The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd Centenary Edition. With a Memoir of the Author, by the Rev. Thomas Thomson ... Poems and Life. With Many Illustrative Engravings [by James Hogg] |
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The Bride's Tale.
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
The Bride's Tale.
I had just laid me down, but no word could I pray;
I had pillowed my head, and drawn up the bed-cover;
I thought of the grave where my loved father lay
So damp and so cold, with the grass growing over.
I looked to my husband; but just as he came
To enter my couch, it seemed all in a flame,
A ghastly refulgence as bright as day-noon,
Though shut was the chamber from eye of the moon.
I had pillowed my head, and drawn up the bed-cover;
I thought of the grave where my loved father lay
So damp and so cold, with the grass growing over.
I looked to my husband; but just as he came
To enter my couch, it seemed all in a flame,
A ghastly refulgence as bright as day-noon,
Though shut was the chamber from eye of the moon.
Bestower of being! in pity, O! hide
That sight from the eye of my spirit for ever;
That page from the volume of memory divide,
Or memory and being eternally sever!
My father approached; our bed-curtains he drew;
Ah! well the gray locks and pale features I knew;
I saw his fix'd eye-balls indignantly glow;
Yet still in that look there were pity and woe.
That sight from the eye of my spirit for ever;
That page from the volume of memory divide,
Or memory and being eternally sever!
My father approached; our bed-curtains he drew;
Ah! well the gray locks and pale features I knew;
I saw his fix'd eye-balls indignantly glow;
Yet still in that look there were pity and woe.
“O! hide thee, my daughter,” he eagerly cried;
“O haste from the bed of that parricide lover;
Embrace not thy husband, unfortunate bride,
Thy red cup of misery already runs over.
He strangled thy father; thy guilt paved the way;
Thy heart yet is blameless, O, fly while you may!
Thy portion of life must calamity leaven;
But fly while there's hope of forgiveness from Heaven.
“O haste from the bed of that parricide lover;
Embrace not thy husband, unfortunate bride,
Thy red cup of misery already runs over.
He strangled thy father; thy guilt paved the way;
Thy heart yet is blameless, O, fly while you may!
Thy portion of life must calamity leaven;
But fly while there's hope of forgiveness from Heaven.
“And thou, fell destroyer of virtue and life,
O! well mayst thou quake at thy terrible doom;
For body or soul, with barbarity rife,
On earth is no refuge, in heaven no room.
Fly whither thou wilt, I will follow thee still,
To dens of the forest, or mists of the hill;
The task I'm assigned, which I'll never forego,
But chase thee from earth to thy dwelling below.
O! well mayst thou quake at thy terrible doom;
For body or soul, with barbarity rife,
On earth is no refuge, in heaven no room.
Fly whither thou wilt, I will follow thee still,
To dens of the forest, or mists of the hill;
The task I'm assigned, which I'll never forego,
But chase thee from earth to thy dwelling below.
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“The cave shall not cover, the cloud shall not hide thee;
At noon I will wither thy sight with my frown:
In gloom of the night I will lay me beside thee,
And pierce with this weapon thy bosom of stone.”
Fast fled the despoiler with howlings most dire,
Fast followed the spirit with rapier of fire;
Away, and away, through the silent saloon,
And away, and away, by the light of the moon.
At noon I will wither thy sight with my frown:
In gloom of the night I will lay me beside thee,
And pierce with this weapon thy bosom of stone.”
Fast fled the despoiler with howlings most dire,
Fast followed the spirit with rapier of fire;
Away, and away, through the silent saloon,
And away, and away, by the light of the moon.
To follow I tried, but sunk down at the door,
Alas! from that trance that I ever awoke!
How wanders my mind! I shall see him no more,
Till God shall yon gates everlasting unlock.
My poor brow is open; 'tis burning with pain;
O kiss it, sweet vision! O kiss it again!
Now give me thine hand; I will fly! I will fly!
Away, on the morn's dappled wing, to the sky.
Alas! from that trance that I ever awoke!
How wanders my mind! I shall see him no more,
Till God shall yon gates everlasting unlock.
My poor brow is open; 'tis burning with pain;
O kiss it, sweet vision! O kiss it again!
Now give me thine hand; I will fly! I will fly!
Away, on the morn's dappled wing, to the sky.
The Conclusion.
O! shepherd of Braco, look well to thy flock,
The piles of Glen-Ardochy murmur and jar;
The rook and the raven converse from the rock,
The beasts of the forest are howling afar.
Shrill pipes the goss-hawk his dire tidings to tell,
The gray mountain-falcon accords with his yell;
Aloft on bold pinion the eagle is borne,
To ring the alarm at the gates of the morn.
The piles of Glen-Ardochy murmur and jar;
The rook and the raven converse from the rock,
The beasts of the forest are howling afar.
Shrill pipes the goss-hawk his dire tidings to tell,
The gray mountain-falcon accords with his yell;
Aloft on bold pinion the eagle is borne,
To ring the alarm at the gates of the morn.
Ah! shepherd, thy kids wander safe in the wood,
Thy lambs feed in peace on Ben-Ardochy's brow;
Then why is the hoary cliff sheeted with blood?
And what the poor carcass lies mangled below?
Oh, hie thee away to thy hut at the fountain,
And dig a lone grave on the top of yon mountain;
But fly it for ever when falls the gray gloaming,
For there a grim phantom still naked is roaming.
Thy lambs feed in peace on Ben-Ardochy's brow;
Then why is the hoary cliff sheeted with blood?
And what the poor carcass lies mangled below?
Oh, hie thee away to thy hut at the fountain,
And dig a lone grave on the top of yon mountain;
But fly it for ever when falls the gray gloaming,
For there a grim phantom still naked is roaming.
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |