In Cornwall and Across the Sea :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Lord of Bottreaux Castle,
Was of all men haughtiest,
He could not brook the waft of bells
Borne on the breeze's breast
From the church-tower of Tintagel
When the wind blew from the west.

And he charged a famous founder,
Who lived in London town,
To cast a peal of bells to be
A glory and renown
To the tower of Forrabury
Upon the windy down.

The founder in his foundry,
Great bells he founded three
The first was for St Michael named,
For merciful is he
To shipwrecked folk and strangers
Upon the land or sea;

The second was named after
The sons of Zebedee,
Because that they were fishermen
In far off Galilee;
And the third for Mother Mary
And the infant at her knee.

The bells were wrought and graven
And carried to be blest,
With holy water, hand and voice
By bishop, choir and priest,
Then put upon the vessel
To bear into the west.

The west wind blew them fairly
From London to the sea:
The east wind sped the good ship on
Till past the land was she:
And then the west wind took them
And bore them merrily,

Until they cast their anchor
Right under Willapark,
Not daring, till the tide was in
And dawn had chased the dark,
To thread the tortuous harbour
With their rich-laden bark.

The Vespers of Tintagel
Once more resounded clear;
But filled they not the Bottreaux folk
With envy now but cheer,
For the bells had come to Bottreaux
After so many a year.

The Vespers of Tintagel
Were wafted to the sea;
The Pilot crossed himself and dropped
Down on his bended knee,
And for safe voyage and speedy
His thanksgiving breathed he.

“What dost thou, Master Pilot,
Upon thy bended knee?
What words are those thou mutterest,
I prythee, tell to me?”
“I am praising Mother Mary
For her mercies on the sea.”

“Fie on thee, Master Pilot,
Are we not good enow,
On summer-seas as soft as these
To bring to port our bow?
Thy captain and his seamen,
Not saints, should have thy vow.

“Fie on thee, Master Pilot!”
And a dread oath he swore,
That he could save his ship alone
Though all the winds did roar
And all the saints in heaven
Should keep him from the shore.

The pilot bowed him meekly
And turned to heaven once more,
That God the captain might forgive
For the dread oath he swore,
And no ill hap might take them
Ere they should reach the shore.

When the red sunset gilded
The castle of Bottreaux,
The sea was like a little lake,
Where never ripples flow,
By wooded banks veiled closely
From all the winds that blow:

When rose the moon, the waters
Shone like a mirror-glass,
Not clear but lined with silver sheen,
Where all things that may pass
Cast shadows on its surface
Like breath on polished brass.

The waters lapped as gently
Upon the headland's crags
As a deep sluggish-river tide,
Wherein the reedy flags
Move little, as the watchful pike
Who in their arbours lags.

The torch-fire in the cresset
Rose straight, a shaft of flame,
Steady as light of well-trimmed wick
When shielded by a frame
Of graven glass pourtraying
Some deed of ancient fame.

“Go sleep thee, whining pilot,”
The scornful captain said,
“Thou needst no crossings, bended knees
Or beads to save thy head:
Thou art as safe on shipboard
To-night as in thy bed.”

“I will not sleep, Sir Captain,
I will not sleep to-night:
We shall be safe by grace of heaven,
When morning brings the light:
Who stays his hand in battle,
Not often wins the fight.”

But went that scornful captain
And laid him down to sleep,
As careless in his fragile bark
Upon the vengeful deep,
As the lord of Bottreaux Castle
In his mighty feudal keep.

But while the scornful captain
And all his seamen slept,
A great wave, in mid-ocean born,
Of storm or earthquake, swept
And on the fated vessel
Like a huge serpent leapt.

And, fettered with her anchors,
The gallant little bark
Was strangled in the serpent's folds,
Right under Willapark,
In the hour before the morning,
The hour of all most dark.

But the prayerful pilot standing
At his post upon the deck,
Was borne in safety to the land
Upon the monster's neck,
While the captain and the seamen
Were strangled in the wreck.

And rising in the morning,
The vassals of Bottreaux
Looked for the ship which bore their bells,
But saw a sight of woe,
The shipwrecked pilot wailing
The stout ship whelmed below.

“Tell us, thou mournful seaman,
What mournest thou?” they said,
“Or hast thou lost thy boat or nets?
Or is some comrade dead?
Or tell us art thou shipwrecked
And all thy substance sped?”

Then spoke the pilot wailing,
“Shipwrecked I am,” he said,
“But mourn not only boat or net,
Or trusty comrade dead;
For the bells of Bottreaux church-tower
Swing on the ocean's bed.

Long centuries are over
Since the good ship went down,
With Forrabury's bells on board,
In sight of Bottreaux town,
Yet the “silent tower of Bottreaux”
No chime hath ever known.

But the bells of Forrabury
Give forth a muffled knell,
From their belfry in the sunken ship,
The danger to foretell,
When from the far Atlantic
There strides a sudden swell.

And the fishers of the haven,
Though smooth as glass the sea,
And though the heavens overheard
From rack or cloud are free,
Though breeze enough there is not
A signal flag to see,

If they think they hear the knelling
Of the Forrabury bells,
Say 'tis the scornful captain who
A coming storm foretells,
And he his boat who launches
Hears his own funeral knells.

But the bells of high Tintagel
Still merrily ring on,
As, long ere Norman William came,
They haughtily have done,
While the bells of Forrabury
Were not, have come, have gone.