The Legend of St. Loy :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Legend of St. Loy

With Other Poems. By John Abraham Heraud

Heraud, John A. (1799-1887)

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[dedication]

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SONNET

THE LEGEND of ST. Loy

Introduction.

CANTO THE FIRST. The Hermitage.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

CANTO THE SECOND. The Well of St. Loy.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

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XX.

XXI.

XXI. The Song of Edwy.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXXVI.

XXXIII.

CANTO THE THIRD. The Wood.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

CANTO THE FOURTH. The Vola.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVI. The Hymn.

Conclusion.

THE Farewell to Cottenham.

POEMS.

THE Lament of the Bard.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

On attaining the Age of Twenty-one

THE Grave of the Bard

SONG, to---

STANZAS On the Death of His Most Gracious Majesty KING GEORGE THE THIRD.

SONNET TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.

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CANTO THE FIRST. The Hermitage.

“Nos duo turba sumus”—
Ovid. Met. i. 355.

The deer that is stricken will ache with the wound,
Though it fly from the hunter, and 'scape from the hound:
And the heart that is scathed will remain so for ever,
Though it won in the waste where the world may come never;
And sighs will consume it, in youth or in age,
In coil or in silence, in stillness or motion,
On the waves of the world, or the waves of the ocean,
In the populous town, or the lone hermitage.

I.

“Daughter of Heaven! whose steps of light
“Stately adorn the vault of night,
“Why dost thou now desert the skies,
“With thy companions? wake! arise!
“Reveal the silence of thy face,
“Pleasant in loveliness and grace—
“And with thy tide of beauty bathe
“The clouds rejoicing in thy path.

“Oh, doth some Wizard's impious spell
“Constrain thee to thy Ocean-cell?
“Or the weird sister's blasting rite
“Blank thy chaste, cold, and paly light?
“And shut up every stellar spark?
“Thine azure path in Heaven is dark!
“In darkness roll the troubled waves,
“While the northern loudly raves,
“Howling through the dismal wood,
“And chokes with trees the swelling flood—
“Arise! ye winds of winter, rise!
“O tempest ye, again, the skies!
“Blow ye blasts along the heath!
“Echo, ye hills, the sounds of death!
“Heaven, rive again the solid oak,
“With the repeated thunder-stroke!
“Remind me of the flashing deep,
“Where all my joys for ever sleep!”

II.

Between each blast the plaints preferred,
Of Edwy young, but sad, were heard
By Almar, of the tresses grey:—

The Hermit, old and sage,
Beheld him, by his taper's ray,
Before the Hermitage.

“The third remarkable thing of this second ternary is the Hermitag, distant Southward from the Crosse about x score, or short of a stone bridge in the bottome vii or viii score: it was, within memory of some yet liuing, a little square building, for the most part of bricke; it is now a pretty dwelling for a small family.” Wilhelm Bedwell's “Brief Description of the Town of Tottenham High Crosse, in Middlesex; together with an Historical Narration of such memorable Things as are there to be seen and observed, 1631”

No other light was thereabout,—
All else was gloom,—within, without—
And that was tremulous and dim,
Like a wan star's reflected gleam
Obliquely glancing in the stream,
As, rippling e'er along,
It gently glides, and softly swells,
To lave the Naiad's coral cells.
But, by that quivering dubious flame,
He watched that younger Hermit's frame,
As started he in frantic trance,
And shot a wild and fearful glance,
Rejoicing in the tempest's yell;
And marked his kindled spirit swell,
Extatical and strong—
Gently the Youth's raised hand he took,
And pierced him with a pitying look,
Tempered with age's gravity,
And waked him from his vision high.

Confused, he drooped his head awhile,
But raised it soon again,
Saw Almar's fond and pensive smile,
Felt his paternal strain.

III.

“Hermit, of yellow locks of youth!
“Hath not this cell the power to sooth
“The passions of the world?
“Where roved thy thoughts? Oh, on the blast
“Was thy wild soul at random cast?
“And on the tempest hurled?
“Son of fond Fancy, Child of Song,
“No Bard, with soul of fire,
“Burns with more raptures, or more strong,
“Though prophet of the lyre.
“Nor grey thy head, nor thick thy beard;
“But yet, from what I've seen and heard,
“Since thou hast here my brother been
“In this deep loneliness, I ween,
“That thou hast grown old in youth, and Heaven
“Hath such experience to thee given
“Of sorrows, as may well compare
“With Eld's accumulated share.

IV.

“Oh, I have proved Affliction's cup,
“E'en to the lees, and drank it up;
“And, though 'twas bitter to the soul
“As the old Prophet's mystic scroll,
“Yet hath it wrought with power so blest,
“That it hath softened all my breast
“To sympathies, unknown before,
“Sweetly delicious, having more
“Of genuine joy, than to the son
“Of dissipation can be known.
“My son — this breast for woe can feel,
“It would not spurn, but strive to heal,
“The agonies of madding thought,
“With many sorrows overfraught.
“When first, before my cell I saw
“Thee stand, with looks of filial awe,
“Blooming in pensive modesty,
“The tear just starting from thine eye,
“Imploring me to shroud, with age,
“Thy youth within this Hermitage,
“From the dull throng of toil and sway,
“Miscalled the grave, the blest, the gay,

“A voice within then spake for thee,
“With more than casual sympathy,
“And whispered thou more kindred wert
“Than a mere stranger to my heart!”

V.

O, 'twas the moment of alarms,
When all the soul was up in arms,
And ready to reveal
What, at all other times, it wou'd
In sorrow's avaricious mood,
Eternally conceal.
“ 'Tis well! ye blasts, roll on, rage, blow!
“Deride me with remembered woe,
“Ye authors of my misery—
“My Brother! thou wert all to me!
“Then, since thou 'rt lost, let pristine gloom,
“And Chaos old, their sway resume!
“'Tis sweet, to think in Winter-nights
“Upon returning May —
“'Tis sad! to muse o'er past delights,
“For ever past away!
“Yet still my thoughts will ponder on
“The joys that are for ever gone.

Edwy speaks.

VI.

“Alike Heaven framed our kindred minds,
“With souls of fire, and free as winds,
“Which shot into our kindled eyes,
“To trace the hues of morning skies;
“And the fair eve's ethereal brede,
“O'er the broad sun's pavilion spread:
“We loved in groves, and glimmering shades,
“By echoing rocks, and prone cascades,
“With thrilling hearts, to ponder o'er
“The bardish tales of times no more.
“Oh, thence were we enflamed to roam
“Far from our own, our narrow home.
“Cambria! thy mountains we have seen,
“Explored each cavern, forest, glen;
“Heard from thy bards, of Arthur's days,
“In many a grove, the wonderous lays.
“Harp of the North! thy magic strain
“Our eagle spirits roused again.
“We roamed the Celtic mountains brown,
“The isles of streamy Caledon.
“On Ocean blue we raised our sails,
“To Lochlin waft by favoring gales,

“That flattered to betray!
“There we arrived—but, O, no more
“Regained the opposite fair shore,
“Across the whirling way.

Referring to Pentland Frith, and the Wells of Swinna, which divide Scotland from the Orkney Isles, anciently called Lochlin, as part of Scandinia. The navigation alluded to is very dangerous, on account of the many vortexes occasioned by the repulse of the tides from the shore, and their passage between the Orkney Islands.”

“The blasts heaved up the mighty tides,
“Which burst upon the vessel's sides!
“Down the dark whirlpool of the deep,
“Horror! descends the reeling ship;
“And all her freighted souls, for aye —
“With them my Brother past away,
“Mid flashing foam, and blasting leven,
“And thunder pealing through the heaven!
“O why, ye surges! did ye spare
“My life to anguish more severe?
“And cast me on the rugged rock,
“That sternly did the billows mock?
“The moon-beam trembled on the wave
“Which washed my Brother's oozy grave!

VII.

“Wish of my soul! Land of my birth!—
“'Twas desolate to me!
“My Parents God had ta'en from earth,
“They cheered me not for thee!

“What should I do? I was alone!
“Friendless! a wretch but made to moan!
“The World's at best but bitterness,
“But double wormwood to distress!
“Oh, could the spirit wont to soar,
“Above the stir of this dim spot,
“Stoop to the crowd? or thence procure
“That peace she in herself had not?
“No; but she bent her to the plains,
“Scenes of my boyhood's joys and pains,
“In pious calm to smooth her way
“To regions of celestial day.
“I came — heard of thy holy life,
“Remote from vanity and strife;
“I thought our moods would well agree —
“Thou hast a father been to me.
“Though sometimes will my plainings rise,
“And interrupt our quiet joys,
“But thine 's a breast, to feeling dear,
“That loves to dry the gushing tear.”

His Brother.

VIII.

Like one, the Hermit old appears,
Defeated in his quest:
Then shook his hoar head, and, with tears,
Strained Edwy to his breast:
At length, with hurried voice exclaimed;
“Of other sequel I had dreamed—
“Yet,—by the voice of sympathy,
“That whispers still within for thee;
“Yet, surely thou more kindred art,
“Than a mere stranger to my heart.”

IX.

Now hath he knelt in piety
Before the simple Shrine;
And on the Cross hath fixed his eye,
To lift his thoughts to God on high,
Whose precious blood divine
Upon that wood was poured and spilt,
To cleanse mankind from leperous guilt,
And rescue them from Death:
Now, kneels that younger Hermit there;
His spirit thrills with grateful fear,

And soars to Heaven with every prayer
Upon the wings of Faith.
That Cross stood on a human Scull;—
Emblem of Earth and Heaven!
It was a moral, never dull,
As in a vision given—
Behold, fond Man! the mystic sign—
Be tutor'd from that simple Shrine,
How frail, how vain, thy hopes below!
The sage, the gay, the high, the low,
Must from their wealth, their bliss, their woe,
Their birth, their beauty, part.—
The foeman's hate will 'vail no more,
And those, who honored thee before,
Who treasured thee in their heart's core,
Thine altered form will not endure,
But thence with horror start.

X.

That moral Scull now read no more;
But turn thee to that hallow'd Cross;—
Thus taught no longer to adore
Earth's perishable dross—

Now, on the ruins of the world,
And thrones in desolation hurled,
Learn to exalt that sign of Faith,
Triumphant over Hell and Death.
Oh, certain of the stroke of fate,
Why shouldst thou, in this mortal state,
Engender everlasting hate,
In vain, against thy fellow frail?
It cannot reach him in the dust,
And thine immortal rancour must
Put on mortality, and fail;
But serving now this life to gloom,
And but Death's mockery in the tomb!
Why shouldst thou wrestle for, and doat
On, the empty vanities afloat
Down the wild ocean of this life,
With idle Folly's envious strife?
Who would not then his wrath resign,
His fierce revenge, his noble line,
Pride—pageantry—and tinsel shine,—
Exchange them for this simple Shrine,
Whose soul was sane and sage?
Devote to God, in conscious peace,

Retire from time's tempestuous seas,
Of chance and change, to calm and ease.—
And end the quest of Happiness,
In this lone Hermitage?

XI.

Their musings have kept them too long from their sleep:—
The clock strikes twelve!—disjointed and deep,
On the wild cadence of the blast,
The echoing sounds came erring and fast,
But still they kneel in prayer—
Devotion's flame hath kindled high,
And from the earth their spirits fly,
Entranced above the upper sky;
While, from his starry sphere,
Sailed many an Angel to that Grove,
Upon the golden wings of love,
To bear their words to Him above,
And truly register
In God's own book, their righteous way,
To be produced at that great Day,
When christ shall come with radiant sway,
Omnipotence and fear,

And bid them to their seats divine—
Lo, all around that simple shrine,
Doth their celestial tendance shine,
And stand in secret there:
Their wings throughout that Cell are bright;
They fill it with unearthly light,
And chase the darkness drear.

XII.

Hark! the sound of rude tumult now thickens in air,
With Woman's sad wail and the shriek of Despair!
Wild Triumph and Anguish together were there!
The wolwish noise silenced the blast of the night,
With blasphemy horrid, and fiercer affright:
E'en like the concussion of maritime fight,
That stills the vast tempest which raged just before,
To dead calm the motionless billows all o'er.—
Those Angel wings no more are bright
Throughout that Cell:—they take their flight
Up to the realms of peace and light.
Those sounds of violence rose with yell
As horrible as that of hell,
Which might not bend an Angel's ear,
Unmeet for purity to hear.

Heaven from such blasphemy with horror shrinketh,
Sparing not Him on whom unawed no Spirit thinketh.

XIII.

But oft, each awful pause between,
Far other sounds do intervene,
That must the soul subtlue and melt
Which ever hath compassion felt;
Seemed as they then stood still and mute,
And Pity's self to that mad rout
Her soul-assuasive voice applied;
While suddenly the tumult died,
As charmed, or thrilled, or awed by her,
With love, or ruth — remorse, or fear.
But soon again the clamours rise,
And, if again the tumult dies,
Those plaining sounds are heard no more
That charmed, and thrilled, and awed before:
Yea, bade in gentler bosoms swell
Anguish most inexpressible —
Such feelings as Compassion knows
When woman claims protection from her foes!
But now the Toteham

Tottenham, in Doomsday Book, is called Toteham.

echoes all around,
The hubbub and confusion wild resound,

Where pause was not, with ruth confounded there,
In sounds of violence advancing near:
Thus from a wreck, with intermitting roar,
While leaves the Fiend of Storms his blasts to pour,
The shrieks arise toward the startled shore.
Anon the Demon of the North
Pours his voice of thunders forth:
But when again it may a moment sleep,
Not a shriek coileth the billowy deep.
Those piercing shrieks the foaming wave
Hath buried in many an oozy cave;
Then, as in triumph for the ruin past,
Mounts up again, and mingles with the blast.

XIV.

Roused by the clamour and the yell,
Sprang Edwy now before the cell.
What sees he there, that thus he stands
With haggard eyes, and lifted hands?
“O, holy Virgin! —Almar, speed!
“Man's made to mourn! his heart to bleed!
“Behold, the Heavens are all on fire!
“The night, with conflagration dire,

“Though erst so dark and dreary, now
“In blood-red hue doth burn and glow.
“See Toteham's vast, high, foggy wood,
“Discovered by the broad, bright flood.
“On her own Western brow, in light,
“Shines All Saint's Gothic, towery height.

“The Parish Church of Tottenham is dedicated to All Saints.” William Robinson's “History and Antiquities of the Parish of Tottenham High Cross, 1818.”

“The time of its erection, the cause of its dedication to All Saints, or Sanctis Dominis, to God and his holy Dons, or Doms, as the old English sacramental obligation used to spell it, I cannot yet account for.” Lord Viscount Coleraine (as before).

Surely, then, a Poet has license to suppose it in existence at any time, if to his own advantage.

“Where join the clouds with the misty hill,
“There the deep blood-red mingles still —
“A blazing canopy, around
“With fiery horizon bound!
“O Christ! that desolate spot behold!
“Where the flames in volumes are upward roll'd,
“Whence, o'er the land, this lustre dread
“Flashes around, and overhead.
“The bickering sparks are cast on high,
“In awful grandeur, to the sky!
“The blasts of night assist the fire,
“And aggravate its furious ire!
“Oh, now, methinks, I hear the cry,
“The shrieks of female agony,
“As th' inmates wild from room to room
“Flee in vain from their wretched doom.—
“And the flame gushes out wherever they enter,
“And a thick cloud of smoke coils them up in its centre;

“They rush forth in their torment — look!—Heavens!—they cling
“To the window-cill, whence they hoped to fling
“Themselves, in mere despair, that seeks
“Refuge in death it strives to shun,
“When terror but within us speaks,
“And peril leaves a choice to none:
“Their hold yet fearing to forego,
“And drop into the void below!
“But some have fallen exhausted there,
“And left their lives in middle air;
“Or in the smouldering flames beneath
“Find torture, and a lingering death!
“The scene is present to mine eyes —
“Blended with this approaching noise,
“It wakes strange thoughts of doubt and fear,
“'Lothbroch wrought that consuming glare!
“Lo! light of torches hither flare;
“Those sounds swell more distinct and near!”
—“And nearer yet, the horrid yell!
“Jesu Maria, shield us well!”

XV.

Scarce to the emotions of his mind
Had Edwy given relief,
And Almar old had scarce rejoin'd
Th' ejaculation brief,
Ere came the Band, with joyous rage,
And covered all the space
Which spread before the Hermitage
With torches glaring rays,
That shed a short and cowering light
Mingled along the mist of night,
And shewed each griesly feature clear;
The lank red beard, the shaggy hair,
The rugged brows that rigid lour
O'er eyes of unrelenting power,
That seemed as never yet a tear
Had claimed its proper channel there,
But spake their souls of sternest steel,
And hearts severe that scorned to feel!
Their numerous feet tread down the grass,
And brush away the dew;
Their shouts disturb that grove, alas!
Which nought but peace ere knew.

Not with more noise the echoing cave
—When from on high the tumbling wave
Dashes down cataracts headlong steep,
In thunder, on the misty deep,
Before its mouth — resounds the roar
From many an answering fracture hoar;
While all its trees the storm-blast meet,
That doth their trembling branches greet
Full roughly, and their wakened voice
Blend with the complicated noise!

XVI.

Like that same hill, of streams that frown
Above the waves on high,
Which throws his thundering tempests down
To ocean from the sky;
Thus towered Lothbroch's giant-form,
Superior to his ruffian band,
Who sways to swell or still their storm
With high and haughty hand,
More stern, more rigid, more severe,
His gesture fierce, and gloomy air;
But in his sovereign voice and mien,
And piercing eye, was heard and seen

The expression of a loftier mind,
For other purposes designed,
Abused to deeds of infamy,
That, well employed, had given
A name of immortality,
Which might have bloomed in Heaven.
Yet who his lofty mien could pass
Without repeated look?
Although that something in his face
No common eye might brook —
That something which appals and awes,
And yet again the chill eye draws,
Unsatisfied, yet dreading too,
At full to meet his fearful view!
'Twas that the greatness of his soul,
Perverted from her first intent,
Yet still retained her high control,
And to his frowns and glances lent
Her native energy divine;
Like Demon, bent on fell design,
Applies his pristine Angel-force,
To aid the horrors of his course.

XVII.

But, lo! 'mid that outrageous strife,
Pale, without any form of life;
With tresses loose, disordered charms,
Droops a fair Lady in his arms:
Closed her fixed eyes in stony sleep,
Whose frozen currents might not weep —
In Nature's pulse an awful pause,
A still suspension of her laws!
But neath those features, coldly sealed,
What anguished thoughts, though not revealed,
May agonize her soul unseen,
With pangs the deeper felt within!
O'erpowered by feeling's wild excess,
She hangs all pale and motionless,—
Lovely; but that her chill despair,
And torches ever-wavering glare,
Had marred her charms, so sweetly fair?
But ah! to what shall I compare,
In her distress that Lady fair?
Like to a flower, by whirlwinds torn
From her glad soil, and wildly borne,

On a bleak rock exposed and bare,
To droop, and pine, and wither there.
And all unfeeling as that rock,
Seemed he her miseries to mock:
And as its height, by morning sky
Purpled with many a radiant die,
Or clad in day's effulgent power,
Appears to triumph o'er that flower;
So his stern pride t' exult above,
That faded form of grace and love.

XVIII.

“By Woden wild! well have we sped!
“And every oath to boot!”—he said;—
“How glorious rose the blaze on high,
“Kindling th' undulating sky!
“And with what frantic fury, did
“Her doating Lord, the flames amid,
“Encounter me! yet, with one breath,
“I chained his powers as still as death;
“But when I had secured his wife,
“Gave him again his reckless life,
“And dared him to all future strife—

“Poor soul! her ashy lips and cheek,
“The horrors of the night bespeak,
“And Fear's chill hand hath lain such hold,
“That e'en her heart is still and cold.
“But ere long shall her azure eyes
“Rival the bright and morning skies;
“Perhaps, shall languish in their tears,
“While flow diffus'd her golden hairs,
“And to her native loveliness,
“Be added that of sweet distress.
“Her form will swell upon my sight,
“Renewed in undulating light;
“And, rich with dew, her blue eyes roll,
“The liquid lustres of the soul!
“While Beauty sits sublime and high,
“Upon a throne of ivory;
“And words as music sweet, yet strong,
“Upbraid my crimes, and causeless wrong;—
“These hands, as lillies white, and soft,
“Sore-wrung, and madly clasp'd aloft,
“Sorrow to feign, on Heaven to call,
“Where laugh the Gods to see her fall—

“'Till done enough to humour pride,
“And make false shew of hate beside,
“After her hour, she yields her heart,
“And wonders at her former part.”

XIX.

That scene the Hermits saw and heard,
And in their hearts emotions stirred;
Emotions, such as take their rise
From the most strong affinities —
Then, Edwy had rushed into strife,
And for her rescue given his life,
But other care, his purpose bold
Warped, towards Almar weak and old.—

As on that Lady's wakening soul,
Seemed life's returning stream to roll,
She started like in phrensied dream,
And uttered forth a feeble scream,
Then rapid rolled her glazing eyes,
All haggard-wild, around, and spies
That rout, she recollected well —
“My husband!”—she exclaimed, and fell—
'Twas but a moment;—and more deep,
Returned that fixed and iron sleep.

XX.

There Edwy turned to Almar old,
Admonished by his ear;
His altered gesture did behold,
His trembling frame uprear—
“It was her voice!”—that sad presage
O'ercame the feeble powers of age—
“It was her voice!—and seemed, as then,
“It waked an answering voice within!
“And then I dreamed I saw her here,
“As once she was, all charming fair
“In sorrow, loving me the best,
“Then, when I spurned her from my breast!”
—Sustained in wondering Edwy's arms,
He kenned her marred disordered charms—
“It is not she! the features there,
“Are not like her's, as once they were.—
“But yet, 'twas wonderous toned like her's;
“And in the peopled universe
“There was no voice I fondly deemed
“Like her's: and, in my dotage dreamed
“In that deceived I could not be—
“But now I'm a thing of frailty!

“A poor, infirm, old man! whose woe
“Cheats him with fancy's airy show—
“Ideal shadows, sounds, and things,
“Of overwrought imaginings!”—
Faint with the burstings of his grief,
The strong convulsions of the soul,
That, like an earthquake, shook, tho' brief,
The frame of age, and jarred the whole,
Voiceless, in Edwy's arms he fell,
E'en as that Lady, insensible.

XXI.

Meanwhile, that Son of Violence,
And Arts forbid to Innocence,
Dread, secret, dark—which but to name
Would shake this universal frame,
Pluck down the star-attended moon,
And cloud the sun, in lofty noon:
The pillared arch of Heaven torn;
And Earth, with all her mountains, borne
From her firm base of Order, spoken,
When first Confusion's rule was broken:—
Arts, whose wild orgies Nature wound,
Leagued with the storms that rage around:

Meanwhile, triumphant, still, his scorn,
That bandit-Chief had not forborne
Over that victim of his power.
That winter-touch'd, cold-faded flower:
The daughter of distress supreme,
And o'erwrought agony extreme.
Yet, happy she, her wretchedness
Had wrought to such extreme excess,
Her spirit sunk, collapsed and chill;
From too much feeling could not feel!
Nor her ear hear the taunts he made,
As thus the pride of Evil said:—

XXII.

“How her eye opened! yet, soon dark,
“Beneath those fringes, every spark.—
“But with far other glances she
“Shall open soon its Heaven on me—
“For those fierce gleams of haggard ire,
“Oeiliads of love, and soft desire—
“'Tis thus we win the joys of love,
“Which ne'er yon Anchorites can prove;
“Self-reft of all delights they dwell
“Within that solitary Cell;

“Fools of reclusion fond and dull,
“Of worldly disappointments full —
“Cowards! why not revenge their loss,
“Upon the injurious World like us?—
“Even now, within their Hermitage
“They tremble at our threatened rage,
“Loathing our name, and full of fears,
“Though our cause be the same as their's—
“Cowards! whose place the World was joy'd,
“To find for nobler Spirits void.
“From Us she parted with regret,
“And would rejoice again to get;
“But we had the contempt to spurn,
“The wisdom never to return,
“The courage to revenge, or die—
“Which last they lack from Piety—
“Hey! Piety?—a goodly veil
“To hide the fears it would conceal.
“But we can shew as much as they,
“In a more bold and manly way—
“Now, by the thousand arms of Death!
“Give to the song of Triumph breath—

“Ye horrors of the foggy wood!
“Avengers of a Brother's blood!
“Of a Son's wrongs! a Father's fate!
“Sent post to Hell by kindred hate—
“Startle these hermits;—loud and brief,—
“For joyous is your faithful Chief!”

XXIII.

Regardless of that Lady's woes,
The wild and reckless tumult rose;
And on the blasts of night that roared,
The unruly song they loudly poured—

Song of the Robbers.

1

Throughout the World, one robs another;
Each hath his separate Villainy:
Friend beggars friend; and brother, brother!—
Then, tell us, what are we?

2

When the wild night is black with storms,
And lightnings blast the Traveller lone;
We are the fearful spectral forms,
That make their horrors all our own.

3

The Spirits of Heaven's vengeance we!
That awe him to confess his guilt,
And do its work of equity!
He dies!—a Sinner's blood is spilt!

XXIV.

What! is the song of triumph mute?
And where is that tumultuous rout?
O, ye to your dismal woods have gone,
Whose echoes shall answer that Lady's moan!
A dead calm rests upon that Grove,
And Silence whispers around and above:
The Hermitage, freed from that maddening rout,
Is peaceful within, and peaceful without.—
Within?—but more closely that scene let us scan;—
Then judge ye of the state of man!

XXV.

Thou hast return'd, O Almar old,
To life from that deep slumber cold!
Thy soul, winged unto former years,
—With pleasure marked, and many sears,

That make the bliss e'en woe, — away
Returns to her abode of clay.
Ah! how unlike that Lady's state,
Conveyed, by too severe a fate,
Stiffened, and cold, and senseless still,
Upon that Robber's arm;
Subjected to his brutal will,
Bereft of every charm!
And 'tis of her their thoughts awake,
And this the form their musings take.

XXVI.

As starting from his phrensied dream
To Reason's dim-returning gleam,
Almar, on Edwy's breast sustained,
Wondered the calm that silent reigned.
“How still! how awful!”—trembling he:—
“Like silence dead of sepulchre,
“After the bustle of this stage
“Of earth, of care, of mortal rage!
“Or, like that silence, deep and dread,
“When Michael's trump hath waked the dead,
“Which shall succeed its summons high,
“And wait the judgments of the sky!

“But soft — and dream I not? — and have
“They borne thee to their horrid cave?
“Oh, how will thine unwonted sight
“Behold the hideous deeds of Night?
“Behold the rites of Hell, abhorred?
“And Demons rising to his word?
“The spell-appalling change of wile
“Thy heart from Virtue to beguile?
“Oh, they will blast thy tender eye,
“Beneath its lid to pale and die!—
“How shall thine ears sustain the yell,
“The orgies of his fiendish cell?
“Oh, they will sink beneath the wound,
“And never more admit a sound:
“No more, within the evening vale,
“List to the lovelorn nightingale!
“But thou wilt petrify for aye
“In his chill power, and pass away:
“Then find, in cold Obstruction's gloom,
“The end of all thy sorrows come!
“Hell on thy soul, thou man of ill,
“Infernal giant, wild of will,

“Impress its fangs in its dark den!
“While she in endless bliss shall reign!
“Thou, Lady fair of wretchedness,
“God pity thee in thy distress!
“I love thee for thy voice alone,
“So like my Arabella's tone!
“What father had not felt as wild
“As I, so long from his dear child,
“Parted so long?—so very long,
“Estranged by mine, and not thy wrong!—
“Why, when a father's heart of love,
“Like cypress, weeps the tomb above
“Where lies inurned his daughter's heart,
“With whom his hopes did all depart;

Almar's had not all departed, as the Reader will perceive from his Story in the next Canto. His daughter might still be living. The other was a stronger argument to excuse the shock, which his pride — the principal trait in his character—had sustained.

“Oh, think ye that he will not deem
“Each gale her voice, in sorrow's dream?
“Yes, and will bless the weeping trees,
“That rustle with the sighing breeze;
“Form from the sounds her voice so dear,
“Turn them to words, and answer her;
“Bless the sweet spirit that from above
“Soothes him with whispers of her love!”

XXVII.

What judge ye of the state of man?
That all are born alike to pain?
Or for our own or other's woe,
One common doom of grief below?
And deem ye thus of sympathy?
Hence, ye profane! away from me!
Is there no joy in grief then known
That weeps for sorrows not our own?
Did not those Hermits' bosoms feel
A sweet delicious pleasure steal,
As o'er the fate of one so fair
They mixt with Pity's Virtue's tear?
And ye, who love the wondrous tale
Where doubt and terror still prevail,
And lead you through the mazes wild,
By Passion's powerful voice beguiled,
'Till ye, at length, reward distress,
Whereof ye wished, yet feared, to guess!
Oh, in such rich, indulgent grief,
Have ye not found from care relief?
A sweetly-melting, trembling sense
Of Pleasure's finer influence;

A fascinating charm, that weans
The spirit from these grosser scenes?

Ye youths! ye maids! of tender frame,
Who bloom in charms, and melt in flame;
His tale the Minstrel tunes for you,
Like you, both young, and feeling too,
Alive to every touch and tone,
And thrilling grace, of Nature's own —
Oh, by the spell of Beauty's eye!
By Love's delicious witchery!
Scorn not his rhyme — so once again
He will renew the native strain;
'Till on the harp be fully told
The Legend of the Days of Old!

END OF CANTO THE FIRST.