University of Virginia Library

FAIR ELEANOR;

OR THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK CASTLE.

Fast o'er the hills the evening grey,
Her dusky mantle spread;
And westward far the lingering day,
A glimmering twilight shed.
When from his Cell a holy wight,
Went forth with air sedate;
Beneath the shelter of the night,
Unseen to ruminate.
A slender wand he careful bore
His tottering steps to guide;
The Cross, and beads his order wore,
Hung graceful by his side.
His hoary locks, and wrinkled brow,
A length of years confess'd;
His head that age began to bow,
Reclined upon his breast.

36

A modest air his face o'erspread,
And courteous was his smile;
His heart that science long had fed,
The world could not defile.
Beside an Abbey's mouldering walls.
He stands awhile to rest:
And straight to meditation falls,
And smites his aged breast.
Now in the east the lamp of night,
In awful grandeur rose:
And beaming with the new born light,
The rich horizon glows.
The ambient surface of the deep,
With orient surges roll'd;
The craggy shore o'erhanging steep
Seem'd lashed with liquid gold.
The Hermit view'd the scene around,
With holy, calm delight,
And O! he cried who shall be found,
Worthy thy glorious sight.
Thou who cans't shed the liquid day,
And poise the starry sphere:
Canst bid the tranquil zephyr play,
And furious tempests tear.

37

Thus while his pious soul he spoke
And contemplating stood
A distant sound his rapture broke
Far issuing from the flood.
And soon a stately barque appear'd,
With canvas floating wide;
And to the shore straight inward steer'd,
Fast bounding o'er the tide.
'Twas silence all, save from the strand
The breakers lowly sigh'd:
The vessel now approached the land
And dashed the the surf aside.
And now a voice attracts his ears,
That utter'd plaintive woe;
And all astonished now he hears,
A solemn dirge and slow.
Soft stealing on the floating breeze,
The mingled Anthem rose;
Now low, then swelling by degrees,
And now still fainter grows.—
He heard, and wondering stood the while,
The mourning train drew nigh;
While from behind, the hollow'd pile,
Re-echoed every sigh.—

38

A sad'ning scene,—the Hermit wept,
And straight with pious care,
To meet the troop in silence stept,
And utter'd silent prayer.—
And then the Chief he thus address'd,
With courteous words and kind;
Still prompt to succour the distress'd,
In me a brother find.—
Say whence, right valiant knight and where,
Thy journey sad I pray?
Before thee lies a mountain drear,
And perilous is the way.—
Kind father, then the knight replied,
My journey here must cease;
I come to lay a hapless bride,
In yonder holy place.—
From Spain I come, and this my care,
The lady of a knight;
Erst called Eleanor the fair,
Of beauty dazzling bright.—
Her husband late of British land,
The holy Crosier wore;
And 'gainst the Moor a high command;
For Spain he gallant bore.

39

What boots it to the valiant dead,
The tear let fall in vain:
Pierced by a Moorish spear he bled,
On Murcia's sanguin'd plain.
Fair Eleanor with grief oppress'd,
Soon left this world of pain;
And to fulfil her last request,
I've cross'd the heaving main.
The story of this hapless pair,
Would melt the coldest heart;
Which, while we this sad rite prepare
I shall recount in part.
The yielding sod was laid aside,
The last retreat of man;
The mattock rang, the Hermit sigh'd,
And thus the Knight began.
In Cornwall once there liv'd a knight,
Of high and matchless fame;
And to commence my tale aright,
Fitz Maurice was his name.
It was a deathless name he bore,
His greatest joy and pride;
The sword his mighty grandsire wore,
Still graced his lordly side

40

And many a trusty knight and squire,
In costly mail arrayed,
Stood ready all at his desire
To draw the temper'd blade.
High on a rock his Castle stood,
That long o'erlooked the tide;
And o'er the rude assailing flood,
Still frown'd in Gothic pride.
And flanked with strong and stately towers,
With battlements on high;
Whereon approach of hostile powers,
With ease he may descry.—
With regal cheer his table flowed,
Where strangers well may feed;
For bountifully he bestowed,
On all who stood in need.—
His heart was of that princely mould,
That scorned each sordid view,
And many a virtue now untold;
His manly bosom knew.—
One only daughter fair had he,
As fair as might be found;
Nay, one so wondrous fair as she,
Dwelt not on English ground.—

41

And many a lord from foreign land,
This maiden's love besought;
But she to all refused her hand,
That was not to be bought.—
For thus she said, who gains my heart,
Shall have my hand beside;
For by this hand my better part,
Shall never be belied.—
Her loving father wondering stood,
To hear his daughter speak;
While tears of joy a tender flood,
Ran down his manly cheek.—
And O! my child he fondly cried,
A father's blessing take;
Thy wishes ne'er shall be denied,
All for thy virtue's sake.—
But soon he did repent him sore,
That he this promise gave;
This promise that in sorrow bore
His gray hair to the grave.—
For, wounding to his lineal pride,
She loved a Shepherd swain;
For whom in silence long she sigh'd,
And long concealed her pain.—

42

One day as from his turrets high,
He view'd his wide domains;
Where wood crown'd hills were seen to vie,
With flower enamel'd plains.—
His daughter with the shepherd swain,
In converse he espied;
Beneath the shrubs that skirt the plain,
Fast by the green wood side.—
Then straight up rose his anger red,
Fierce glared his martial eye;
And O! he cried shall it be said,
My honour thus should die.—
Thus far the knight did so relate,
When sadly by his side,
The Hermit fallen from his seat,
All breathless he espied.
Then careful did he strive to raise,
The old man from the ground;
And ply assistance various ways,
But all in vain he found.
At length suspended life began,
Its feeble course to bear;
And down his cheeks successive ran,
The dew drops of despair.

43

“I am,” he cried “Oh! hold, my heart
That bursts to find relief;
That Father, who with piercing smart,
Now feels a Father's grief.
O lead me to my long lost child,
She who was once so dear;
'Tis she” he cried, with accent wild,
And sunk upon the bier.
O Eleanor!” he cried “arise,
Thy poor old Father see;
Look up, and bless these longing eyes,
That long have wept for thee.”
And then he rent his snow-white locks,
And tore his silver beard,
And sigh'd so piteous, that the rocks
To sigh again were heard.
“And have I been, O! heaven” he cried,
A Father for this end?
Let not thy mercy be denied,
But here my sorrows end.”
And then her cold and lifeless head,
He to his bosom press'd;
In one deep sigh his sorrows fled
And closed his eyes in rest.

44

Now in the east the matin fair,
Declared approaching day:
The Knight interr'd the hapless pair,
And mournful sought the sea.