 | The Haunted Glen |  |
ACT FIRST.
SCENE I.
A Dell, by moonlight; with a distant view behind.— Enter a Fairy, winding swiftly among the trees. Voice above.Voice.
Fairy, fairy, whither away?
Fairy.
Come down and see;
It fits not thee
To hide in the bud of the chesnut tree,
And scare with yelp and eldrich croon
The spirits that pass by the light of the moon.
I heard a sound come through the wood,
I fear'd it came from flesh and blood;
But I'll be with thee for evil or good.
Enter Spirit.
Now, fairy, tell me, whither away,
For I have much to thee to say,
And much to do ere the break of day?
Fairy.
I know thee not—I cannot tell
Whether thou art from heaven or hell.
In Scottish glen, since the days of old,
I have watch'd the hamlet and the fold;
Long have I sojourn'd by mountain and dale,
I have sail'd on the moon-beam, and rode on the gale
For a thousand years, and a thousand more;
But, spirit, I never saw thee before.
Spirit.
Here am I sent for a while to dwell;
Tell me thy nature, and mine I'll tell.
This form was made when the rose first grew,
Of an odour dissolved in the falling dew,
When first from the heaven it 'gan to distil
Above the top of the highest hill.
And if I may judge from the moment I came,
There's a germ of the rainbow in my frame,
For my being grew, I remember well,
When first the bow on the rose-bud fell;
And the very first scene that met my view
Was its pale blossom, tinged anew
With stripes of the green, the red, and the blue.
But I am a spirit of joy and love,
For the breath that form'd me was from above.
Spirit.
Then, gladsome spirit, list to me,
For we may meet by tower and tree:
When first the fires of vengeance and wrath
Were kindled in a world beneath,
And flash'd into the middle sky;
From these, a thin blue vapour came,
Something between a smoke and flame,
And it journey'd on through the firmament,
Till with a sun-beam it was blent:
Of that I was framed, and in my mood,
There is something evil and something good.
But I have been busy since I came here,
There's a comely corpse lies stretched near—
Within yon wood, of alders gray,
There was murder done at the close of day.
O, I ne'er saw so lovely a sight,
As a maiden's corpse in the pale moonlight!
Fairy.
Ah! spirit of stern and ill intent,
The land may rue that thou wast sent.
Spirit.
'Tis true, I love to seek and see
The evils of humanity,
But I cannot hurt where sin is not.
Come, trifling fay, I'll consort you
The relics of mortal beauty to view;
The writhed limb you there may see,
And the stripes of blood upon the lea;
Half open is her still blue eye;
Her face is turned unto the sky;
The shadows sleep on her bosom bare,
And the dew-weft on her raven hair,
And never again shall spirit see
Such picture of sorrow and sanctity!
Fairy.
Get thee away,
Thou elfin gray,
Thou art not fit with fairies to stay!
For me I am sent by the still moon-light,
Each flowret's bosom to bedight,
For the fairies revel here o'er night.
Who in Fairy land hath sojourn'd a while,
Must be crown'd by a virgin's hand,
The king of the fairies of fair Scotland;
And fairies have ridden, and fairies have run,
From the evening set till the morning sun,
The first of mortal maidens to find,
Fairest of body, and purest of mind;
For she must be chaste as the snow-drop at noon,
Stately as cherubim, mild as the moon,
Sweet as the rose-bud, and fresh as the dew,
That sets the crown on the head of King Lu.
Spirit.
If right I judge, you will only miss
Your aim in travelling far for this;
For in this glen there dwells a dame,
The fairest of human form and name;
But if I get sway of this woodland scene,
This matchless maid shall be, ere e'en,
What many a maiden before has been.
Get thee away, thou elfin gray!
Thou art not fit with fairies to stay!
The fairies of Scotia are mild as the even,
Jocund and blythe as the laverock in heaven;
Tender to childhood, gentle to age,
Pesterous to priest, and freakish with sage;
But whatever they do, or wherever they go,
They grieve aye for human failings and woe.
Get thee away, over brake, over thorn,
Woo thy dead corse till the break of the morn,
For I hear the sound of the fairies' horn.
(Exit Spirit.)
Endless trains of Fairies, clothed in green, and riding on white steeds, are seen in the distance—Song within.
Fairy
Song.
Sweet is the mountain breeze of night,
To fairy troopers blithly riding,
Over holt, and holm, and height,
Through the links of greenwood gliding.
Chorus.
Are Lu! Ora Lu!
Who shall man and fairy sever?
Ara Lu! Ora Lu!
They are knit, and knit for ever.
Lu is prince of Fairyland,
Vales of light and fairy fountains;
Lu shall wield the regal wand
Over Scotia's heathy mountains.
Chorus.
Ara Lu! Ora Lu! &c.
Enter Lu and Female Fairies.
First Fairy.
Our names, prince—Our new names.
Lu.
Thy name be hence Philany, and thy charge
The nestlings of the birds, that sing at eve
And ere the morning sun.—And thou, pale blossom,
Thy name is Snowflake; and thy envied charge
The walks and couch of virgin purity.
O guard that well!—If e'er thou mark'st the eye
Beaming with more than earthly lustre,—then
Too bright for man to look on.—In the night
By maiden's bosom watch; and if she dream,
Lay thy cold hand upon her youthful breast;
Hang on her waving locks by day, and watch
Her sweet and mellow breath; and as it heaves
And rocks thee to and fro, thou shalt discern
The slightest workings of the soul within;
The rest thy wisdom and thy care direct.
Bright as the orient—thy name be Dew;
Thy care the wild-flowers of the hill and dale,
To pearl the rose and weave the heavenly bow.
And thou, her sister, guard the rivulets,
And silver pools, where little fishes dwell,
And sport them in the sun—thou hast a flock
Full wayward and exposed—so be thy care—
Thy name is Foambell, brook thou well the name.
And thou, that hast a pathos in thy looks
Bespeaking mould of tenderness and love,
Be guardian thou of playful infancy;
Watch o'er the imps, and when the comely boy
Nears to the precipice, where blossoms wave,
Or to the pool, where green inverted hills,
And trees, and shrubs betray—then flutter thou
Close by his foot like gilded butterfly
To lure the rosy lubber from the snare
Of adder's young, and from the sloe-worm's den.
Thy name is Mothe, the joy of doing good
Be thy reward.
Thou downy dancing thing,
Fond as the nestling, playful as the fawn,
Thy dwelling be the mountain, and thy task
To guard the young deer, and the leveret
And tender lamb—thy name is Gossamer.
To sport and revel till the dawn of day.
(He embraces them all.)
Sweet gladsome beings! sweet you are, and kind,
And well I love you. But my mortal frame
Is not so subtilized and pure, but that
I feel in your communion something short
Of true felicity. In all your rounds,
And wanderings wild, search for the mortal maid
Of purity and beauty so refined
That spirits may consort with; and no stain
Of human love or longing intervene.
Dew.
Prince, here I met with a spirit stern,
Who said that by this forest dern,
There dwells the fairest loveliest dame,
That ever wore the human frame;
But wicked men and fiends below
Have both combined to work her woe.
A knight of comely courtesy
Lead a fair maiden to the wood,
Of lady mien and mournful mood,
Be sure that knight's intent is ill,
For the blood is on his corselet still!
Lu.
Hie you away, by valley and brae,
Attend to your tasks, by night and by day,
And each take a thousand fays along,
To tend your behests for right or for wrong;
And here will I watch till the rising sun,
For fear more guilty deeds be done.
The Fairies dance slowly round him in a circle, and sing.
The baby's rest shall be sweet and sure,
The maiden's slumber blest and pure;
The grey-hair'd sire shall rejoice in mind,
And look before and not behind;
The fishes sport in the sunny stream;
Young Love and Peace shall go hand in hand,
And Sin and Sorrow flee the land;
The lamb beside the fox shall stray,
The kid and fawn round the marten play,
And the child shall dance by the adder's den,
Since spirits pure are conjoin'd with men.
CHORUS.
Then hie away, fairies, hie away,
Light over flower and tender spray,
Light over moonbeam and midnight dew,
Our blithsome gambols to renew.
SCENE II.
A Cottage.Cairney, Eps, Simon.
Sim.
Mither, I'm gaun to dee now!—It's a' o'er
wi' me now!
Eps.
And what's my dainty son gaun to dee for
now?
Sim.
Oh, it's for that Lula!—Plague on your
Lula, that I ever saw her face!—And wae be to you
for twa auld doitit bodies that ever pat it in my
head to seek her for a wife, and to fa' in love wi' her,
and court her, and then to get baith the skaith
and the scorn.—I'm gane!—I'm clean dead!—Oh,
plague on a' paughty queans! wi' their clear wily
e'en! and their curls flauffing about their dimpled
but I'll hae amends o' them and o' ye a'! dear
amends!
Eps.
Sit still, Sim.—Sit still, my dear son Sim,
and hae a wee patience.—What are ye gaun to do
wi' that muckle knife?
Sim.
I'm gaun to cut aff my head—What wad
ye hae me to do wi't?—I'm gane! clean gane! I
wadna gi'e a bawbee for my life!—But ye hae nane
to blame but yoursels!—It is weel wared! Ye
lose your son, and ye may tak up the neist ye find.
—Oh, thae women! thae women!—De'il that there
had ne'er ane o' them been born, wi' their sma'
waists, and their lang white necks, and their legs
turned and polished like fiddlepins.
Eps.
Wow, Sim, man! What for do ye speak that
gate?—Ye ken if women ne'er had been made, the
warld couldna hae been uphadden.—And whar wad
ye hae been yoursel, ye gowk?
And then they'll smile and they'll smirk!—
And they'll caper, and prim their bits o' gabs!—
And fling back their locks o' hair, that fock may
see their reid-an-white haffats—and they'll gloom ae
while, and greet anither—and pace away frae ane
on their tip-taes!—I wonder how e'er it cam into
ony anes head to mak sic creatures as women!—Or
if I had been gaun to mak them ava, I wad hae
made them something farrant like.
Eps.
Gramercy! Cairney, did you ever hear sic
a rave o' nonsense?—The poor lad's dementit.
Cair.
He's a thowless gull!—Just naething but
a muck hott!—He maks nae ill hand at a paritch
bicker or a haggies; but for a bonny lass, ye may
as weel set my tike to court her.—I hae seen the
day, but it's gane, that if I had had her a cooking—
Sim.
And wow ye hae muckle to brag o' that
way! Let ony ane look at my mither, and see what
o' the parishen!
Eps.
Alak, Simon! ye shouldna lightify the banes
that bare ye.—I dinna like to hear it—Sorrow and
eild will runkle the fairest and the bonniest; and or
ye come to my time o' day, ye'll no be sae bright o'
the lire.
Sim.
O, that I had ne'er seen the face of a woman,
or seen only sic as yours!—I hae tint mysel
athegither!—I'm daft—horn mad wi' love!—But
there will soon be an end o't!—I'll tell ye what I
think, mither—I think the women are a set o' bad
wicked creatures, and that the maist o' them will
gang an ill gate.—Paintit naethings! Limbs o' Sautan
they are!—I believe it was nae ither than him
wha gae them that fine lily whiteness to their hands
and necks, and made their cheeks sae rosy, and their
skins sae feele and saft—and then the lips and the
een!—O Lord! O Lord! I canna thole them, and
what I'll do w'ye—I'll gi'e ye a' my sheep ilka
clute, skin and birn, if ye'll just chip my head aff
wi' an axe.—Live langer I winna; for she has
guided me like a dog, like a whalp, like a messan!
Cair.
Son, hear me speak—Woo her, and woo
her like a man; and I say and swear it, that you
shall have her—But if I hear mair o' your hanging,
or drowning, ye sanna want a hand to gi'e ye a
heeze—silly, hen-heartit, white-livered gouk!—Woo
her, and woo her the way I bade ye; and if she
dares ill-treat or mock my son, I'll let her ken
whase house and hands she's in!—Yes, boy, ye sal
hae her, though I should tie her twa arms to the
bed-posts.
Sim.
I wad just do that, father—that's the only
chance I hae now—I'll stand by you.
Eps.
O fie, my dear gudeman and son, dinna
speak that way—she's a sweet gentle creature, far
woman! she's aye somebody's bairn!—It wad be a
sin and a shame to guide her ill—Mind the auld
sang—
But never overbear a maid;
For gin ye fret or fear a maid,
Ye nouther win nor wear the maid.
Ye ken, son, she is a leddy born and bred, and ye
should speak to her in a gentle and respectable
way.
Cair.
Leddy, wife!—We ken little what she is—
For a' her lear and scholarship, and thrimble-thrumbling
at the harp, she may be comed o' the gypsies,
for aught we wot.
Eps.
O fie! To speak that gate o' Lula! The
dearest creature that ever this land bred! But,
desired her.—Tell us a' that past atween ye.
Sim.
Weel, ye see, we gaed away to the wood
thegither, but she was unco sweer drawn, and was
aye gathering bits o' yerbs and chirms o' gerse,
never minding me; at length we came to a bit
green swaird, and sat down thegither, and I pat my
plaid round us baith.
Cair.
Ay—weel—that wasna sae ill.
Sim.
And when I laid it round her neck, I wad
fain hae lettin my arm lie still there, but she pat it
away sae gently that I hadna the face to offer again.
Cair.
That was sachless and silly-like!
Sim.
Then I says, “My bonny Lula,” says I—
Cair.
My bonny Lula—that was good—right that.
Sim.
“My dear heart's life and blood!” says I—
Cair.
Heart's life and blood!—O that was nonsense!
“Ye ken my mither likes ye unco weel, and
canna think ever to part wi' ye.”
Eps.
Ye said true, Simmy; ye said true! and
what did she say to that?
Sim.
She gae a bit siche, and pu'd some threads
and poukins o' woo' out o' my plaid; and when I
lookit earnestly in her face, she took a ewe-gowan
and pluckit a' the fringe aff it, bit by bit.—I didna
ken what to do, nor what to say, for I was just like
to sink down through the grund wi' perfect love—
and sae I took her hand in atween baith mine, and
squeezed it and sleekit it down, as it had been a young
kittlen—“Oh me! what will I do?” quo' I; and
then I said something that wad hae been better unsaid,
and was gaun to kiss her hand, but she wadna
even suffer that, but pu'd it frae me, and turn'd her
face half away, and I thought by the dimple o' her
cheek that the jade was laughin' at me.
Cair.
Maist likely she was, I think.
“Turn round your face to me, Lula,” quo'
l—“Turn round that bit bonny face again, for I
hae nae skeel o' speaking in at the hole o' ane's
neck.” And what think you the contrarisome shrew
said?
Eps.
Haud your tongue now, Sim, for I downa
bide to hear ye say ony ill o' her.—Ye might deserve
a' that she said, for ye ken that ye're no owre
weel bred.
Sim.
Weel, weel, mither, haud ye wi' her; ye'll
soon win quat o' poor Sim. Ye want nae better, I
find.
Eps.
Be quiet now, dear son, and tell me some
mair that past atween ye.—I ken she hasna the nature
to be uncivil to a dog, if it be civil to her.—Did
you never ask her to be your wife ava'?
Sim.
Ask her to be my wife!—I may as weel ask
the Erne Craig to be my wife; or the Moon; or the
Seven Sterns—I'll hae the same success—I hae just
on her!
Cair.
Ay, that's the way to gang to wark wi' her.
Eps.
Shame on him that says it!—Shame to you
baith!—But I dare ane o' ye to wrang her, or lay a
foul finger on her in my house!—I'll gar the blood
blind the een o' the first scurvy loun that attempts
it.
Cair.
Fich! auld ettercap! wha cares for your
brag?—And you, if you hadna been a fool and a
booby, ye might hae had her lang syne for your wife.
Sim.
For my wife!—Ah, what a thought that is!
That's a killing, murdering thought!—ane that nae
man can brook.
Cair.
Ye never wad tak my advice.
Sim.
Your advice!—Haud your tongue about
your advice—I wish I had never heard it, nor yet
made use o't.—But I'm a ruined man!—Shamed!—
Affrontit!—Scorned!—Despised!—I can never, and
(Crying.)
—Welcome, welcome! give me your hands
—Farewell, father and mother; farewell, sun and
moon, and sterns and women—this is the last o'
poor Sim!
(He puts a rope round his neck—His father pulls him up in anger—He cries out and is let fall—Scene closes.
SCENE III.
A Wood.Enter Lu.
Lu.
To me a day of such delight, and pain,
And new sensations mingled, as I never
Deem'd consonant with being.—I have seen
Have watch'd her every motion, word, and look,
With lover, and alone.—Such beauty, truth,
And purity of soul, I did not ween
This sinful world contain'd! I love her so,
That I would yield this uncorporeal frame,
This state of mental energy, attain'd
By seven years penance, and again assume
My former state of gross humanity,
Rather than lose that virgin's fellowship,
Her confidence, and love.—I watch'd her steps,
Led by that treacherous, that destroying fiend,
That demon in the guise of man, and heard
His smooth deceitful tale—I took the form
Of redbreast, and I hopp'd upon the spray
Close to her cheek, and sung my plaintive note;
And she call'd me sweet Robin, and I saw
A kindness in her looks. Sir Knight, said she,
List to that Robin's note—Methinks he says,
The Knight replied, 'tis very like these words!
I wish I were that Robin's mate, said she,
To fly away with him o'er many lands,
And live in innocence!—And then I sung,
“Would that you were, sweet Lula.”—Her blue eyes
Turn'd doubtfully up to the sky when this
She heard sung by a bird; her lovely face
Was stamp'd with sweet amazement and deep thought.
From out the brake, and hitch'd around their seat,
Mounching the herbs, then raised up my long ears
As listening in dismay, and look'd full wise;
Making my cloven lip and wiry beard
Move with grimace.—Back to the thicket then
Amain I scudded, and as quick return'd,
And cower'd and mounch'd the grass—She laugh'd at me,
I was a fairy lover, and far less
A mortal prince rid of his mortal nature.
I must retire, and take some other form,
For here my loved and beauteous Lula comes,
Led by the wretch that woos her to her fate.
(Exit.)
Enter Lula and Knight.
Lula.
Where do you lead me, Knight? I may not go
Farther into the glen; have you not heard
How it is haunted?
Knight.
Fear not, gentle Lula;
No spirit may do harm to innocence
And beauty such as thine.—Come, let us stray
Deeper into this dell, and watch the rise
Of the full moon. See how her radiant verge
Streams through the broken cliffs of yon far hill,
Smiles from her lattice! Has it not a cast
Of sweet sublimity that scene, my Lula?
Lula.
It has.—O, I could list and look for ever,
And muse upon these goings on of nature!
Knight.
'Tis a fit scene for love.—Will you not hear
The man that loves you to distraction, breathe
His vows of constancy, and endless truth?
Lula.
Nay, then I'm gone; I loathe the very name
Of love, and every baneful consequence
That follows in its train. Why talk to me
Of love, when Emma's lost?—Emma, who loved you
With fondness never equall'd! Tell me, Knight,
Where think you Emma's gone?
Knight.
How can I know?
Woes me! poor Emma! She is fled, I fear,
Let us not think of her.
Lula.
Yet you grow pale
At mention of her name—I honour you
For this—'Tis true she loved you!—What is here?
There's blood upon your basnet, Knight!—Your hilt
And arm are stain'd with it.—What blood is this?
Knight.
It is the blood of my white steed, which I
Slew in a rage, and which I sore repent.
Lula.
Your steed is whole, and standing in his stall;
I saw him; ask your groom.
Knight.
It was my hound,
My milk-white hound—Woes me, that she is slain!
Lula.
Your hound is well, and hunting through the wood.
Knight.
It was a deer that held the hound at bay,
'Twas that I meant.
You have not slain a deer
For months and days, nor is it hunting time;
You rave! or do not think of that you say.—
But here's our gentle Robin come again,
To cheer us with his homely note.—O, Knight,
Let us return.—Hear what the Robin sings.
Knight.
Come, let us dive into the dell, my Lula,
And see the moon lie bathing in the stream,
Deep in the centre of the wood; it is
A scene will charm you.—Let us go, my love.
Lula.
I never farther leave my home at eve;
That glen is dangerous, for spirits there
Hold nightly rendezvous.—Poor Emma loved
Thoughtful to stray in it;—now, where, alas!
Is simple Emma? Knight, though I nought fear,
Strange fancies crowd on me.—Ah, might it be
As I now deem!—Do guardian spirits ever
Take form of beast or bird?
Knight.
So sages say.
Down that sweet winding glen.—You cannot fear
To walk that space with me—I know the scene
Hath that in't will delight you. You shall see
The moonbeam streaming o'er the shadowy hill,
To kiss the winding wave, and deck the trees
In golden foliage—You shall see the shades
Of hills, and trees, and rocks, lie stretch'd afar,
Bathing in liquid crystal, till you lose
Sense which is the true world, the stars, and moon,
And which the elemental imagery.
O! I beseech you, let us go, sweet Lula.
Lula.
Well, I will go; for when I hear you talk
Of nature I am charm'd—'tis so unlike
The converse of these simple cottagers;
But talk of that alone, and not of love,
Else I'll not list, nor answer deign to you.
Why am I plagued with language which I loathe?
(Going, stops short.)
Look at that bird, Sir Knight—Is it not changed
In form and size since last we look'd at it.
Knight.
What is it?
Lula.
See! it grows and changes still;
Waylays and threatens us—I will not go
Farther upon that path for will of man.
Knight.
Then my resolve is fix'd—Dame, you shall go,
Return home as you may.
Lula.
What do you mean?
Knight.
Only that you shall go into that glen
Far as I list to lead you—if you prove
As coy when you return, my well-earn'd skill
In woman I give up. Nay, struggle not,
Nor pule, nor cry, for neither shall avail.
Lula.
O, comely stranger, spare my helpless youth!
Protect and guard me; here I throw myself
Into your arms.
Lu.
And from all brutal force,
And insult, shall these arms protect you, maid.
Lula.
Yes, I can trust you—there is in your look,
And your embrace, that chasten'd dignity,
That calm pure sympathy, which I have long'd
And pined so much to look on—Whence are you?
From what blest land, or kingdom, came you thus
To my deliverance?
Lu.
These lands were mine,
Far as the soaring eagle's eye can reach;
But I resign'd them for a dynasty
Wild and ætherial.—Could you love me, Lula?
I know not—If your touch and looks were aye
As pure as they are now—methinks I could.
Lu.
Then I'll be aught for thee—I'll be again
The thing I was, that I may be caress'd
And loved by you; though pain, and woe, and death,
And spirits' vengeance on the issue wait.
Come with me, gentle maid; and, while I lead you
Home to your cot, I will a tale unfold
Shall make your ears to tingle, and your thoughts
Wander into delirious mystery.
(Exeunt Lu and Lula. The Knight rises.)
Knight.
And chain'd as by some spell?—Curse on the stripling!
Who can he be, or whither did he come
To brave me in this guise?—'Tis like a dream.
While I not moved a finger or a limb.
Not of this world, that with one wave of's hand
Could strike me motionless, then do I strive
In vain for the possession of the maid.
But here I swear above this craven sword,
(That for the first time slept within its sheath
Beneath the eye of insult,) not to brook
Life without Lula.—Never shall I see
Another filch that precious morsel, placed
Thus in my reach!—Arm, thou wast never wont
To lie in dull and nerveless apathy
When will call'd, “Strike.” Ah! couldst thou do it now,
When the most delicate and luscious cup
That ever mock'd Desire's pale parching lip
Was rudely dash'd away?—Blood and revenge
Be hence thy meed, or scornful Lula mine!
| The Haunted Glen | |