The Legend of Genevieve with other tales and poems. By Delta [i.e. David Macbeth Moir] |
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| V. | No. V.
FITZTRAVER'S GRAVE. |
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 | The Legend of Genevieve |  |
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No. V. FITZTRAVER'S GRAVE.
The clouds frown darkly on the sky,
And the night-wind moans as it rustles by;
The stream runs down with heavy sound,
And all is dreary and dull around.
And the night-wind moans as it rustles by;
The stream runs down with heavy sound,
And all is dreary and dull around.
Fitful, between the parted shroud
Of the rifted, melancholy cloud,
A bright star twinkles, and then is hid
Beneath the moving pyramid.
Of the rifted, melancholy cloud,
A bright star twinkles, and then is hid
Beneath the moving pyramid.
'Tis a gloomy landscape: all is still,
Save bleat of lamb from the distant hill,
The watch-dog's hollow bay on the breeze,
And night-winds tossing the sullen trees.
Save bleat of lamb from the distant hill,
The watch-dog's hollow bay on the breeze,
And night-winds tossing the sullen trees.
282
The long weeds hang o'er the massy gate
Of our watch-tower, ruin'd and desolate;
Its idle door no menial bars,
And with every blast it creaks and jars.
Of our watch-tower, ruin'd and desolate;
Its idle door no menial bars,
And with every blast it creaks and jars.
Desponding, and dreary, and dark with strife,
Bear witness these, is human life,
And thrills the blood, as hemlocks wave
O'er the buried murderer's grave!
Bear witness these, is human life,
And thrills the blood, as hemlocks wave
O'er the buried murderer's grave!
Ho! rein thy steed—'tis on the stone,
Where rots the maniac bone by bone:
By this castle gateway alone he stood,
In the dark, to sheathe his knife in blood!
Where rots the maniac bone by bone:
By this castle gateway alone he stood,
In the dark, to sheathe his knife in blood!
Spouted forth the ensanguined tide—
And, without a murmur, Sir Edmund died!—
With the torches red throng'd our vassals round,—
But the murderer folded his arms, and frown'd.
And, without a murmur, Sir Edmund died!—
With the torches red throng'd our vassals round,—
But the murderer folded his arms, and frown'd.
“Tis done—this dagger hath well repaid
For friendship wrong'd, and for trust betray'd;
Go—tell his perjur'd ladye too,
That a slighted lover thus could do!
For friendship wrong'd, and for trust betray'd;
Go—tell his perjur'd ladye too,
That a slighted lover thus could do!
283
“Now strike me”—and a flash of swords,
Ready and sharp like his frantic words,
Through him went, and down he sunk—
Cloven helmet, and mangled trunk.
Ready and sharp like his frantic words,
Through him went, and down he sunk—
Cloven helmet, and mangled trunk.
They dug his grave whereon he stood,
That weeds might spring from his tainted blood;
But the chanted hymns did duly roll,
Morning and night, for our master's soul.
That weeds might spring from his tainted blood;
But the chanted hymns did duly roll,
Morning and night, for our master's soul.
Though, alas! for our Ladye Alice fair,
She tore the jewels from her raven hair,
And evermore, in the convent cell,
Came forth her prayers at the toll of bell!—
She tore the jewels from her raven hair,
And evermore, in the convent cell,
Came forth her prayers at the toll of bell!—
Yearly, when this night comes round,
Spectres haunt this accursed ground,
And yon desolate castle, tower, and spire,
Brightly gleam with unhallow'd fire.
Spectres haunt this accursed ground,
And yon desolate castle, tower, and spire,
Brightly gleam with unhallow'd fire.
Traveller, on—the night is dark,
Yet lights to the west thine eye may mark;
And down through the hazel copses turn,
By the dove-cot rent, and the wimpling burn.
Yet lights to the west thine eye may mark;
And down through the hazel copses turn,
By the dove-cot rent, and the wimpling burn.
284
Then rein thy steed, and turn thee aloof,
On that grey stone print not his hoof;
Plunge thy spur to the rowel red,
And on and away be thy journey sped.
On that grey stone print not his hoof;
Plunge thy spur to the rowel red,
And on and away be thy journey sped.
| The Legend of Genevieve | |