Mary Robinson

“ And silence, still more fearful,
Around the little chamber spread
Such horrors as attend the dead,
Where no Sun glitters chearful!
“Now Jesu hear me!” Golfre cried,
“Hear me,” a faint voice mutter’d!
The Baron drew his poniard forth—
The Maiden sunk upon the earth,
And—“Save me Heav’n!” she utter’d.
“Yes, Heav’n will save thee,” Golfre said,
“Save thee, to be MY bride!”
But while he spoke a beam of light
Shone on her bosom, deathly white,
Then onward seem’d to glide. ”

“ Of valour, temper’d by the milder joys
Of rural merriment. His very name
Is now forgotten! for no trophied tomb
Tells of his bold exploits; such heraldry
Befits not humble worth: For pomp and praise
Wait in the gilded palaces of Pride
To dress Ambition’s Slaves. Yet, on his grave,
The unmark’d resting place of Valour’s Sons,
The morning beam shines lust’rous; The meek flow’r
Still drops the twilight tear, and the night breeze
Moans melancholy music! ”

“ Floats lightly on the morning breeze
And o’er the mountain glides away.
And now the Lark, on flutt’ring wings,
Its early Song, delighted sings;
And now, across the upland mead,
The Swains their flocks to shelter lead;
The shelt’ring woods, wave to and fro;
The yellow plains, far distant, glow;
And all things wake to life and joy,
All! but the famish’d Indian Boy!
XII.
And now the village throngs are seen,
Each lane is peopled, and the glen
From ev’ry op’ning path-way green,
Sends forth the busy hum of men. ”

“ Which o’er the black turrets their pinions would wave!
On the ramparts that frown’d on the river, swift flowing,
They hover’d, still hooting a terrible song,
When his windows would rattle, the Winter blast blowing,
They would shriek like a ghost, the dark alleys among!
21Wherever he wander’d they followed him crying,
At dawnlight, at Eve, still they haunted his way!
When the Moon shone across the wide common, they hooted,
Nor quitted his path, till the blazing of day.
His bones began wasting, his flesh was decaying,
And he hung his proud head, and he perish’d with shame ”

“ He darts thro’ the thicket, in hopes to surprize him;
But Edmund, of Valour the dauntless defender,
Now smiles, while his Corporal bids him—“Surrender!”
Soon, prov’d a Deserter, Stern Justice prevailing,
He Died! and his Spirit to Agnes is fled:—
The breeze, on the mountain’s tall summit now sailing
Fans lightly the dew-drops, that spangle their bed!
The Villagers, thronging around, scatter roses,
The grey wing of Evening the western sky closes,—
And Night’s sable pall, o’er the landscape extending,
Is the mourning of Nature! the solemn Scene ending. ”

“ For, like some fav’rites, she was bent
On all things, yet with none content;
And still, whate’er her place or diet,
She could not pick her bone, in quiet.
Sometimes, new milk Grimalkin stole,
And sometimes—over-set the bowl!
For over eagerness will prove,
Oft times the bane of what we love;
And sometimes, to her neighbour’s home,
Grimalkin, like a thief would roam,
Teaching poor Cats, of humbler kind,
For high example sways the mind! ”

“ And the bright Sun-beams glitter’d on the breast
Of the green placid Ocean. To his Hut
The lorn Boy hasten’d; there the rushy couch,
The pillow still indented, met his gaze
And fix’d his eve in madness.—From that hour
A maniac wild, the Alien Boy has been;
His garb with sea-weeds fring’d, and his wan cheek
The tablet of his mind, disorder’d, chang’d,
Fading, and worn with care. ”

“ Bind the brown thatch, the shelter’d winter-hut
Of the tame Sparrow, and the Red-breast bold.
There dwells the Soldier’s Widow! young and fair
Yet not more fair than virtuous. Every day
She wastes the hour-glass, waiting his return,—
And every hour anticipates the day,
(Deceiv’d, yet cherish’d by the flatt’rer hope)
When she shall meet her Hero. On the Eve
51Of Sabbath rest, she trims her little hut
With blossoms, fresh and gaudy, still, herself
The queen-flow’r of the garland! The sweet Rose
Of wood-wild beauty, blushing thro’ her tears. ”

“ But the bosom, where feeling and truth are united—
From folly’s bright tinsel will turn, undelighted—
And find, at the grave where thy Agnes is sleeping,
That the proudest of hours, is the lone hour of weeping!
The Youth now approach’d the long branch of the willow,
And stripping its leaves, on the turf threw them round. ”

“ The solitary scene, no midnight hour
E’er seem’d so long and dreary.
While they stood,
Their hands fast link’d together, and their eyes
Fix’d on the troublous Ocean, suddenly
The breakers, bounding on the rocky shore,
Left the small wreck; and crawling on the side
Of the rude crag,—a HUMAN FORM was seen!
And now he climb’d the foam-wash’d precipice,
And now the slip’ry weeds gave way, while he
Descended to the sands: The moon rose high—
The wild blast paus’d, and the poor shipwreck’d Man
Look’d round aghast, when on the frowning steep
He marked the lonely exiles. ”

“ And the Vassals were sleeping, or longing to sleep,
Though the Courtiers, still waking, their revels did keep,
While the minstrels play’d sweet, in the Hall.
And, now in their Cups, the bold topers began
To call for more wine, from the cellar yeoman,
And, while each one replenish’d his goblet or can,
The Monarch thus spake to them all:
“It is fit that the nobles do just what they please,
“That the Great live in idleness, riot, and ease,
“And that those should be favor’d, who mark my decrees,
“And should feast in the Banquetting Hall. ”

“ Flow’d swiftly beside the green step of its door.
18The Summer Sun, gilded the rushy-roof slanting,
The bright dews bespangled its ivy-bound hedge
And above, on the ramparts, the sweet Birds were chanting,
And wild buds thick dappled the clear river’s edge.
When the Castle’s rich chambers were haunted, and dreary,
The poor little Hovel was still, and secure;
And no robber e’er enter’d, or goblin or fairy,
For the splendours of pride had no charms to allure. ”

“ His feet recoil’d; and still the livid flame
Lengthen’d and quiver’d as the moaning wind
Pass’d thro’ the rushy crevice, while his heart
Beat, like the death-watch, in his shudd’ring breast.
Like the pale Image of Despair he sat,
The cold drops pacing down his hollow cheek,
When a deep groan assail’d his startled ear,
93And rous’d him into action. To the sill
Of his low hovel he rush’d forth, (for fear
Will sometimes take the shape of fortitude,
And force men into bravery) and soon
The wicker bolt unfasten’d. ”

“ To gather the dank weeds which ocean leaves
On the bleak strand, while winter o’er the main
Howls its nocturnal clamour. There again
He chaunts his Father’s ditty. Never more
Poor mountain minstrel, shall thy bosom throb
To the sweet cadence! never more thy tear
Fall as the dulcet breathings give each word
Expression magical! Thy Father, Boy,
Sleeps on the bed of death! ”

“ She never knew one hour of rest,
Of ev’ry Saucy Boor, the jest:
The young despis’d her, and the Sage
Look’d back on Time’s impartial page;
They knew that youth was giv’n to prove
The season of extatic joy,
That none but Cynics would destroy,
The early buds of Love.
They also knew that Debby sigh’d
For charms that envious Time deny’d;
That she was vex’d with jealous Spleen
That Hymen pass’d her by, unseen.
102For though the Spinster’s wealth was known,
Gold will not purchase Love—alone. ”

“ His tears trickle fast, down his wedding-suit gay;
“My Agnes will bless me,” he murmurs, “to-morrow,
“As fresh as the breezes that welcome the day!”
Poor Youth! know thy Agnes, so lovely and blooming,
Stern Death has embrac’d, all her beauties entombing!
And, pale as her shroud in the grave she reposes,
Her bosom of snow, all besprinkled with Roses!
159Her Cottage is now in the dark dell decaying,
And shatter’d the casements, and clos’d is the door,
And the nettle now waves, where the wild Kid is playing,
And the neat little garden with weeds is grown o’er! ”

“ Three knells would toll, at midnight’s hour,
Startl’ing the soul to hear them!
182And oft, a dreadful crash was heard,
Shaking the Castle’s chambers!
And suddenly, the lights would turn
To paly grey, and dimly burn,
Like faint and dying embers.
Beneath the steep, a Maiden dwelt,
The dove-eyed Zorietto;
A damsel blest with ev’ry grace—
And springing from as old a race—
As Lady of Loretto! ”

“ For Heav’n the truth discloses,
The Baby, who had early died,
Bore, tinted on its little side,
Three spots—as red as roses!
209Now, ere the wedding-day had past,
Stern Golfre, and his Bride
Walk’d forth to taste the ev’ning breeze
Soft sighing, mid the sombre trees,
That drest the mountain’s side.
And now, beneath the grove of Pine,
Two lovely Forms were gliding;
A Lady, with a beauteous face!
A Youth with stern, but manly, grace
Smil’d,—as in scorn deriding. ”

“ Who, that feels, can boast a tranquil bosom?
The fever, throbbing in the Tyrant’s veins
In quick, strong language, tells the daring wretch
That He is mortal, like the poorest slave
Who wears his chain, yet healthfully suspires. ”

“ The night-dew fell from ev’ry tree—
It fell upon her rosary,
Like tears of Heav’n twice bless’d!
She knelt upon the brown moss, cold,
She knelt, with eyes, mild beaming!
The day had clos’d, she heard a sigh!
She mark’d the clear and frosty sky
With starry lustre gleaming.
She rose; she heard the drawbridge chains
Loud clanking down the valley;
She mark’d the yellow torches shine
Between the antique groves of Pine—
Bright’ning each gloomy alley.
195And now the breeze began to blow,
Soft-stealing up the mountain ”

“ In frequent starts confessing.
Then, slowly would she turn her head,
And watch the narrow wicket;
And shudder, while the wintry blast
In shrilly cadence swiftly past
Along the neighb’ring thicket.
187One night, it was in winter time,
The Castle bell was tolling;
The air was still, the Moon was seen,
Sporting, her starry train between,
The thin clouds round her rolling.
And now she watch’d the wasting lamp,
Her timid bosom panting;
And now, the Crickets faintly sing,
And now she hears the Raven’s wing
Sweeping their low roof, slanting. ”

“ Yet, ev’ry week, for some transgression,
She went to sigh devout confession.
For ev’ry trifle seem’d to make
Her self-reproving Conscience ache;
And Conscience, waken’d, ’tis well known,
Will never let the Soul alone. ”

“ While the braggart accosted thus he:
“I will give thee a place that will suit thy demand,
“What to thee, is more fitting than Vassals or Land—
“I will give thee,—what justice and valour command,
“For a Trumpeter bold—thou shalt be!”
121Now the revellers rose, and began to complain—
While they menac’d with gestures, and frown’d with disdain,
And declar’d, that the nobles were fitter to reign
Than a Prince so unruly as He. ”

“ But Kate, who, till that fatal hour,
Had held, o’er Hodge, unrivall’d pow’r,
With curving lip and head aside
Look’d down and smil’d in conscious pride,
Then, anxious to conceal her care,
She humm’d—“what fools some women are!”
Now, Mistress Homespun, sorely vex’d,
By pride and jealous rage perplex’d,
And angry, that her peevish spouse
Should doubt her matrimonial vows,
But, most of all, resolved to make
An envious rival’s bosom ache ”

“ That bathes the low dell’s bosom, stands a Cot;
O’ershadow’d by broad Alders. At its door
A rude seat, with an ozier canopy
Invites the weary traveller to rest.
’Tis a poor humble dwelling; yet within,
The sweets of joy domestic, oft have made
The long hour not unchearly, while the Moor
Was covered with deep snow, and the bleak blast
Swept with impetuous wing the mountain’s brow!
50On ev’ry tree of the near shelt’ring wood
The minstrelsy of Nature, shrill and wild,
Welcomes the stranger guest, and carolling
Love-songs, spontaneous, greets him merrily. ”

“ That the poor should be humble, obedient, and tame,
“And, in silence, submit—one and all.
“That the wise and the holy should toil for the Great,
“That the Vassals should tend at the tables of state,
“That the Pilgrim should—pray for our souls at the gate
“While we feast in our Banquetting Hall.
“That the low-lineag’d Carles should be scantily fed—
“That their drink should be small, and still smaller their bread;
“That their wives and their daughters to ruin be led,
“And submit to our will, one and all! ”

“ And through its thatch the northwind blows
—Its thatch, by tempests shaken.
And yet, it tops a verdant hill
By Summer gales surrounded:
Beneath its door a shallow rill
Runs brawling to the vale below,
And near it sweetest flowrets grow
By banks of willow bounded.
124Then why is ev’ry casement dark?
Why looks the Cot so chearless?
Ah! why does ruin seem to mark
The calm retreat where Love should dwell,
And Friendship teach the heart to swell
With rapture, pure and fearless?
There, far above the busy croud,
Man may repose in quiet ”

“ The noontide, sultry hour, he fearless past
On the shagg’d eminence; while the young Kid
Skipp’d, to the cadence of his minstrelsy.
At night young Henry trimm’d the faggot fire
While oft, Saint Hubert, wove the ample net
To snare the finny victim. Oft they sang
And talk’d, while sullenly the waves would sound
Dashing the sandy shore. Saint Hubert’s eyes
Would swim in tears of fondness, mix’d with joy,
When he observ’d the op’ning harvest rich
Of promis’d intellect, which Henry’s soul,
164Whate’er the subject of their talk, display’d. ”