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The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir

Edited by Thomas Aird: With A Memoir of the Author
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145

TALES.


147

DE QUINCEY'S REVENGE.

A BALLAD IN THREE FITTES.

FITTE FIRST.

I

De Quincey, lord of Travernent,
Has from the Syrian wars return'd;
As near'd his train to his own domain,
His heart within him burn'd.
Yet heavy was that heart, I ween:
A cloud had o'er him pass'd;
And all of life, that once was green,
Had wither'd in the blast.
Say, had he sheath'd his trusty brand,
Intent no more to roam,
Only to find the Scottish strand
For him no fitting home?

Robert de Quincey, a Northamptonshire baron, acquired the manor of Travernent, (vulgo, Tranent,) which in the reign of David the First had been held by Swan, the son of Thor, soon after the accession of William the Lion; and he served for some time as justiciary to that monarch. At the end of the twelfth century he was succeeded in his immense estates by his son, Seyer de Quincey, the hero of the ballad, who set out for Palestine in 1218, where he died in the year following.


II

Who stands at hush of eventide
Before Newbottle's sacred walls,
While eastward far, in arch and aisle,
Its mighty shadow falls?

148

That steel-clad Knight stood at the porch,
And loud he knock'd, and long,
Till out from the chancel came a Frere,
For it was even-song.
To an alder stump his steed was tied,
And the live wind from the west
Stirr'd the blue scarf on his corslet side,
And the raven plumes of his crest.

III

“Why knock'st thou here? no hostel this,
And we have mass to say;
Know'st thou, that rises our vesper-hymn
Duly at close of day?
And in the chantry, even now,
The choristers are met;
For lo! o'er Pentlands' summits blue,
The western sun is set?
But if thou return'st at morning tide,
Whatever be thy behest”—
“Nay,” said the stranger hastily,
“Delay not my request.

IV

“For I have come from foreign lands,
And seen the sun of June
Set over the holy Jerusalem,
And its towers beneath the moon;

149

And I have stood by the sepulchre
Wherein the Lord was laid,
And drunk of Siloa's brook, that flows
In the cool of its own palm shade.
Yea! I have battled for the Cross,
'Tis the symbol on my mail—
But why, with idle words, should I
Prolong a bootless tale?

V

“The Lady Elena—woe to me
Brought the words that tale which told—
Was yesternight, by the red torchlight,
Left alone in your vaults so cold.
'Tis said, last night by the red torchlight,
That a burial here hath been;
Now show me, prithee, her tomb, who stood
My heart and Heaven between.
Alas! alas! that a cold damp vault
Her resting-place should be,
Who, singing, sate among the flowers
When I went o'er the sea.”

VI

“'Tis nay, Sir Knight,” the Frere replied,
“If thou turn'st thy steed again,
And hither return'st at matin prime,
Thou shalt not knock in vain.”

150

Then ire flash'd o'er that warrior's brow,
Like storm-clouds o'er the sky,
And, stamping, he struck his gauntlet glove
On the falchion by his thigh:—
“Now, by our Lady's holy name,
And by the good St John,
I must gaze on the features of the dead,
Though I hew my path through stone!”

VII

The Frere hath lighted his waxen torch,
And turn'd the grating key,
Down winding steps, through gloomy aisles,
The damp, dull way show'd he;
And ever he stood and cross'd himself,
As the night wind smote his ear,
For the very carven imageries
Spake nought but of death and fear—
And sable 'scutcheons flapp'd on high
'Mid that grim and ghastly shade;
And coffins were ranged on tressels round,
And banners lowly laid.

VIII

From aisle to aisle they pass'd the while,
In silence both—the one in dread—
So solemn a thing it was to be
With darkness and the dead!

151

At length the innermost vault they gain'd,
Last home of a house of fame,
And the Knight, looking up, with earnest eye,
Read the legend round the name—
“Unsullied aye our honours beam,”
'Neath fleur-de-lis and crescent shone;
And o'er the Dragon spouting fire,
The battle-word, “Set on!”

Intaminatis fulget honoribus,” was the proud motto of the Seton family.

The original Seton arms were three crescents with a double tressure, flowered and counter-flowered with fleurs-de-lis. A sword supporting a royal crown was afterwards given by Robert the Bruce, for the bravery and loyalty of the family during the succession wars. At a later period, three garbs azure were quartered with the Seton arms, by George, the second lord of that name.

“This lord George,” saith old Sir Richard Maitland, “tuk the armes of Buchan, quhilk ar thrè cumming schevis, quarterlie wyth his awin armes, allegeand himself to be air of the said erldome, be ressoun of his gudedame.”—Chronicle of the Hous of Seytoun, p. 37.

The crest was a green dragon spouting fire surmounting a ducal coronet, with the words over it, “Set on.” The supporters were two foxes collared and chained.


IX

“Yes! here, good Frere—now, haste thee, ope”—
The holy man turn'd the key;
And ere ever he had an “Ave” said,
The Knight was on his knee.
He lifted the lawn from her waxen face,
And put back the satin soft;
Fled from her cheek was the glowing grace
That had thrill'd his heart so oft!
The past came o'er him like a spell,
For earth could now no bliss afford,
And thus, within that cheerless cell,
His bitter plaint he pour'd.

X

“Oh, Elena! I little dreamt,
When I sailed o'er the sea,
That, coming back, our meeting next
In a charnel-vault should be!

152

I left thee in thy virgin pride,
A living flower of beauty rare;
And now I see thee at my side
What words may not declare!
Oh! I have met thee on the waves,
On the field have braved thee, Death;
But ne'er before so sank my heart
Thy withering scowl beneath!

XI

“How different was the time, alas!
When, in the sunny noon, my love,
I trysted with thee in the stag coppice,
In the centre of the grove!
How different was the time, alas!
When from the tower of high Falsyde,

Sir Robert Sibbald, in his History of Fife, quotes a charter by the Earl of Winchester to Adame de Seton, 1246, De Maritagio herædis Alani de Fawside, from which, as well as from some incidental passages in Maitland's History of the Hous of Seytoun, it is evident that Falsyde Castle was a heritage of the younger branches of the Seton family. It was first acquired by them from intermarriage with the De Quinceys.

The date of Falsyde Castle is uncertain. It was burned by the English under the Duke of Somerset, 1547, the day following the fatal battle of Pinkie. The strength of the mason-work, however—the tower being arched at the top of the building, as well as at the first story—prevented its entire demolition. Paton, in his Diary, gives a very cool description of the burning to death of its little garrison, and calls it “a sorry-looking castle.” In 1618, the family of Fawside of that Ilk appear to have removed to a more modern mansion in the immediate vicinity, which has the initials J. F., J. L., above one of its windows. The dovecot of the ancient fortalice still remains; and within it is a curious place of concealment, secured by an antique grated door. There is a similar hole of secrecy in the staircase of the oldest part of the castle.

It is now the property of Sir George Grant Suttie of Prestongrange and Balgone, having descended to him through his maternal ancestors, the Setons, Earls of Hyndford.


We mark'd along the bay of Forth
The streamer'd galleys glide!
How different was the time, alas!
When the gay gold ring I gave,
And thou didst say, when far away,
I will bear it to my grave!”

XII

The Knight turn'd back the satin fold
Where her hand lay by her side,
And there, on her slender finger cold,
He the token-ring espied!

153

“Now know I thou wert true to me,
Ah! false thou couldst not prove;
Vain was the hate that strove to mate
Thy heart with a stranger love.”
And then he kiss'd her clay-cold cheek,
And then he kiss'd his sword:—
“By this,” he said, “sweet, injured maid,
Thy doom shall be deplored!

XIII

“Yes! darkly some shall make remeid,
And dearly some shall pay
For griefs that broke thy faithful heart,
When I was far away!”
“Nay! dost thou talk of vengeance now,”
Quod the Frere, “on thy bended knee?”
The Knight look'd wildly up in his face,
But never a word spake he.
“Now rise, now rise, Sir Knight!” he cried,
“Mary Mother calm thy mind!
'Twas the fiat of Heaven that she should die,
To its will be thou resigned!”

XIV

Uprose De Quincey from his knee,
In that darksome aisle and drear;
No word he spake, but, with hasty glove,
Brush'd off one starting tear;

154

Then, as he donn'd his helm, he pluck'd
The silken scarf from its crest,
And upraised it first to his meeting lip,
Then hid it within his breast.
The scenes—the thoughts of other years
Pour'd o'er him like a lava tide;
Her day was done, and set her sun,
And all for him was night beside!

XV

The coffin lid was closed; the Frere
Preceded, with his taper wan;
Behind him strode the black-mail'd Knight,
A melancholy man!
And oft the Monk, as he upwards clomb
From the darksome place of dread,
Where the coffin'd clay of fair Elena lay,
Did backwards turn his head—
Say, holy Frere, can the waves of fear
O'er thy calm, pure spirit flow;
Or is it the cold, through these vaults of mould,
That makes thee tremble so?

XVI

The porch they gain'd—the Frere he closed
The gates behind the Knight;
Dim lay the clouds, like giant shrouds,
Over the red starlight;

155

And ever, with low moaning sound,
The soft warm gust wail'd through the trees;
Calm, in slumber bound, lay all around,
And the stream sang “Hush!” to the breeze.
The Frere put out his torch, and look'd
His high-barr'd lattice fro';
And he saw, 'mid the dusk, the mounted Knight
Down the winding valley go.

FITTE SECOND.

I

'Twas the flush of dawn; on the dewy lawn
Shone out the purpling day;
The lark on high sang down from the sky,
The thrush from the chestnut spray;
On the lakelet blue, the water-coot
Oar'd forth with her sable young;
While at its edge, from reed and sedge,
The fisher-hern upsprung;
In peaceful pride, by Esk's green side,
The shy deer stray'd through Roslin glen;
And the hill-fox to the Roman camp

The Parish of Newbottle rises from its extremities—Fordel House and Newbyres Tower—till it terminates in a ridge of considerable extent, termed the Roman Camp, the elevation of which is 680 feet. The neighbourhood abounding in hares, the Roman Camp is a favourite meeting-place of the Mid-Lothian Coursing Club. From antlers found in the neighbourhood, and even at Inveresk, no doubt can exist that, at the era of our ballad, the hart and hind were visitants of at least the Morthwaite hills.


Stole up from Hawthornden.

The building of Roslin Castle is anterior to the dawn of authentic record. “Its origin,” says Chalmers, (Caledonia, vol. ii. p. 571,) is laid in fable.” According to Adam de Cardonnel, (Picturesque Antiquities,) William de Sancto Claro, son of Waldernus Compte de St Clare, who came to England with William the Conqueror, obtained from King Malcolm Canmore a grant of the lands and barony of Roslin. Hawthornden and Roslin are associated with many bright names in literature—Drummond, Ben Jonson, Ramsay, Macneil, Scott, Wilson, and Wordsworth.


II

Where hurries so fast the henchman?
His steed seems froth'd with spray—
To Newbottle's shrine, 'mid the dawning lone,
He speeds his onward way.

156

From grey Caerbarrin's walls he came,

Chalmers traces back the name “Caerbairin” to the time of the ancient Britons, and instances the modern one “Carberry,” to show how English adjuncts have been engrafted on British roots.

Every reader of Scottish history will remember that it was on the rising ground above the fortalice of Carberry that Mary and Bothwell awaited the approach of the confederate lords, and that there they parted, never to meet again.


By Smeaton Shaw, through Colden Wood,
And up thy royal way, Derstrette,

During the Scoto-Saxon period, the king's highways are often mentioned in chartularies as local boundaries. In that of Newbottle we find reference made to a regia via, leading from the village of Ford to the Abbey, in a charter of Hugh Riddel, in the time of Alexander III., (chart. 22.) The king's highway from the same Abbey to Edinburgh in 1252 is also here mentioned, (16;) and Gervaise, the abbot, in his charter, (Ib. 163,) alludes to a certain road called Derstrette, near Colden, in the district of Inveresk. Near the same locality there is now a place called D' Arcy, which I have little doubt is a corruption of the ancient appellation.


His path he hath pursued;
Until, upon its flowery lawn,
By murmuring Esk's enamour'd side,
The Abbey's grand and massive walls
Were 'mid its groves espied.

Newbottle Abbey was beautifully situated on the banks of the South Esk, nearly on the same site as the modern mansion of the Marquis of Lothian, who is a descendant of the last abbot. It was founded by that “sore saint for the crown,” King David I., in the year 1140. “The monks,” says Bishop Keith, “were brought from Melrose, together with their abbot, Radulphus. Patrick Madort, a learned divine, who is mentioned from the year 1462 until 1470, recovered a great number of original writs and charters belonging to this place, which were transcribed into a chartulary, which is now in the Advocates' Library.”—Religious Houses, p. 417. Ed. 1824.

The only relics of antiquity now about the place, are the remains of the stone enclosure which surrounded the Abbey, still called Monkland Wall—a striking and venerable gateway, surmounted by its time-worn lions; a solemn line of yew-trees; and a doorway, amid the lawn to the east, said to be the entrance of a subterranean passage to the old Abbey.

Many of the trees in the park are beautiful and majestic, especially some of the planes and elms; and a beech, in the neighbourhood of the house, measures twenty-two feet in circumference, at a yard from the ground. It contains nine hundred cubic feet of wood, and its branches cover a circle of thirty-three feet diameter.

The remains of monastic architecture now seen at Newbottle are said to have been brought by the late Marquis from the ruins at Mount Teviot. They are beautiful and interesting.

We should also state, in referring to the antiquities of the place, that a little below the Abbey there is a venerable bridge over the Esk, rudely built, and overspread with ivy, which has long survived all accounts of its age and founder.

The present parish of Newbottle consists of the ancient parish of Maisterton, and the Abbey parish. During the Scoto-Saxon period, the patronage of Maisterton was possessed by the lord of the manor. Near the end of the thirteenth century this belonged to Robert de Rossine, knight, whose daughters, Mariot and Ada, resigned it to the monks of Newbottle, with two-thirds of their estates.


III

“Awake,” he cries, as loudly he knocks,
“Ho! arise, and haste with me;
For soon, alas, Caerbarrin's lord
Among the dead must be!”
Then forth out spake the abbot grey,
From his couch, as he arose,
“Alack! thou bring'st us evil news,
For thy lord he was of those
Who dower'd our church with goodly lands,
And his sword hath ever been,
For Scotland's glory and for ours,
At the call, unsheath'd and keen.

IV

“But the best are aye the first to die;
This sinful earth is not their place;
Sure is the passage of the good—
Mary Mother yield them grace!

157

Then rest thee in our porter's keep,
While our brother Francis will repair
To the house of woe, and soothe the soul
Of the dying man with prayer!”
The henchman sate him down to rest,
And wiped the toil-drops from his brow;
While in hurry and haste, on shrieving quest,
The Frere was boune to ride and go.

V

Thro' the green woodlands spurr'd the monk—
The morning sun was shining bright,
Upon his bosom lay the Book,
“Much he marvell'd a knight of pride
Like a book-bosom'd priest should ride.”

So says Sir Walter Scott, (Lay, canto iii. stanza 8,) and, in annotation, quotes from a MS. Account of Parish of Ewes, apud Macfarlane's MSS.:—“At Unthank, two miles north-east from the church, (of Ewes,) there are the ruins of a chapel for divine service in time of Popery. There is a tradition that friars were wont to come from Melrose or Jedburgh, to baptise and marry in this parish; and, from being in use to carry the mass-book in their bosoms, they were called by the inhabitants ‘Book-a-bosomes.’”


Under his cloak of white;
Before him, in the pleasant prime,
The willow'd stream meandering flow'd;
From wildflowers by the pathway side,
The gallant heathcock crow'd;
Glisten'd the dew on the harebells blue;
And, as the west wind murmur'd by,
From yellow broom stole forth perfume,
As from gardens of Araby.

VI

Now lay his road by beechen groves,
Now by daisied pastures green;
And now from the vista'd mountain-road,
The shores of Fife were seen;

158

And now Dalcaeth behind him lay—

Dalcaeth, in the Celtic, means the narrow dale.—Vide Richard and Owen's Dictionary, in voce Caeth. Dalkeith, as a parish, does not appear in the ancient Taxatio. Indeed, as such, it did not then exist; but as the manor of Dalkeith, as well as that of Abercorn, was granted by David I. to William de Grahame, it is easily to be supposed that, being an opulent family, they had a chapel to their court. “No memorial remains of the Grahames, unless the fading tradition of the place, and two curious but wasted tombstones, which lie within the circuit of the old church. They represent knights in chain armour, lying cross-legged upon their monuments, like those ancient and curious figures on the tombs in the Temple Church, London.”—Provincial Antiquities of Scotland. From Robertion's Index, 40-44, and from the Douglas Peerage, 489, we find, that in the reign of David II., John de Grahame of Dalkeith resigned the manor, with its pertinents, to William Douglas, the heir of Sir James Douglas of Lothian, in marriage with his daughter Margaret. Dalcaeth is first written Dalkeith in a charter of Robert the Bruce. It is proper to mention, however, that Froissart, who himself visited the Earl of Douglas at his castle of Dalkeith, has the following passage, in mentioning the single combat between the Earl and Sir Henry Percy, at the barriers of Newcastle. The former having, by force of arms, won the banner of the latter, is thus made to say:—“I shall bear this token of your prowess into Scotland, and shall set it high on my castle of Dalkeith, (D' Alquest,) that it may be seen afar off.”—Froissart, (Berners' Reprint, 1812,) vol. ii. p. 393.


And now its castle, whence the Græme
Sent forth his clump of Border spears,
The vaunting Gael to tame;
Now by coppice and corn he urged his steed,
Now by dingle wild and by dell,
Where down by Cousland's limestone rocks
The living waters well.

VII

Then he came to a clump of oak-trees hoar,
Half over the steep road hung,
When up at once to his bridle-rein
The arm of a warrior sprung;
With sudden jerk, the startled steed
Swerved aside with bristling mane:—
“Now halt thee, Frere, and rest thee here,
Till I hither return again.
I know thine errand—dismount, dismount—
That errand for thee I'll do;
But, if thou stirrest till I return,
Such rashness thou shalt rue!

VIII

“Then doff to me thy mantle white,
And eke thy hood of black;

The monks of Newbottle were of the Cistertian order. “They were called Monachi Albi,” says Cardonnel, “to distinguish them from the Benedictines, whose habit was entirely black; whereas the Cistertians wore a black cowl and scapular, and all their other clothes were white. They had the name of Cistertians, from their chief house and monasteries, Cistertium in Burgundy; and Bernardines, from St Bernard, who, with a number of his followers, retired to the monastery, and was afterwards called Abbot of Clairvoux.”—Picturesque Antiquities, part i. pp. 12, 13; and Keith's Scottish Bishops, p. 415.

There were thirteen monasteries of the Cistertian order in Scotland, among which were Melrose, Dundrennan, Culross, Sweetheart, and Glenluce.


And crouch thee amid these brackens green,
To the left, till I come back.”

159

“Oh! bethink thee, Knight!” the good Frere said,
“I should kneel by his couch and pray;
How awful it is for the soul of man
Unanneal'd to pass away!
How awful it is, with sins unshrived,
To pass from the bed of pain!
Caerbarrin's chief may a dead man be,
Ere thou comest hither again!”

IX

He must needs obey—he durst not say nay,
That monk to the warrior stern;
His corslet unlaced, and his helm unbraced,
Down rattled among the fern:
And he hath mounted the Frere's good steed,
Clad in mantle and cowl he rode,
Till 'neath him, on its own green knoll
Caerbarrin's turrets glow'd.

The ancient history of the lands of Carberry is lost in obscurity. The lower rooms of the square tower are strongly arched, and evidently of great age. At the time of the Duke of Somerset's expedition it was the property of Mr Hugh Rigg, the king's advocate, who is more than once mentioned in the histories of Knox and Pitscottie. We observe also, from the Inquisitiones Speciales, that the property was conveyed to several subsequent generations of the same family—from whom it passed to the Dicksons—of whom we find that, during the Rebellion of 1745, Sir Robert was chief bailie of Musselburgh.

The assumption of the Lords of this wealthy district having been donators to the Abbey of Newbottle, however unwarranted by record, is far from unlikely, the practice having been a common one with the wealthy for very weighty reasons.

In 1184, as we learn from the chartulary of Newbottle, (71,) Robert de Quincey, the father of our hero, granted to the monks of the abbey the lands of Preston, where they formed an agricultural establishment—hence called Prestongrange—with common of pasture for ten sheep, and a sufficiency of oxen to cultivate their grange. Seyer de Quincey confirmed to the monks all these privileges gifted by his father, by which confirmation we learn that their lands of Preston were bounded on the west by the rivulet of Pinkie, in his manor of Travernent.

A curious fact is also ascertained by these charters of the De Quinceys, which is the date at which coals were first worked in Scotland; and, in contradiction to the pretensions of Fifeshire, this appears to have taken place on this spot. The charter of Robert grants to the monks the right of digging peats and of cutting wood for fuel; whereas, in that of his son Seyer, we find the addition of “carbonarium et quarrarium,” with free access to and recess from the same by the sea.

“This charter,” (that of Seyer,) says Chalmers in his erudite Caledonia, vol. ii. p. 486, “must necessarily have been granted between the years 1202 and 1218, as it is witnessed by William, who became Bishop of St Andrews in 1202, and was granted by Seyer de Quincey, who set out for the Holy Land in 1218, where he died in the subsequent year.”

From Keith's Scottish Bishops, p. 15, we learn that William Malvoisine was translated from the see of Glasgow to that of St Andrews in 1202. It is also added, on the authority of the Chart. of Dunfermline, that he was “contemporary with Pope Honorius and Sayerus de Quincey.”

In connexion with the same family, we also find from the Chartulary of Newbottle, that Elena, the youngest daughter of Roger de Quincey, the Constable of Scotland, married Alan la Zouche, an English baron, and that in the division of his great estates among his three daughters, the barony of Heriot fell to her share; and that, in her great liberality, she granted to the monks of Newbottle the church of “Heryeth,” with the tithes and other rights.—(Chart. 270.)

The lands themselves of Heryeth were afterwards acquired by the monks; but whether from the liberality of Elena, or from her son La Zouche, who lost his estates in the succession wars, does not appear.

Such transfers of property to religious houses were of common occurrence. We have already alluded to the cession of Maisterton, by the daughters of Sir Robert de Rossine—Mariot, who married Neil de Carrick, and Ada, the wife of Gilbert de Ayton—in 1320; and from the chartulary of Newbottle we learn that the monks had various lands in Clydesdale, in order to have easy access to which, they obtained, from various proprietors in Mid and West Lothian, special grants of free passage to these distant granges.—(Chart. 218-227, 240.)

In conclusion, we may add, as showing the extensive possessions at this early period of the De Quincey family, that Roger de Quincey, Earl of Winton, gave also to the canons of Dryburgh a toft “in villa de Haddintune.”—(Chart. Dryb. 106.)


Caerbarrin! famed by History's pen
In Scotland's later day,
When Bothwell fled, and Mary was led
In weeping beauty away.

X

The warder hail'd him from the keep,
As through the forest of oak he hied,
Now down the path, by the winding strath,
That leads from Chalkyside:—

160

“Speed, speed thee!” cried the porter old,
As the portals wide he threw;
“Speed, speed thee!” cried the sentinel,
The court as he pass'd through;
And “Speed thee!” echoed the seneschal,
As he showed the way before;
“For much I fear, most holy Frere,
That the struggle shall soon be o'er.”

FITTE THIRD.

I

Bright on Caerbarrin shines the sun;
But all within is woe and gloom,
For there Sir Malcolm bends in death—
Before him yawns the tomb!
Unfolded were the chamber doors,
Where moan'd he, stretch'd in prone decay;
And his rattling breath spake of coming death,
As life's sands ebb'd away.
But, when the mantled Monk he saw,
On his arm he strove to rise,
And the light, that erst was waning fast,
Flash'd back to his sunken eyes.

II

“Welcome! holy Father,” he said,
In accents fond, but low and weak—
“I would pour my sins in thy pitying ear,
And absolution seek;

161

For I have been a sinful man,
And repent me of my sin;
Yet, as pass the hopes of life away,
The terrors of death begin;
But chiefly would I tell to thee
My crime of the blackest dye,
Which a sea of tears might scarce wash out,
Though I could weep it dry!

III

“A gentle ladye my kinsman loved,
And before he cross'd the sea,
To combat afar with the Saracen,
He trust reposed in me;
But a demon held my soul in thrall,
And evil thoughts within me brew'd;
So, instead of nursing her love for him,
Her hand for myself I woo'd.
I threw forth doubts, that only were
The coinage of my brain,
I praised her high fidelity,
Yet mourn'd that her love was vain!”

IV

Upstarted the Frere;—“Ah! holy man,
Yet the worst I have not told;
In me—though sprung from noblest blood—
A perjured wretch behold!—

162

For my love that ladye no love return'd,
Although, with Hellish sleight,
We forged a cartel, whose purport show'd
That De Quincey had fallen in fight.
Yes! my suit that lofty ladye scorn'd—
More distant she look'd and cold;
And for my love no love return'd,
Though I woo'd her with gifts and gold!”

V

Uprose the Frere;—“Nay, sit thee down—
Not mine was the guilt alone:
Father Francis was the clerke thereof,
And his Abbey is your own!
To fair Elena's hand that scroll he bore,
Then she folded her palms, and sigh'd;
And she said, ‘Since true he has died to me,
I will be no other's bride!’
Still woo'd I her in her mourning weeds,
Till she show'd a poniard bare,
And wildly vow'd, if again I vex'd
Her heart, to plunge it there!

VI

“Day after day, ray after ray,
She waned like an autumn sun,
When droop the flowers, 'mid yellow bowers,
And the waters wailing run:

163

Day after day, like a broken rosebud,
She wither'd and she waned,
Till, of her beauty and wonted bloom,
But feeble trace remain'd:
Then seem'd she, like some saintly form,
Too pure for the gazer's eye,
Melting away, from our earthly day,
To her element—the sky!

VII

“She died—and then I felt remorse—
But how could I atone?
And I shook, when by her breathless corse
In silence I stood alone:
Yes! when I saw my victim lie,
Untimely, in her swathing shroud,
The weight of my burden'd conscience hung
Upon me like a cloud!
There was no light—and all was night,
And storm, and darkness drear;
By day 'twas joyless, and my sleep
Was haunted by forms of fear!

VIII

“Lonely I stray'd, until, dismay'd,
I sought the feast, where mirth was none,
Only to find that man is mind,
And form and features dust alone.

164

Yes, of my kinsman oft I dreamt—
Of his woe and his vengeance dire,
Till yesternight he cross'd my sight,
Like a demon in his ire.
I had not heard of his home return—
Like a spectre there he stood—
Appall'd I sank, and his falchion drank
Deeply my forfeit blood.

IX

“Oh! grant remission of my sins,
A contrite, humbled man I die!”
Ere yet the words were out, the monk
Beheld his glazing eye;
And rising away from the couch, he said—
“May Heaven forgive my vow!”
With horror thrill'd his yielding frame,
And he smote his bursting brow:
Then pass'd he from the chamber forth,
And in silence from the gate,
And off to the south, through the steep hill pass,
On his steed he journey'd straight.

X

A weight of woe is at his heart,
Despair's grey cloud is on his brow,
For hope and fear both disappear
In that absorbing now!

165

The world is one vast wilderness,
Vain all its pomp, its honours vain;
De Quincey sigh'd, and onward pass'd
Slowly with slacken'd rein;
Thus wound he down through Cousland glen,
O'erhung with willows grey,
Until he came to the brackens green,
Wherein Father Francis lay.

XI

“Ho! Frere, arise! Thy cloak and cowl
Have done their office meet.”
Father Francis sprang from his lurking-place,
And stood at the warrior's feet.
“Now, tell me,” cried De Quincey, fierce,
“For thou art learned in lore,
What the meaning of this riddle is
That a bird unto me bore,—
A lady in her chamber mourn'd,
Her true knight he was abroad,
Fighting afar with the Saracen,
Under the Cross of God!

XII

A false Friend, and a falser Frere,
Combined to shake her faith;
They forged—ah! wherefore dost thou fear?
Base caitiff, take thy death!”

166

The Knight he struck him to the heart;
Through the branches with a crash,
Down reel'd the corse, and in the swamp
Sank with a sullen dash.

Cousland Dean, a ravine of considerable depth, which commences where the highway from Dalkeith branches off towards Pathhead on the right, and towards Inveresk on the left, although now partially drained, shows every indication of having been in the olden time a wide and extensive morass; and, at its narrowest points, is still spanned by two bridges, one of considerable antiquity. Indeed, the traces of the watercourse are still evident from behind Chalkyside, on the west, running eastwards along the hollow, midway between Elphinstone Tower and Cousland Park, where it still assumes the form of a rivulet.


“Thus perish all who would enthrall
The guileless and the true;
Yet on head of mine no more shall shine
The sun from his path of blue!

XIII

“No more on me shall pleasure smile—
A heartless, hopeless man;
The tempest's clouds of misery
Have darken'd for aye my span.
Farewell—farewell! my native land,
Hill, valley, stream, and strath;
And thou, who held my heart's command,
And ye who cross'd my path.
Blow, blow ye winds! in fury blow,
And waft us from this baleful shore;
Rise, rise, ye billows, and bear us along,
Who hither return no more!”

In the grants made by Seyer do Quincey to the Abbey of Newbottle, mention is made of “his baronies of Preston and Tranent, bounded on the west by the rivulet of Pinkie.” We find also that Falsyde and Elphingston were in his possession; and he is elsewhere styled Earl of Wyntoun, (Caledonia, vol. ii. 486, note 6,) a proof that the barony of that name formed also a part of his immense possessions. It is not a little curious, therefore, that a charter of King William, the brother of Malcolm surnamed the Maiden, should be still extant, wherein, in the thirteenth year of that monarch's reign, he makes confirmation to Phillip de Seytune of the lands of Seytoune, Wintoun, and Winchelburgh, (nunc Winchburgh,) “quhilk,” as Sir Richard Maitland observes, (Historie, p. 17,) “was auld heretage of befor, as the said charter testifies.”

“Willielmus, Dei gra. rex Scotorum, &c. Sciatis presentis et futuri, me concessisse, et hac carta mea confirmasse, Phillipo de Seytune, terram quæ fuit patris sui; scilicet, Seytune, et Wintune, et Winchilburgh, tenendam sibi et hæredibus suis de me et hæredibus meis, in fædo et hæreditate,” &c.

Philip de Seytune was succeeded, on his death, by his son Alexander; and, by another singular preservation, we have, in the forty-sixth year of the same king, another royal charter of infeftment of the same lands. It is nearly in the same words; and, strange to say, two of the witnesses to it are Robert de Quincey and Henry de Quincey. Both of these charters are printed in Dr M`Kenzie's Lives of the Scottish Writers. They have also been transcribed by the author, or rather compiler, of the Diplomata Scotiæ, which transcripts are still preserved, being now, or lately, in the possession of Mr Dillon, a member of the Maitland Club.

In the succession wars, the De Quincey family took side with Baliol, and the Setons with Bruce. Sir Christopher (or Chrystal) Seton saved the life of that great man at the disastrous battle of Methven, and afterwards married his sister. On the accession of Bruce to the throne, the estates of the De Quinceys, being declared forfeited, were conferred on the Setons; and in Sir Richard Maitland's Chronicle we find that “the said King Robert gave to the said Alexander [Seton] the barony of Tranent, with the tenendury thairof for the time, viz. Falsyde mylis and Elphinstoune, as the charteris testifiis, geven thairupoun.” The “landis of Dundas and Cragye” were also bestowed upon him, “for service done by his father and himself, with the landes and barony of Barnis, aboue Hadingtoun, with dyuers uther landis, quhilk I omit for schortnes.”—Glasgow Reprint, 1829, p. 21.

For centuries the name of De Quincey hath perished from out the rich and extensive district which owned its sway; and, in contemplating the destinies of this once great family, how apposite is the exclamation of Claudian—

—“Tolluntur in altum,
Ut lapsu graviore ruant!”


167

THE MINER OF PERU.

Love's holy flame for ever burneth;
From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth:
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times opprest,
It here is tried and purified;
But hath in Heaven its perfect rest
It soweth here in toil and care,
But the harvest-time of Love is there.
Southey.

In that vast realm, where down the rivers wash
Gold from their channels, and the Andes vast
With serene foreheads look, while tempests brood,
And blacken with their shadows the hush'd vales,
Down on the wreathed clouds that girdle them,
Stands, in a spacious plain, Potosi famed,
With domes sublime, and obelisk, and spire,
Like a stone-guardian o'er the buried wealth,
Which Nature, at the moulding of the world,
Hid in her treasury there, deep in the dark.
Not far remote, 'mid fragrant cassia groves,
With many a fig and olive tree between,
Luxurious, spreads a lake, whose shining waters,
Half-subterranean, 'gainst the tooth of Time
Have charmed influence, so that nought therein
Withers away, or rots into oblivion.

168

In the old time, a hundred years ago,
Where now to sunlight, and the face of heaven,
Gleams the blue deep, a spacious vale outspread,
Green-carpeted, and overgrown with shrubs,
Lavish of bloom and odours; but the Miner,
Dark Mammon's slave, mole-like, through year and year,
Had wrought beneath, emptying the silver bowels,
So that in earth were large and spacious halls,
Wide-sweeping stairs, and winding passages,
And many-chamber'd domes, lengthening around,
A palace for Pluto, on his upward journeys—
When sudden, on one summer morn, the shell
Crack'd, with earth-quaking violence; tree and rock,
Blossoming flower and shrub, all disappear'd,
Like Sodom and Gomorrah, as we read;
And to noonday the cavern'd waters raised
Their azure foreheads, bright as winter's stars,
And calm as innocent childhood, when it sleeps.
Husbands and sons, many and well beloved,
Age silver-hair'd, green boyhood, men mature,
Perish'd; yea, in the twinkling of an eye,
Perish'd in that vast ruin, when the roof
Of rock sank o'er them, and the prison'd waters
Rush'd in, like roaring lions, on their prey.
Through all Los Charcos valleys went the woe,
Darkening, like clouds, Potosi's many homes;
And, farther off, on Atacama sate,

169

Chuqusaco remote, and chacras lonely,

The farm-steading of the South American agriculturist.


Perch'd on the steep sides of the neighbouring hills,
As lonely as the condor's nests above them,
And scarcely more accessible to man.
Woe then was general as the air they breathed;
But there was one among the wretched mourners,
Perhaps more wretched than the rest—a girl
Fair as the aspect of serenest summer,
When but the zephyr stirs, and bloomy fields
Look up in beauty to the cloudless sky:
Her thoughts were all the breathings of bright hope,
Sanguine and passionate; but stepdame Fortune
Had sternly link'd her to a low estate;
And, with her sisters, lovely as herself,
Amid the valleys, flocks of richest fleece
She tended, on the sloping heights, or where
Over the stream arbutus hung, and gave
Delightful shelter from meridian heat.
Yet hers was happiness, for she did love—
Now in the bloom of sunny seventeen,
With pure and deep affection did she love
A miner youth. The nuptial day was set;
All for the joyous ceremony ready;
And he had bought her presents of bright feathers,
And trinkets emblematic of his passion,
So that both long'd—long'd for the affianced day,
A week scarce distant—(ah! what narrow bounds
Divide our joys from woe!)—when tidings came,
Even as she sat and sang before the door,
Amid the orange trees—the tidings came,

170

Telling of death, and clouding o'er the sky
Of her heart's hopes and happiness for ever!
Grief, for a while, within her bosom wrought,
Like fiery lightnings in the thunder-cloud;
And, in the tribulation of her heart,
She turn'd away, nor would be comforted!
So young, and yet so wretched; beautiful,
Yet withering in the rosebud of her beauty;
Scathed, while expanding to admiring eyes.
'Twas pitiful—but she did ask not pity:
Shunning communion, and the face of man,
And woman, to the groves and solitudes;
Sequester'd banks, magnolia-overgrown;
Empurpled valleys, prodigal of odours;
Woods lofty, and magnificent, and dim
With richness of o'erarching foliage,
And fruits display'd to woo the wanderer's hand,
Where humming-birds, like bees, piped cheerily,
An elfin sound, charming the listless air,
'Twas her delight to wander: morning there,
Looking in glory o'er the Andes' summits,
Beheld her footsteps; and the evening sun,
When landward breezes from the ocean sigh'd,
Threw back his parting radiance on her brow.
In her wild sorrow had she vow'd a vow,
Fervent and deep, of pure virginity;
And well that oath was kept. Years came and went,
Many and mournful all, but more serene;

171

And as, from sunset glow, the occident
Fades by degrees into a pensive calm,
Soothing and holy, so her soul, subdued
By Nature's kindly influences, partook
Mild resignation: on the past she gazed
As on a vision, brilliant but delusive;
And, in the deep abstraction of her spirit,
She pictured, 'mid the future, stabler bliss,
With him, too early lost, in happier worlds.
Pass we the engulfing void of sixty years,
Then gaze on lorn Marilla.—Age's seal
Set on her wrinkled brow, the polish'd staff
Grasp'd in her palsied hand, the tottering step,
Proclaim'd Time's ravages, blancher of the hair,
And witherer of the strength, in silence eloquent.
How alter'd from Marilla, bright in youth,
Blithe as the lark at morning, when it springs
From the ripe maize; lovely as lotus flower,
Wooing the dimpled current as it passes!
The summer had been sultry, and the rains
Set in; the ceaseless showers fell deluge-like;
Swam, in the valleys green, the gather'd flood;
And streamlets, roaring down the mountain rifts,
Angry and swoln, and sweated into foam,
Kept ever pouring into them: at length
Sank down another portion of the hollow'd
And ore-embowell'd earth; with gurgling noise
It sank, and, with wild eddying whirl, suck'd in

172

The tortured disappearing wave, as if
Deep in the dark recesses of the centre,
In his volcano prison-house immured,
Some Titan, boring through the fiery roof,
Had found at length a draught to cool his thirst.
When once again look'd forth the joyous sun
From the blue heaven, whose flood-gates were shut up,
And Nature, tranquillising from the shock,
Her calm serenity again resumed,
To gaze upon a scene so fraught with change,
Came many—nor amazement there sat idle!
For, lo! upon the waters floated men
In their last sleep

This story is not altogether fanciful, but is founded on an incident said to have occurred within these five or six years in Sweden. The scene is transferred to another hemisphere, on account of the superior advantages afforded for poetical illustration.

—it was a horrible sight—

And sounds arose, dismal as winds that sigh,
Darkling, round castled walls deserted long—
Yea, men unknown, some race of other days,
And there were many, all by death unchanged.
So strong had been the power preservative,
Mineral or petrous, of the charmed flood,
That, to the eye of man, a silent troop,
The unsepulchred of sixty years came forth,
Unchanged, as if by talismanic spell;
But, 'mid the congregated Guassos,

Chilian peasantry.—Captain Basil Hall has lately put the public in possession of a most interesting account of their habits and peculiar modes of life.

none

For kindred mourn'd or friends—each face was strange—
Antique the raiment; such as, in past times,
Mayhap their grandsires wore,
Marilla heard,
As in the solitude of years she sate,
The tidings which to all were as a riddle.
She heard—a strange smile lighted up her face,

173

And her eyes sparkled with unnatural light,
Like stars when frost ices the cloudless sky,
As if at once some truth flash'd on her soul,
As if at once her shoulders had thrown off
The weary burden of augmented years.
By the lake she stood, where, on the summer grass,
Lay the cold bodies, and she look'd at them;
One after one, she search'd with gaze intense;
And, each as she perused, her palms were clasp'd;
And o'er her furrow'd features came the glow
Of sudden recognition, like the sunshine
Breaking through morning clouds that girdle it.
At length she found the object of her search:
Even yet, though cold and colourless the cheek,
And ghastly all the flowing yellow hair,
And stiffen'd out in death the sinewy limb,
Fancy might picture out the handsome youth,
Tall, slender, yet robust.
Down on her knees
She dropp'd—she knelt beside the senseless corpse;
She chafed its temples with her wither'd palms;
She comb'd the matted tangles of its hair
With her thin fingers; and she bent her head,
Listening, in madden'd hope, to hear its breathing.
Now clasping, as in agony of soul,
Her hands on high, she threw herself upon it,
Now calling on the name she loved in youth;
And tears sprang forth, like fountains long damm'd up,
By their hot gush to ease her feeble brain!
'Twas pitiful, to see a woman old,

174

Whose hair was white as Chimborazo's snow,
Thus, when to earth held by a single hair,
Low prostrate in terrestrial wretchedness.
Over her soul the memory of past times
Vividly came, like objects seen at midnight
Through golden lightning; and, the frost of age
Thawing within her bosom for a moment,
The sensibilities of youth return'd;
His neck she bared, and there undid a string
Of silken tissue, whence depending hung,
Broken, a perforated golden coin,
Which, pressing to the other half, long lying
At her own bosom, to her lips she raised,
And cried, slow turning up her eyes to Heaven,
Fervently, as in confidence of spirit,—
“Thou art the witness of my truth—even Thou!
Nearest this lonely heart for sixty years—
All winters—and each drearier than the other—
This token have I worn, and shall till death!
Now may Thy aged servant die in peace!”
Beneath bananas tall, by nopal hedges
Verdantly girded, sleeps a placid churchyard,
With many a cross to scare unholy shapes,
On the hill-side, and there they buried him.
Evening and morning duly went Marilla,
Leaning on her smooth staff, to visit it;
For round his turf, flowers of all pleasant bloom
Had her hands planted, and she water'd them,
So that the fierce sun had on them no power

175

To wither; hours on hours there would she sit,
Musing and watchful, as in that fair spot
Her treasure had been buried; 'neath a dark
And aged cypress did she shelter her
From day's meridian power, and when the moon
Ascended o'er the forests into heaven,
Or restless fire-flies, 'mid the purple eve,
Sparkled like dropp'd gold on a monarch's robe.
Now summer's reign was ended, and the earth,
All prodigally lavish, shed its treasures,
Half undeserved, into the idler's hands,
Enrich'd beyond his hopes: the autumn came,
And in its scythed breeze dropp'd the sere leaves,
And the clouds darken'd, and the flowers all wither'd;
And, like the fading year, Marilla faded.
Scarce seem'd she to have died, so tranquilly
Lay on her closed eyes the poppied touch
Of death—but she was dead. Some peasants found her
Under a savin bush, stretch'd on the ground,
Beside the cherish'd grave of him she loved!

176

SIR ELIDUC.

A LAY OF MARIE.

He had a daughter of young age:
The shoon were gold upon her feet;
So white she was and fair of mood,
So is the snow on red blood.
Whereto should I that maid descrive?
She was the fairest thing on-live.
Sir Bevis of Hamptoun.

FITTE FIRST.

I

Touch ye the harp with tender hand,
And gently let its music flow,
While softly, sadly the Minstrel sings
An olden tale of love and woe:—
Three hundred years have come and gone,
As dewdrops shine and disappear,
Since first 'twas sung by fair Marie
To Henry's royal ear.

177

II

The stately knight, young Eliduc,
As alone in hall he sate,
Beheld the page of Elizabeth,
At eve, beside his gate.
“Come hither—hither, thou page of court,
What would the King with me?”
The boy held the love-gifts on his arm,
As he lowly bent on knee.

III

“I bear this gay gold ring, Sir Knight,
And robe of miniver;
Greets thee by these, my ladye bright,
And bids thee think of her.”
To and fro strode Eliduc,
To and fro he paced the floor,
Then put the gift-ring on his hand,
And the robe his shoulders o'er.

IV

To and fro strode Eliduc;
Anon with folded arms he stood;
Then brush'd the hall with hurried step,
Like one in doubtful mood.
At length he bit his nether lip,
Breathed deep, with downcast head;
For a moment paused in torturing thought,
To the boy then, sighing, said,—

178

V

“Go back—haste back, my little foot-page,
To the palace straight repair,
And tell the Princess Elizabeth
That I will think of her.”
The little page knelt, the little page rose
From the rushes whereon he knelt,
And hied him thence—but who may tell
What Eliduc then felt?

VI

Brave Eliduc is woe-begone,
A cloud o'erhangs his eyes,
And though in fame he hath rivals none,
By the wild sea-shore he sighs.
He stands upon the barren rock,
He listens to the shrieking mew,
Until the evening star is out,
And earth is moist with dew.

VII

But the King hath sent, the Knight is gone
Where he sat at chess in hall;
At the chequer-board play'd a stranger lord,
Behind stood his daughter tall.
“Why, daughter, dove Elizabeth,
Greet ye not this noble knight?
'Tis the same who hath our kingdom saved,
And quell'd our foes in fight.”

179

VIII

Elizabeth stretch'd forth her white soft hand,
And with Eliduc down she stray'd
By the tapestried wall of that long-arch'd hall,
While at board her father play'd.
In a window'd niche at length they stood,
The fair one and the brave,
Both sorrowful and in pensive mood,
Both silent as the grave;

IX

Till the ladye faltering spake,—“Sir Knight,
Words are ill befitting me;
But were the world at my behest,
I would wed no mate but thee.”
“Sweet princess fair,” said Eliduc,
As he dropp'd her proffer'd hand,
“I am pledged by the oath of a leal true knight,
To return to my native land;

X

“And thou knowest, flower, that not with me
Canst thou leave this realm to roam,
For thou art the sole child of its crown,
Which thou must wear at home.”
“'Tis nay, 'tis nay, Sir Eliduc—
This heart is thine, this hand is free;
And if thou spurn'st me not away,
I will cross the waves with thee!”

180

XI

She stood before him beautiful,
Like a lily pure by a lake;
With deep-drawn sighs, and dovelike eyes;
O, his heart was like to break!
“My bird of beauty,” said Eliduc,
“I am summon'd across the sea;
But blithely sing in thy father's halls,
Till I come back for thee.

XII

“O yes—O yes! my fair Princess,
In hopeful peace and pleasure rest.”
Then the love-sick heart of Elizabeth
Leapt for joy within its nest;
And returning to her sire the king,
Sir Eliduc 'gan say,—
“To the shores of my native Brittanie
I am summon'd hence away.

XIII

“Thy realm, great king, is now at rest;
Thy foes are all o'ercome;
While the jars and the wars of my own dear land
Call all her children home.
At the throne, where sign'd was my exile,
All the knaves who cross'd my way
Have own'd the shame of their perjured words,
And for my presence pray:

181

XIV

“Well, well I knew the carpet knights
For their gentle selves should fear,
When o'er them gleam'd the Flanders axe,
“And Brabant's threatening spear.”
“Sir Eliduc,” replied the King,
“Thy worth may none gainsay;
In the gloom of war thou camest to us,
And leavest us peace to-day.”

XV

The King bade the royal galleys wait
At Totness, by the shore,
To the plains of France with sword and lance
To escort the brave knight o'er.
With golden gleam the pennants stream'd;
In foam the blue waves curl'd;
On deck stood the bearded halberdiers,
And the snow-white sails unfurl'd.

XVI

From the echoing streets of Exeter
March'd a thousand men and more,
With banners, and unbeaver'd all,
Following Eliduc to the shore.
There is never a knight in Loegria
Can match with this stranger knight,
At feat of courtly tournament,
Or on blood-red field of fight.

182

XVII

Elizabeth gazed from the turret high,
And she saw him on the plain
Departing 'mid bright clumps of spears,
While pages held each rein;
And toll the bells went, tant-a-roll;
And she heard the trampling crowd,
And the trumpets' bray, and the loud huzza,
And the neigh of a war-horse proud.

XVIII

Passion and pride now lifted up
Her heart within her breast,
But doubt and fear anon drew near,
And down her spirit press'd;
Then, turning, she sank upon her couch,
And wrung her hands, and sighed,—
“O, would that Sir Eliduc were back
To woo me for his bride!

XIX

“Like the rainbow to the clearing air,
Like the bird to the vernal tree,
Like spring's first flowers 'mid woodland bowers
To the honey-thirsting bee;
Like Salem to the pilgrim's sight,
When his feet are travel-sore,
Come the thoughts of thy return, dear love,
My longing spirit o'er!”

183

FITTE SECOND.

I

O, sad was the song of Gildeluec
As she sate within her bower,
Beguiling, with her dulcimer,
The solitary hour.
“Was it a voice?” she rose and cried,
“Or what step comes here in quest?”
The door flew wide—'twas Sir Eliduc,
And she fell upon his breast.

II

“Welcome, welcome! my husband dear!”
Aye she clasped his neck and cried;
“All heavy and drear have lagg'd the hours
Since thou didst sail the tide.
Bring wine and bread, let the board be spread,
Bid the silence of our halls rejoice!”
“Heaven bless thee, fair Gildeluec!”
Quod the knight, with a low sad voice.

III

“And comest thou hither with heart of grief,
My lord, my loved?” the lady said.
“Thou know'st that our land is o'errun with foes,”
Sigh'd the knight, with downcast head.
“Thou art weary, and here wilt rest to-night,
And at morning to the king”—
“Nay,” answer'd he, “I must leave this roof
Ere the bells of vesper ring.”

184

IV

“When life was young, Gildeluec,
To me thou gavest thy hand;
There was no flower like thee, sweet love,
In all this blooming land.
And dost thou call me cruel now?
Then surely am I changed;
Deem'st thou that broken is my vow,
Or my heart from thine estranged?”

V

“As the snow,” cried noble Gildeluec,
“On the Alps, I know thee pure;
Like the roots o' the everlasting hills,
Thy faith is firm and sure;
Then go—go—go to the battle-field,
'Tis thy country calls for thee;
When our foes have before thee fallen or fled,
Return to peace and me!”

VI

His steed at the portal neighing paw'd;
Sir Eliduc donn'd his mail,
His figured casque, with its morion black,
And steel-barr'd aventayle.
He clasp'd her form—he snatch'd one kiss—
By their threshold cypress-tree;
Bade all the saints his dame to bless,
Then off through the woods rode he.

185

VII

The nights they pass'd and the days they pass'd,
Heavy and lone they fell,
As Gildeluec pined for the bugle blast
Which her lord's return should tell.
Yet heard she how o'er vanquish'd foes
Had his banner victorious flown,
While the fame of his name, like a sweet west wind,
Through his native land was blown.

VIII

Did the trumpet of battle arouse his heart,
As it aroused in days of yore?
Did he think of his mate, lone watching late,
For his coming, at her bower door?
No more—no more the battle toils
Did Sir Eliduc's bosom cheer;
And if he thought of Gildeluec,
'Twas with grief, and shame, and fear.

IX

For o'er his soul, like an April gust,
To waken the young flowers driven,
Came the thoughts of Elizabeth, sad and pale,
Like a seraph that pined for Heaven.
He knew her lovely as May morning,
Pure, chaste, as the new-fallen snow;
And could he leave uncheer'd to break,
A heart that loved him so?

186

X

To have told her of his wedded state,
When her heart and hopes were high;
To have told her of his Bretagne mate
Were to have bidden her die.
He mused on her matchless loveliness,
On her bright, bold, artless mind;
But alas! his heart, like Noah's dove,
No haven of rest could find!

FITTE THIRD.

I

The barque is launch'd—before the prow
The hissing billows of foam divide;
And Sir Eliduc sails for Elizabeth,
Whatever fate betide.
Fresh blew the breeze—soon the waste wide seas
By that bounding barque were cross'd,
And at Totness, with the purple dawn,
He lay beside the coast.

II

Beneath the sheltering rocks they moor'd,
In a wild lone woodland cove:
“Now haste thy message, page,” he cried,
“To the ladye of my love,
And tell her that for her we wait,
'Mid this forest by the sea;
Linger till eve by the palace gate,
And hurry her thence with thee.”

187

III

Without stop or stay, the fleet page away
O'er moor and o'er meadow ran,
Till he saw young Elizabeth, 'mid the shrubs
And flowers of the palace lawn.
And he hath knelt and whisper'd there,
And she hath heard and sigh'd,—
Lo! he waits in the copse by the postern-gate
Till the grey of eventide.

IV

When but one star shone like a torch
On departing daylight's tomb,
To the wistful page she comes—she came
Like an angel through the gloom.
With light quick step like a startled fawn,
She hasten'd her through the grove,
A short, warm mantle, with ermined fringe,
Thrown her splendid dress above.

V

With harness bright for the path bedight,
The ready palfrey stood;
The page seized hold of the silken rein,
And away they hied through the wood.
'Neath the linden tree watch'd Eliduc,
Behind was moor'd his barque;
But he leapt to his feet when Elizabeth
Came riding up through the dark.

188

VI

“Welcome, welcome, my love, my life!”—
In a moment, within his arms
Lay the heaving breast of the young princess,
In the bloom of her virgin charms.
“To sea, to sea, my mariners!”
The white sails are unfurl'd;
Behind the barque the land withdrew,
Before the white waves curl'd.

VII

O, bliss of bliss—a lovely night!—
The winds breathed gently free,
The stars, a galaxy of light,
Shower'd fire upon the sea;
And on and on, they bore and bore,
The beauteous and the brave,
Till green Bretagne displayed its shore,
Like a cloud above the wave.

VIII

Sudden changed the sky—a tempest fierce
Fell brooding; and lo! the gale,
Like an evil spirit from Hell let loose,
Split the mast and rent the sail.
And the mountain waves rear'd their crested heads,
And the lightnings scorch'd the sky,
And the mariners on their patron saints
In supplication cry.

189

IX

But from the helm, with upraised arm
An old man leapt, and said,—
“On St Clement and St Nicolas, sirs,
In vain ye call for aid,—
On Mary Mother in vain ye call—
All, Sir Eliduc, for thee
Hath the wrath of Heaven o'ertaken us;
Throw thy paramour in the sea,—

X

“And return, return to thy wedded wife!”
“Wedded wife!” pale Elizabeth cried,
With a shriek gave up her startled life,
And fell dead by his side.
He held her wrist—her lips he kiss'd—
No word his fate deplored;
But Sir Eliduc scized the old man's waist,
And toss'd him overboard.

XI

'Twas silence all: the wild winds fell,
And the clouds dispersed away;
All the stars grew pale, save the morning star
That heralded the day:
With a bubbling groan the old man sank;
The mariners sat with in-drawn breath;
To Bretagne's shore the vessel bore—
'Twas like a ship of death.

190

XII

'Twas silence all: the brightening east
Proclaim'd the coming day;
With many a shriek, from crag and creek
The sea-mews skimm'd the bay;
While sad and silent they glide along
Till the beetling shore they reach,
Then, with dead Elizabeth in his arms,
Strode Eliduc from the beach.

FITTE FOURTH.

I

“Why mournest thou thus, Sir Eliduc?
What is thy cause of woe?
Why these stifled sighs and heavy eyes?
Sure of yore it was not so;
And why so often, Sir Eliduc,
Dost thou thread the woods alone?”
The knight look'd up on Gildeluec,
But answering word spake none.

II

The knight was a gallant knight, the first
In battle-field or festive hall;
The knight is an alter'd man, he hangs
His cuirass on the wall:
Within its kennel yells the hound;
The prison'd falcon pines away;
The steed neighs from his stall, as if
To chide his lord's delay.

191

III

At peep of morn, 'mid thick green woods,
Sir Eliduc to stray is gone;
There is no music in human voice—
He loves to be alone.
At fall of eve, 'neath the rising moon,
Through the tangled walks he strays;
The heart of Gildeluec almost broke
To behold his alter'd ways.

IV

“Betide me weal, betide me woe,”
To her page the ladye said,
“Thou must after thy sorrowing master go,
And track him through the glade.”
The page he went, the page he came;
By her bower the ladye stood—
“What news, what news, my faithful lad,
Bringest thou from dark green wood?”

V

“From turn to turn,” replied the page,
“I lurk'd Sir Eliduc's path to see;
And at length he enter'd the hermit's cell,
Beneath the chestnut tree;
And while he mourn'd that cell within,
I listen'd the door beside,
And heard him say,—‘O, murder'd love,
Would for thee that I had died!

192

VI

“‘To me thou gavest thy love, for me
Didst leave thy father's land;
And I have given thee but a grave
Upon this foreign strand!
And oh! and oh! had'st thou but seen,
And loved some worthier mate;
And oh! for thy hapless death, and oh!
My miserable fate!’”

VII

Sir Eliduc came home—he sate
With his elbow leant on knee;
He spoke not a word of wail, nor sigh'd,
Though bow'd to earth was he.
“Oh, tell me why, Sir Eliduc,
Thou peak'st, and pin'st, and roam'st astray?”—
“Ask the tree, by the forky lightnings scathed,
Why wither its boughs away!

VIII

“Ask the forest oak why down it falls
Beneath the woodman's stroke;
Ask life, when death the tyrant calls,
Why it yields to such a yoke.”
Through the wood, in morning's solitude,
Gildeluec roam'd alone,
And knock'd at the door of the hermitage,
But answer back came none.

193

IX

With a beating heart, and trembling hand,
The wicket latch she raised,
And in as she went, with timid eyes,
Through its twilight gloom she gazed.
Why starts she back? She sees a couch
With coverlet of snow;
She lifted it up in her wonderment,
And a lady slept below!

X

She slept—but 'twas the sleep of death.
Ah! nothing could compare
With the sparkling of her jewell'd robes,
And the pearls in her raven hair,
Save her form—and that was quite divine!
She look'd as of Heaven she dream'd,
While the lustre of her loveliness
Like a halo round her stream'd.

XI

But waned from her lip was the cherry red;
Her silk robe was her swathing shroud;
And her eyes were closed in dim eclipse,
Like stars behind a cloud.
Was nought on earth so beautiful!
Gildeluec sigh'd,—“Ah me!
No wonder, seeing what thou hast been,
My lord's heart turn'd to thee!

194

XII

“Then farewell love—and farewell ye,
The vanities of life!
O would, fair light, that thou hadst lived
To shine his peerless wife!
As it is, I'll love the sun no more,
Let to others his beams be given;
I'll seal mine ears to the sounds of earth,
And give my heart to Heaven!”

XIII

The cloister hath another nun,
The gentlest, purest, holiest there;
Before the crucifix, morn and eve,
She kneels in fervent prayer:
Her thoughts are of the things above,
Her dreams have all a blest abode,
Where, 'midst the bowers of Paradise,
White angels walk with God.

XIV

Sir Eliduc sits in a lonely home;
He hath built a marble tomb,
And within it laid the foreign maid
In the wild wood's central gloom;
With railings of gold he hath railed it round,
Beside the hermit's mossy cell;
He hath lock'd it with a silver key,
And bidden a last farewell.

195

XV

'Twas a lone, sequester'd place; thro' boughs
The sky o'erhead was seen;
And wild vines ran the stems about,
And festooning ivy green;
'Twas a favourite haunt for nightingales,
Singing the moonlight through;
And by day the living emerald shade
Echo'd the stock-dove's coo.

XVI

'Twas one of Nature's shrines: the birds
And beasts came flocking there—
The golden pheasant, and vocal lark,
And squirrel, and hart, and hare;
But scarce a footstep breaks the gloom,
The long still season lone;
Rains, winds, and sunbeams kiss the tomb—
But Sir Eliduc is gone!

XVII

The war-steed neighs—but not from stall—
Caparison'd by the gate;
The cuirass hangs not on the wall,
As it hath hung of late:
His own keen hands have wiped away
The red rust from his sword,
Which again sends out a silvery gleam,
As if it knew its lord.

196

XVIII

'Twas a glorious, glowing September eve,
As the knight rode down the dale;
The broad low sun shone along the land,
And kiss'd his burnish'd mail;
Hawk, hound, and horse roam masterless—
His serving-men grow grey—
His roofs are moss'd;—'tis twenty years
Since the warrior went away!

XIX

A thousand friends had Sir Eliduc—
The brave, the noble, and the wise;
And each asks each, but of his fate
No answering tongue replies.
Arm'd cap-a-pie went Eliduc,
From his proud ancestral towers alone;
But whither he went, or where he died,
By man was never known!