The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson ::

Beneath the tall turrets that nod o'er the dell,
A dark forest now blackens the mound;
Where often, at dawn-light, the deep-sounding bell
Tolls sadly and solemn a soul-parting knell,
While the ruin re-echoes the sound.

Yet long has the castle been left to decay,
For its ramparts are skirted with thorn;
And no one by moonlight will venture that way,
Lest they meet the poor maid, in her doublet of grey,
As she wanders, all pale and forlorn!

“And why should she wander? O tell me, I pray,
And, oh! why does she wander alone?”
Beneath the dark ivy, now left to decay,
With no shroud, but a coarse simple doublet of grey,
Lies her bosom as cold as a stone.

Time was when no form was so fresh, or so fair,
Or so comely, when richly array'd:
She was tall, and the jewels that blaz'd in her hair
Could no more with her eye's living lustre compare,
Than a rose with the cheek of the maid.

She lov'd!—but the youth, who had vanquish'd her heart,
Was the heir of a peasant's hard toil;
For no treasure had he: yet, a stranger to art,
He would oft by a look to the damsel impart
What the damsel receiv'd with a smile.

Whene'er to the wake or the chace she would go,
The young Theodore loiter'd that way;
Did the sun-beams of summer invitingly glow,
Or across the bleak common the winter winds blow,
Still he watch'd till the closing of day.

Her parents so wealthy, her kindred so proud,
Heard the story of love with dismay;
They rav'd, and they storm'd, by the Virgin they vow'd,
That, before they would see her so wedded, a shroud
Should be Madeline's bridal array.

One night, it was winter, all dreary and cold,
And the moon-beams shone paly and clear;
When she open'd her lattice, in hopes to behold
Her Theodore's form, when the turret-bell toll'd,
And the blood in her heart froze with fear.

Near the green-mantled moat her stern father she spied,
And a grave he was making with speed;
The light, which all silver'd the castle's strong side,
Display'd his wild gestures, while madly he cry'd—
“Cursed caitiff! thy bosom shall bleed!”

Distracted, forlorn, from the castle of pride,
She escap'd at the next close of day:
Her soft blushing cheek with dark berries all dy'd,
With a spear on her shoulder, a sword by her side,
And her form in a doublet of grey.

She travers'd the courts, not a vassal was seen,
Through the gate, hung with ivy, she flew:
The sky was unclouded, the air was serene,
The moon shot its rays, the long vistas between,
And her doublet was spangled with dew.

O'er the cold breezy downs to the hamlet she hied,
Where the cottage of Theodore stood;
For its low roof of rushes she oft had descried,
When she drank of the brook that foam'd wild by its side,
While the keen hunters travers'd the wood.

The sky on a sudden grew dark, and the wind,
With a deep sullen murmur, rush'd by;
She wander'd about, but no path could she find,
While horrors on horrors encompass'd her mind
When she found that no shelter was nigh.

And now, on the dry wither'd fern, she cou'd hear
The hoofs of swift horses rebound;
She stopp'd and she listen'd, she trembled with fear,
When a voice most prophetic and sad met her ear,
And she shudder'd and shrunk at the sound.

“'Tis here we will wait,” cry'd the horseman; for see
How the moon with black clouds is o'erspread;
No hut yields a shelter, no forest a tree—
This heath shall young Theodore's bridal-couch be,
And the cold earth shall pillow his head.

“Hark! some one approaches:—now stand we aside,
We shall know him—for see, the moon's clear;
In a doublet of grey he now waits for his bride,
But, ere dawn-light, the carle shall repent of his pride,
And his pale mangled body rest here.”

Again, the moon shrouded in clouds, o'er the plain
The horsemen were scatter'd far wide;
The night became stormy, the fast falling rain
Beat hard on her bosom, which dar'd not complain,
And the torrent roll'd swift by her side.

Now clashing of swords overwhelm'd her with dread,
While her ear met the deep groan of death;
“Yield, yield thee, bold peasant,” the murderer said,
“This turf with thy heart's dearest blood shall be red,
And thy bones whiten over the heath.”

Now shrieking, despairing, she starts from the ground,
And her spear, with new strength, she lets go:
She aim'd it at random, she felt it rebound
From the sure hand of Fate, which inflicted the wound,
As it drank the life-blood of her foe.

The morning advanced, o'er the pale chilling skies
Soon the warm rosy tints circled wide;
But, oh God! with what anguish, what terror she flies,
When her father, all cover'd with wounds, she descries
With her lover's pale corpse by his side!

Half frantic she fell on her parent's cold breast,
And she bath'd her white bosom with gore;
Then, in anguish the form of young Theodore press'd—
“I will yet be thy bride, in the grave we will rest,”
She exclaim'd; and she suffer'd no more.

Now o'er the wild heath when the winter winds blow,
And the moon-silver'd fern branches wave,
Pale Theodore's spectre is seen gliding slow,
As he calls on the damsel in accents of woe,
Till the bell warns him back to his grave.

And while the deep sound echoes over the wood,
Now the villagers shrink with dismay;
For, as legends declare, where the castle once stood,
'Mid the ruins, by moonlight, all cover'd with blood,
Shrieks the maid—in her doublet of grey!

University of Virginia Library

THE DOUBLET OF GREY.