beam'd
Inspiration! And it seem'd
Where the lamp's reflexion ray'd,
The flashing of ethereal fires
That lambent o'er his frail harp play'd,
And quiver'd on the wires;
As if the prowess from above,
(Whence came that supernatural aid)
Parting in glory, had at length
Consign'd to rest his human strength;
Nor his own vigour strove
Exhausted, to recover more
The grandeur of prophetic lore!
Faint—an adieu in vain he tried
To speak, yet look'd self-satisfied.
He had fulfill'd his every task!—
Sir Richard, seizing the rich flask,
Bade him draw near the banquet-board—
The dancing-juice the old man quaff'd:
And still he drank a deeper draught,
To cordial glee restor'd.
But not the sparkling spicy wine,
Not all the blood of every vine
His bosom could so cheer,
As his good Lady's grateful tear,
That glisten'd in her eye!
Nor did he hold his harp so dear,
As from fair Isabel a sigh
That, as a boon from heaven, did part
And sink into his cherisht heart.
Happy old man! from slow decay
Thy sinews only weak;
From gradual time thy tresses gray;
But still upon thy cheek,
The trace of vigourous health that glows
In many a ruddy streak—
Calm, thou art dropping calm away
Into thy long repose!
Full-blown, 'tis thus the tulip pale
Without the breathing of a gale,
Its feeble leaves sheds, one by one:
Yet freakt are they with wonted red;
Nor can our eye the change perceive,
As in the silent summer-eve
They fall upon their quiet bed,
Till all, at last, are gone!

LII.

Faultering at first, a simpler song
Flow'd from amidst the distant throng—
A gentle voice—'twas wild and sweet—
Such notes as sylvan nature greet.
Perhaps 'twas Jesse's!—She could hide
(As in the hawthorn undescried,
Nestles the warbling woodland thrush)
All in the crowd her bashful bush.

LIII.

LIV.

It ceas'd. And in that artless strain
Which echo long'd to chaunt again,
There was a sportive levity,
A vein, perchance, too quaint and free!
But Christmas always could excuse
The license of a merrier muse.
Whose it might be, we could not say;
But, where the last tones sank away
A sailor's happy smile was seen!
And quips and cranks went off, I ween,
At buttery hatch, and hall hard by;
And nut-brown ale foam'd rich and high,
Whilst many a mighty cask had vent;
And all was as the merriment
Of wassal revelry!

LV.

Nor languish'd the convivial board
With lordly cates luxurious stor'd—
The boarshead, prime of all the feast,
That every Christmas duly grac'd;
(Tho' Cotehele's dun woods no more
To hunter-spear let loose the boar)
And (pierc'd where fleet the sportsmen ran
On Sarum's downs) the bustard lorn;
The cygnet, with due caution torn
'Midst Tavy's sedges, from its swan;
And, from the North, the ptarmigan;
The capon, peacock and the crane;
Nor did the venison smoke in vain—
Nor the brawn immense, nor towering high
The capacious crested pye
Idly met the curious eye;—
Whilst in large cups the rhenish gleam'd;
And muscadel flow'd rich and free,
And broach'd were pipes of malvoisie,
And sherris-sack nectareous stream'd.

LVI.

Yet, while their presence grac'd the board—
The pair, to genial life restor'd;
Nor dainty cate, nor viny juice
Could from reflexion's pensiveness—
From such delights, perchance, as bless
Heaven's angel choir—the guests seduce.
Sweet was the look, the languid air,
The delicate attraction, there—
A pleasure soften'd and subdued;
The chasten'd smile of gratitude;
The light involuntary sigh;
The generous flush of cordial joy;—
And O! that stealing blush, to illume
The little Love's celestial plume;
That conscious blush, which seem'd to tell
It fann'd the coffin-lid so well;
And those mild eyes which more express'd
E'en than the moral on her breast:
FEAR NOT: FROM GLOOM AGAIN WE RISE:
LOVE LIGHTS THE WAY TO BALMIER SKIES.

Conclusion to Canto sixth.

To WALTER SCOTT, Esq.