Tales of Terror :: :: University of Virginia Library

------ Gorgoneis Alecto infecta venenis
Pertentat sensus atque ossibus implicat ignem.—
“Turne, tot incassum fusos patiere labores?
“I nunc ingratis offer te, irrise, perîclis!”
Virgil.

Lo! thy streams, empurpled Garrone,
Moorish chiefs with gore distain;
Proud St. Bertrand's heights retreating,
Mock the turban'd lords of Spain.

Who the Gallic van commanding
Sweeps amain the swarthy foe?
Rapid thus the whirlwind's fury
Lays the forest's honours low.

Victory shouts his name in thunder!
Echo wings the flying ranks:
—“Brave Martel!”—wild shriek the Paynim.—
—“Brave Martel!”—exult the Franks.

Lo! where'er his vengeful falchion,
Charged with death, resistless falls;
—“Save thy son!” the Moorish warrior,
“Save me, Alla!”—vainly calls.

Faint retires the waning crescent,
Quench'd by Gaul's meridian fire;—
Thus the moon's extinguish'd glories,
Yielding to the sun, expire.

Conquest now, with laurell'd banners,
Treads aloft the ensanguined plain:
Loud the trump, in exultation,
Echoes to the shores of Seine.

Brave Martel, his country's saviour,
Hastes her proud embrace to prove:
What sad eye but streams with rapture?
What sick heart but glows with love?

Hark! the bard, in warlike measure,
Weaves for him the deathless meed;
For that chief, inured to slaughter,
Bosoms, yet unwounded, bleed.

Tears of anguish Afric's widows
Shed o'er his vindictive hand;
Tears of joy, her warrior's welcome,
Flow through Gallia's grateful land.

Say, when hov'ring round her champion,
Glory crowns his haughty crest,
Swells for him the burst of triumph,
Heaves for him the beauteous breast?

Say, ye fiends, whose power prolific
Passion's lurking embryos wait;
Whose dark wombs of woe engender
Lust, ambition, avarice, hate.

Nurse the seed of young corruption,
Fan the dormant spark of sin;
Till each vein, which honour quicken'd,
Feels the deadly taint within.

Till as some rock-station'd turret
Secret saps the noxious bay ;
Souls heroic, noblest natures,
Eats the canker-worm away.

Say, ye fiends, what hell-born sister,
By man's mighty tempter sent,
'Mid the shouts and pomp of triumph,
Whisper'd thoughts of black intent?

—“Great Martel! shall smooth-tongued honour
“Sear the soldier's reeking scars?
“Lo! they droop, pale, wan, enfeebled,
“Brave associates of thy wars!

“What avails the blood-stain'd standard?
“Coward hands thy trophies wield;
“Lo! that arm, the crescent's terror,
“Scarce uplifts its batter'd shield.

“Go, great chief, return to battle!
“Gaul shall garlands twine the while;
“Flowers shall strew thy path victorious,
“Infants lisp, and women smile.

“Oft in yon time-honour'd abbey,
“Lap of wealth and letter'd ease;
“While thy sword pursues the Paynim
“O'er the rugged Pyrenées.

“Prayers for thee, amid their banquets,
“Monks and blushing nuns shall pour,
“For thy safety, late libations
“Stain the consecrated floor.

“Now, e'en now, their hallow'd treasures,
“While in ritual pomp they bear,
“Strains of heavenly gratulation
“Soft assail the conqueror's ear.”—

Thus the fiend—her madd'ning victim
(Sudden frenzy fired his breast),
Waves in air his gleaming falchion,
Shakes aloft his gory crest.

Rapine leads the lawless squadron,
Avarice, famine, lust, excite;
Discord at the sacred portal
Drowns the hymn and chanted rite.

—“Onward!” yells the infuriate hero,
Onward rush his impious crew;
“Bigot monks, ye cloister'd recreants,
“Yield the wealth to valour due!”—

Lo! deep dyed in Moorish carnage,
Murder bares her redd'ning arm,
Yokes the fiery steeds of battle,
Snorting at the trump's alarm.

Burst the grate! in wild confusion
Rush the mingled helm and cowl;—
Death wide waves his sable pinions,
Laugh the fiends, the furies howl.

Shrieks of martyr'd saints expiring,
Swell the soldier's savage cry;
Bleeds the cross-defended bosom,
Sinks the heaven-directed eye.

Where the requiem breath'd dismission
Sweetly to the parting soul,
Ruin rocks the crashing altars,
Lightnings flash, and thunders roll.

Nearer now, and now advancing,
Round the Virgin's inmost shrine;—
Dropt the banner, hush'd the clarion,
Dreadful pause the embattled line!

Low beneath the blessed statue
Bends the casque, reclines the spear;
O'er his blood-stain'd arms distreaming,
Falls the chieftain's contrite tear.

—“Wretch! behold yon sable warrior,
“Mark his tow'ring crescent nod;
“Proud he guards yon fretted column,
“Mocks the Christian and his God!

“Rise, Martel! he hurls defiance,
“Scorns thy superstitious dread;
“High his port, his lifted weapon
“Waving o'er thy coward head!”—

Thus the fiend. Aroused, the hero
Dauntless views his giant foe;—
Such, beside the empurpled Garonne,
Fell his conquering sword below!

Horror thrills his steel-clad bosom!
Scarce his hands the gauntlet wield;
Faint and nerveless sinks his sabre,
Shiver'd on the stranger's shield.

Slow the Moor his jav'lin poising,
Threatens close the Christian's heart;
Pauses thus—till, change terrific!
Death himself uplifts the dart.

Flames invest his fleshless forehead,
Fix'd his glassy eye-balls glare;
Vast his form in silent motion
Rises on the viewless air.

—Deep he strikes! the soul heroic
Rush'd indignant from the wound;
Death his prey triumphant seizing,
Vanish'd through the wide-rent ground.

—Still within this ruin'd abbey,
Blood distains the unhallow'd floor;
Still, each night, the Christian warrior
Sinks beneath the shadowy Moor.

Still around these mould'ring cloisters,
Grappling with the Fiend of Hell,
'Mid the souls condemned to penance,
Groans the ghost of brave Martel.

Charles Martel, according to Mathew of Westminster, after having expelled the Saracens from France, in the eighth century, seized upon the tithes and endowments of the church, as a reward for his fellow soldiers; and, in consequence of this sacrilege, was, after his death, torn from the grave by evil spirits.—The catastrophe is entirely altered.

This alludes to what is reported of the bay-tree, that if it is planted too near the walls of an edifice, its roots will work their way underneath, till they destroy the foundation.