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142
FAIR ELEANOR: A TALE.
Fair Eleanor sate all alone in her bower,
And mus'd on her Knight as she pluck'd the spring-flower;
“O Ethelbert! Ethelbert! did you not swear,
“With December's chaste snow-drop to garland my hair!
And mus'd on her Knight as she pluck'd the spring-flower;
“O Ethelbert! Ethelbert! did you not swear,
“With December's chaste snow-drop to garland my hair!
“Now Winter is gone, and Spring passes away,
“Yet still with some bright Spanish beauty you stray;
“Forgotten, forsaken, I sigh,—once you said
“No beauty could rival your innocent maid.”
“Yet still with some bright Spanish beauty you stray;
“Forgotten, forsaken, I sigh,—once you said
“No beauty could rival your innocent maid.”
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And most lovely the maiden: the almond that shed
Its soft bloom on her cheeks, stole their delicate red;
Whilst her bosom's pure snow, and her eyes' liquid blue,
Sham'd the harebel and lily that round her feet grew.
Its soft bloom on her cheeks, stole their delicate red;
Whilst her bosom's pure snow, and her eyes' liquid blue,
Sham'd the harebel and lily that round her feet grew.
Still was Ethelbert absent—still Eleanor wept:
Suspense, in thy tortures how slow the days crept!
Yet suspense it seem'd bliss to the tidings that came,
“Thy Ethelbert weds with a fair Spanish Dame.”
Suspense, in thy tortures how slow the days crept!
Yet suspense it seem'd bliss to the tidings that came,
“Thy Ethelbert weds with a fair Spanish Dame.”
She breath'd not a sigh, and she shed not a tear;
She threw off her rich jewels and maidenly geer;
And in guise of a page o'er the sea she will fly,
To steal a last look of her lover, and die.
She threw off her rich jewels and maidenly geer;
And in guise of a page o'er the sea she will fly,
To steal a last look of her lover, and die.
O fair is yon Castle and olive-crown'd hill!
And sweetly the orange-grove waves o'er the rill!
And the sun glitters bright on a proud cavalcade,
Which winds round the mountain in nuptial parade.
And sweetly the orange-grove waves o'er the rill!
And the sun glitters bright on a proud cavalcade,
Which winds round the mountain in nuptial parade.
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A page faint and weary sate by the road-side,
“Say which is the bridegroom and who the fair bride?”
“That Knight is the bridegroom who leads the gay band
“And he weds the bright heiress of Merida's land.”
“Say which is the bridegroom and who the fair bride?”
“That Knight is the bridegroom who leads the gay band
“And he weds the bright heiress of Merida's land.”
Poor Eleanor cover'd her eyes from the sight
They had strain'd for so long, of her own perjur'd Knight;
Yet she turn'd, whilst with grief shook her delicate frame,
To view the proud beauty of Ethelbert's dame.
They had strain'd for so long, of her own perjur'd Knight;
Yet she turn'd, whilst with grief shook her delicate frame,
To view the proud beauty of Ethelbert's dame.
Jetty black was her hair and her eyes' beamy light,
Outdazzled the gems on her bosom so bright;
But oft in that dark eye's expression, I ween,
Were haughtiness, malice, and treachery seen.
Outdazzled the gems on her bosom so bright;
But oft in that dark eye's expression, I ween,
Were haughtiness, malice, and treachery seen.
Finely form'd were her lips, and the teeth they disclos'd,
Whiter far than the pearls round her girdle dispos'd;
Yet those rosy-dew'd lips that out-tinctur'd the morn,
When they strove for a smile, curl'd to wrinkles of scorn.
Whiter far than the pearls round her girdle dispos'd;
Yet those rosy-dew'd lips that out-tinctur'd the morn,
When they strove for a smile, curl'd to wrinkles of scorn.
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Sorely Eleanor sigh'd as she gaz'd on that face,
On that soft swelling bosom, that towering grace;—
And she thought of the pale rose the warm sun had blench'd,
And the blue eyes, whose mild rays long sorrow had quench'd.
On that soft swelling bosom, that towering grace;—
And she thought of the pale rose the warm sun had blench'd,
And the blue eyes, whose mild rays long sorrow had quench'd.
The cap hid her fair hair, and the doublet her form,
And she droop'd like the snow-drop that bends to the storm;
She sigh'd as she gaz'd on each quivering limb,
“How shrunken! how alter'd!—but all was for him!”
And she droop'd like the snow-drop that bends to the storm;
She sigh'd as she gaz'd on each quivering limb,
“How shrunken! how alter'd!—but all was for him!”
Sir Ethelbert pass'd with his haughty young bride;
O vainly for utterance poor Eleanor tried!
But she dropt on her knee, as before him she prest,
Whilst she clasp'd his rich robe to her agoniz'd breast.
O vainly for utterance poor Eleanor tried!
But she dropt on her knee, as before him she prest,
Whilst she clasp'd his rich robe to her agoniz'd breast.
He knew the blue eyes and the innocent look,
And his conscience-struck heart ill her presence could brook;
He turn'd to proud Constance and thought of her land:
“Away with thee, boy”—was the false one's command.
And his conscience-struck heart ill her presence could brook;
He turn'd to proud Constance and thought of her land:
“Away with thee, boy”—was the false one's command.
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She sunk at his feet, and she scream'd as she fell;
Oh long on his ear shall that piercing scream dwell!
It shall mix with the strains in his gay feudal hall,
In his sleep it shall haunt him, in battle appal!
Oh long on his ear shall that piercing scream dwell!
It shall mix with the strains in his gay feudal hall,
In his sleep it shall haunt him, in battle appal!
Full short were the joys that Sir Ethelbert found
In his fair Spanish dame, or her fair Spanish ground;
No sway but their lady's her vassals would own;
A new paramour came, and her light love was flown.
In his fair Spanish dame, or her fair Spanish ground;
No sway but their lady's her vassals would own;
A new paramour came, and her light love was flown.
Though perjur'd the Knight, yet his spirit was brave,
“Proud Constance, thy master will ne'er be thy slave!”
She spake not a word, but the glance of her eye,
In its horrible brightness, proclaim'd,—Thou shalt die.
“Proud Constance, thy master will ne'er be thy slave!”
She spake not a word, but the glance of her eye,
In its horrible brightness, proclaim'd,—Thou shalt die.
O mild was the season and lovely the morn,
When Ethelbert rode forth with hound and with horn:
The high-mettled courser scarce brook'd his firm rein,
As his ear caught the sound of the bugle's gay strain.
When Ethelbert rode forth with hound and with horn:
The high-mettled courser scarce brook'd his firm rein,
As his ear caught the sound of the bugle's gay strain.
147
At eve to the castle came huntsman and hound,
But mute was the Clarion's heart-cheering sound:
The cavaliers cluster'd around the arch'd door,
But the generous courser no Ethelbert bore.
But mute was the Clarion's heart-cheering sound:
The cavaliers cluster'd around the arch'd door,
But the generous courser no Ethelbert bore.
The dark eye of Constance, ungrac'd by a tear,
Spoke no feminine softness, no natural fear:
“The wild boar has slain him,”—so ran the dark tale,
And, shock'd at her calmness, the murderer turn'd pale.
Spoke no feminine softness, no natural fear:
“The wild boar has slain him,”—so ran the dark tale,
And, shock'd at her calmness, the murderer turn'd pale.
Hollow murmurs the blast through the chesnut that blows,
Where deep in the dingle the wild briar grows:
Father Joachim wander'd from cloister and cell,
As the calm breeze of night on his charmed ear fell.
Where deep in the dingle the wild briar grows:
Father Joachim wander'd from cloister and cell,
As the calm breeze of night on his charmed ear fell.
“'Tis the music of nature”—Ah what was that tone
That broke on its pauses? an agoniz'd groan!
The moon glimmer'd bright on the thick-tangled wood,
And show'd, in the damp glen, a Knight bath'd in blood.
That broke on its pauses? an agoniz'd groan!
The moon glimmer'd bright on the thick-tangled wood,
And show'd, in the damp glen, a Knight bath'd in blood.
148
The Friar has rais'd him from off the cold ground;
Has chaf'd his pale temples, and staunch'd his wide wound;
From his hair wrung the dew, cleans'd his hands from the gore,
And the knight to St. Clare's holy turrets he bore.
Has chaf'd his pale temples, and staunch'd his wide wound;
From his hair wrung the dew, cleans'd his hands from the gore,
And the knight to St. Clare's holy turrets he bore.
“O father, I die!—had I died ere the hour,
“When my cruelty blasted one innocent flower,”—
He paus'd; high above him a sullen bell swung,
And he shook as he thought, 'twas his death-dirge that rung.
“When my cruelty blasted one innocent flower,”—
He paus'd; high above him a sullen bell swung,
And he shook as he thought, 'twas his death-dirge that rung.
“'Tis a sister departing;” faint, faltering, and slow,
To the Chapel the Father and Ethelbert go;
The portal op'd wide, and the wounded Knight shrunk
From the taper's bright glare, as exhausted he sunk.
To the Chapel the Father and Ethelbert go;
The portal op'd wide, and the wounded Knight shrunk
From the taper's bright glare, as exhausted he sunk.
That hymn, which a wandering seraph might hear,
And deem it the Cherubim hovering near!
The hymn for the dying—unearthly the strain!
Soon rous'd him to life, and to anguish again.
And deem it the Cherubim hovering near!
The hymn for the dying—unearthly the strain!
Soon rous'd him to life, and to anguish again.
149
He gaz'd on the abbess and each sainted maid,
And he gaz'd on the bier where the dying was laid:
How dreadful his shriek, as that form met his view,
And the blue eyes and innocent features he knew!
And he gaz'd on the bier where the dying was laid:
How dreadful his shriek, as that form met his view,
And the blue eyes and innocent features he knew!
Her pale face bent upwards, all tranquil she lay,
As if her pure spirit had glided away;
Exulting she waited her heavenly birth,
When love for a moment recall'd her to earth.
As if her pure spirit had glided away;
Exulting she waited her heavenly birth,
When love for a moment recall'd her to earth.
Sweet and holy her smile, a faint blush ting'd her cheek,—
Though life was exhausted, love struggled to speak:
“My Ethelbert,—bless thee!”—the feeble sound past,
And the sigh that she breath'd was fair Eleanor's last.
Though life was exhausted, love struggled to speak:
“My Ethelbert,—bless thee!”—the feeble sound past,
And the sigh that she breath'd was fair Eleanor's last.
Yet none thought her dead—for the blush, and the smile,
On her beautiful features still rested awhile;
As the beams of the Sun, from the dull valley fled,
Still play on the Appennine's snow-crested head.
On her beautiful features still rested awhile;
As the beams of the Sun, from the dull valley fled,
Still play on the Appennine's snow-crested head.
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“She is gone!”—Still he clasp'd her cold hand to his heart,
“My Eleanor, never again shall we part!”
His blood flow'd on her bosom, and faint grew his breath,
And they, in life sever'd, are partners in death.
“My Eleanor, never again shall we part!”
His blood flow'd on her bosom, and faint grew his breath,
And they, in life sever'd, are partners in death.
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