THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES />" ^/ ^ y^. LEGENDS OF THE NIGHT. BY ALFRED DAWSON, M.A. CHRIST COLLEGB CAMBEIDGK. The lights burn blue — is it not dead midnight ? Cold fearful drops stand on my Ircnibling flesh, What? do 1 fear myself ? there's none else by. SHAKESPEARE LONDON: CHARLES J. SKEET, PUBLISHER, 10, KING WILLIAM STREET, CHARING CROSS. 1860. LONDON : Printed by A. Schulze, 13, Poland Street. 4575" CONTENTS. THE THREE TALES. The Weir- Wheel. The Upward Gaze. The Watcher. The Night Coach. Waiting for Thee. The Dream. The Pardou. The Fragment. The Bell of Beaujey. Where, where art Thou 1 SONGS BALLAD 1 5 10 15 45 47 48 80 82 85 868846 LEGENDS OP THE NIGHT. ito mfir-cfflhffl. WOEFUL wight, and a weary moan ; Merry go round the weir-wheel — I have sate me many a year alone, For I am the wight, and I moaned the nioan- And 'tis woe of the merry weir-whcel. The bells ring over the meadows gay — Merry go round the weir- wheel. The hedditch is fresh beneath the hay, The dew is cool and to-morrow's the day — And 'tis woe of the merry weir-whccl. 'r 2 THE WEIR-AVHEEL. There's a blossom white and a garland green — Merry go round the weir-wheel ; A blossom white, and a garland green, And a gentle bride is there, I ween — And 'tis woe of the merry weir- wheel. The raven sate on an alder dank — Merry go round the weir-wheel. And he croak'd his croak as who but he. As he sate him alone on his alder-tree — And 'tis woe of the merry weir-wheel. She wander'd there by the alder dank — Merry go round the weir-wheel. Where the nenufar bright and the bulrush rank Were clustering near the glidly bank To the sound of the merry weir- wheel. To cull me a nenufar cold and bright — Merry go round the weir-wheel. She lean'd her o'er in the dusky night, And heard not the wail of the water sprite, In the gush of the merry weir-wheel. '"i ''Ifi ^ii!^''-^W'm\m'iij'[^n^^^^ THE WEIR-WHEEL. 3 The dusky night is past and o'er — Merry go round the weir-wheel ; The dusky night is past and o'er, But that fair bride came back no more — ■ And 'tis woe of the merry weir-wheel. They sought her east, and west and east — Merry go round the weir-wheel, They sought long years, at length they ceased, For they found her not in west nor east. Still merry went round the weir-wheel. Long years are past, and the flood is low, Where merry went round the weir-wheel. And the wheel is broke, and waters low — And shallow the stream where nenufars grow — And a skeleton white mid the stalks below — Woe worth ! woe worth the weir-wheel ! Woe worth the wheel — woe worth the stream — VVhere, lung years so lonely, THE WEI R-AV HEEL. A form, more pale than the pale moonbeam, Pointed a spot where neniifars gleam, Marked by the night bird only. The night bird saw that phantom pale, Near to the wash of the weir-wheel, But in vain he call'd his plaintive tale, He call'd long years without avail So long as went round the weir-wheel. At last, it ceased, and the tale was known, And ruin'd is now the weir-wheel, And since, I've sate me years alone, A weary wight, and I moan the moan, And 'tis ever " Woe worth the weir-wheel !" Wk (ilpiuard (But ARD beside a dull wood — Go not there alone — If ever you go to that dull wood, You'll know then what I mean. There's a pool where flags are steeping- Go not there alone — And the waters black are sleeping, Under a mantle green. If you visit that spot so lonely — Go not there alone — Go not there but only When the day is warm and bright. There are sounds in the flags and the brambles- Go not there alone — Por him who thitherward rambles Under the shadow of night. THE UPWARD GAZH. There are foul flies in the marsh — Go not there alone — And the call of the toad is harsh. And the owl with a ghastly scream. But there's worse than the flies of night — Go not there alone — Than the toad and the owl so white, There's worse on the gloomy stream, I was there at the close of day — Go not there alone — I wander'd alone, astray, In the twilight damp and cool. And I saw what had seen I never — Go not there alone — I saw what unseen is ever Upon that mantled pool. There was one by fortune slighted, Accursed and doom'd to moan, Whose hope and whose heart were blighted, Once hithcrward came alone. THE UPWARD GAZE. He had roam'd on travel weary To many a savage shore, Pining in solitude dreary On what he must know no more. He had done a deed, and he wander'd Lonely, pensive, slow, And with eye upraised he ponder'd On heaven he ne'er must know. On earth, he turned never But only a vacant stare, The heaven regarding ever, For what he had lost was there. All deeni'd him a spirit crazed, To see his upturn'd view, Eor ever and aye he gazed Into the ether blue ; And hither, by fortune slighted, In the twilight damp and cool. With hope and with heart all blighted. He came to the dismal pool. THE UPWARD GAZE. There were foul flies in the marsli, And the owl with a ghastly scream, And the call of the toad was harsh, By the side of the gloomy stream. But he heeded nor call nor scream. As he gazed on the distant sky, And within the gloomy stream, He sate him down to die. And of reeds a rustling skreen Shrouded his oozy bed — And of weeds a covering green Closed over the sleeper's head. There are sounds in the flags and brambles Ever and aye since then ; He may see who thitherward rambles, What may never I see again ! He will see, where the dark stream gushes- Go not there alone — He will see in the flags and bushes A sight will make him quail. THE UPWARD (iAZK. 9 For he who had done the deed, Is couched still there alone, And from the dark green weed, Peers forth that face so pale. There are foul flies in the marsh — Go not there alone — And the call of the toad is harsh, And the owl with a ghastly cry ; But worse than the harsh toad calliuir. Than the owl with a ghastly cry. Is the upward face appalling Still turned to the distant sky. ®Iu latattliiir. HY vvatchest thou here, thou pilgrim pale, Under the night so dreary ? From yonder wokl, a moaning gale Pierces this hawbush skreen, too frail To shelter one so weary !" " Leave me, leave me this hawbush skreen To shelter me here so weary, For I must watch, alone, unseen — I must watch, tho' the wind be keen, Thorough the night so dreary !" THE WATCHER. 11 " What watchest tlioa, thou pilgrim lone — Upon the heath uncheeiy, With hawbush skreen and seat of stone — ■ Listing still the cold wind's moan, Thorough the night so dreary !" " Ride on, ride on, nor linger slow — Not longer here rnay'st tarry. Ride on, and ere a league you go, What I do watch you'll haply know — Nor question more I parry !" I left him there — alone — unseen — Pale — silent — and uncheery — • And still, as the wind blew keen more keen, I thought of the stone, and the hawbush skreen. That sheltered one so weary. I pass'd a mile — I had pass'd not twain, Across the whispering heather — But I heard a sound thro' trickhng rain A sound, as links of a canker'd chain, All grating liarsh together. 1.:? THE WATCHER. And I saw, wliere against the ashy sky, A (lark thing waved and floated — And ever it seemed, as it hung so high, As dancing alone to the night-winds sigh, A solemn dance unnoted. And I hastened on, for 1 had no will To stay on the whispering heather, Wliere that dark thing swung in the night-air chill And the rusty links, with discord shrill, Were grating all harsh together. I wander' d since on a distant shore, And over the ocean foaming, And many a year was past and o'er, 'Ere I came back to that land once more. After a restless roaming. There's a mound of earth with weeds o'ergrown Upon the whispering heather, And, at less three miles but more than one, Tlierc'b a .scathed bush and a sunken stone, Close in a dell together. THE WATCHER. 13 '' Oh, shepherd, tell what mound I see Beclad with weeds and broken ? And, over one mile but less than three, That sunken stone by the hawthorn tree, O tell what they betoken ?" " Once on that mound a gibbet stood, Stood long — a sight uncheery. Where moulder'd as moulder'd the chains, and the wood He who had shed his father's blood In yonder dell so dreary. " And underneath that sunken stone, He tried his crime to smother — 'Tis the murder'd one's grave — but the deed was done. Stranger, when Ave, now aged grown. Were babes both one and tother. " And they say, that to rest he had no will Beneath the stone and the heather. Whilst the parricide waved in the wind so chill, And the rusty chains with discord slirill Still grated all harsh together. 14 THE WATCHER. " And, till all was gone, a pilgrim lone Watched he the heath uncheery, Listing ever the night-winds moan — By havvbush skreen and on seat of stone, Thorough the night so dreary." u pflht (S^mtli TRAVELL'D through a doleful night— I had travell'd a doleful day — And the roof of the coach was a cheerless sight, When I shiver'd alone in the lamp's dim light, Along a desolate way. Not quite alone — the driver is there His hand on the trembling rein ; But his mood is sad, and his words are rare, For he has seldom a word to spare. Save for his horses twain. \C) THE NIGHT COACH. The liorses twain, with patient toil. Slowly his word obey ; For they are spent with long turmoil — And the wheels sink deep in the clinging soil Along the desolate way. This way, so desolate and so drear, Is skirted to left and right By fir-trees dark all crowded near, Which fill his mind with secret fear. Who passes alone at night. And there's nought to hear from the gloom profound, Of these fir-trees dark and grim, But of horses twain the panting sound. As they urge the wheel through the clinging ground. In the flickering lamplight dim. And thus with dull, reluctant pace, We travel the dreary way — And phantoms many, of direful face. And thoughts of dole each other chace, Thronging in close array. THE NIGHT COACir. I 7 And sure am I that driver sad Bore part in these fancies vain, As he ton'd the tune of a ballad ghid, Though sekloni a tone to spare he had Save for his horses twain. For so strange his voice — and so wihl his tone — He sang as who sings in pain, And the baUad glad it seem'd a moan. As ever he tun'd and tun'd alone One same and tedious strain. And it seem'd as I heard that tedious sound, And of wheels in the clinging soil, And saw the dim lamp in the dark profound, That I ever had toil'd on that desolate ground, And ever more there must toil — There was no longer a past for me. Not even of yesterday — And nothing of future could I see — But only the future still to be Upon that tedious way. n IS THE NIGHT COACH AikI sense is dull'd by torpor drear, And thonglit is stagnant grown, But now, at length, a change is near, For yonder a light is sparkling clear. Amid the gloom alone. It is, methinks, a kindly gleam, A herald-star of grace ; The driver he hums a livelier theme, And lo ! the jaded horses seem To mend their lingering pace. And well they may for 'tis the spot. The well known change-house blest. Where they, poor creatures, faint and hot, At length may cease their painful trot. And know a transient rest. We have stopp'd at last beside a green. And near a stable lone, A stable had once a mansion been. But now a ruin and half unseen With ivv thick o'erurown. THE NIGHT COACH. 19 Dark firs, all ranged in solemn file, By the fitful light are seen. And in the midst that ghostly pile, And there's ne'er another for many a mile Around the lonely green. With lamp of horn, the hostler there Holds ready his horses twain. And he busies himself with a sullen air The traces to loose of our jaded pair. And then to put to again. The driver has thrown each separate I'ein One hither, and one there — And as he waits to start again, Holds converse short, in mystic strain. With him of the sullen air. 'Twas said " how Jim had westward been By the last up Tally ho — • How both the parties he had seen — How they were fiy — and how he was green — And could no business do." :20 THE MGHT COACH. 'Twas said " as how tlie roan was lame — How Miles had fired the black — How some one coidd chaff, but was not ganie- And how as soon as the dow^n coach came, Thev would send a basket bnck." But now the reins are buckled neat — And coupled the horses right — The cloths are drawn and all complete — And the driver firm upon his seat. Mutters a rough " good night !" And so ai2;ain withlunib'riuo- sound The conch is on its road ; And the horses o'er a firmer ground, Beyond the fir-trees gloom profound, Draw quicker a lightened load. Por we have left the sombre skreen Of firs on either hand; And now the air comes fresh and keen, And misty wreaths are dindy seen To steal o'er the open land. THE NIGHT COACH. 21 And see the waning moon is there, Low hnng with threatening horn — And through the dull and murky air She sheds from the west a feeble glare Upon the scene forlorn. With steady pace, we roll along Across a marshy plain — • The driver has now renewed his song, As he presses oft with taper thong The speed of his horses tw^ain. But cheery now the driver's strain, And varied is his song ; He to my word responds again, As he presses the speed of his horses twain By a touch of the taper thong. He is not as he was before Sullen of mood and mien — And he tells how twenty ycfU's, or more. He has driven that wild country o'er, And what he has sometimes seen. .)0 THE NIGHT COACH. a '\\ There's a place," he said, " near this here ground They call it the dismal pool — Where years ago a man was drovvn'd. And he was sitting when he was found Right np in the water cool. " A 'quest was held — the case was tried — But the 'quest could not agree On who he was and when he died. But the verdict brought in was suicide, So buried he conld not be. " That is, not in the sacred ground, So they buried him by the way ; And, two days after, he was found, Still sitting there where he was drown'd, Leastways 'tis so, they say. " And since that time, there's none so bold. Unless he were a fool. To venture out by night I'm told. And go alone in the dark and cold Down to the dismal pool. THE NIGHT COACH. 2S *' But nobody ever came this way, For then then there was no road ; And nobody pass'd by niglit or day, And nothins: was heard as I've heard sav, Bnt the night-owl and the toad. " I never was there," the driver said — "And never wish to go : I can see it from my box instead, 'Tis near that chimp of trees ahead Three hundred yards or so. " But, when by night I drive this ground, In the winter time you know, And I see the hghts a-dancing round, Like fire-flies there where he was drown 'd. Don't I make the horses go ?" The driver's dismal tale was said. And he made the horses go, 24 THE NIGHT COACH. And metlionglit I saw the fire-flies red, Dancing near a corpse ahead, One hundred yards or so. We have left with joy the dank morass, And mount a hill of sand, And now a straggling hamlet pass. Where cottages of meanest class Are scattered on either hand. The hamlet has an aspect ill, Each hovel seems to frown ; And I feel each time a secret thrill. As I pass each one in the night so still, Thus scatter'd up and down. I love the peasant's smiling nook, And the porch and the woodbine screen. And the gardens sloping to the brook And all the cottage-homes that look Upon the village-green. THE NIGHT COACH. 25 But here's no garden by the brook, Here is no villa2;e-o;reen, This way and that the hovels look, And seem to slink each in its nook, With sullen, unsocial mien. The driver said, " That was a place Before this road was made. Where used to Kve a gipsy race, Of savage look and dingy face. And they drove some secret trade. "This secret trade, you well suppose, Was nothing but to rob ; Bat then, as everybody knows, Such dangerous customers as those Are ready for any job. " A hardy numerous band they were, With strong allies folks tell, And in that ruin'd building there, Where I change this and the other |)air, Lived one who knew them well. 26 THE NIGHT COACH. " This one was quite of high degree, And could help with purse and power, And he had friends beyond the sea — All joined in one same plot as he — And his house was like a tower. " This house, secure against alarms, With guns and traps w^as fill'd. And what was more than such like arms, 'Tis said that he, wdth drugs and charms, An army could have kill'd. " He liv'd a gloomy life long while. And seldom abroad was seen. And few went to that gloomy pile. And no one lived for many a mile, Around that lonely green. " At last, this man for many a day AVas miss'd in the country round. He seem'd to have vanish'd quite away, No one had seen, and none could say Where he might be found. THE NIGHT COACH, 27 "And when they sent to look for him, At his house on the lonely green, The house was found in a dismal trim, Open and void, but the master grim Could neither be heard nor seen. " Of dust and rubbish there was no lack, And of broken seats and stools, And there was a room with a furnace black, And broken crucibles, and a pack Of other outlandish tools. " There was nothing stirring in hall or room. Nothing upon the stair. Nothing alive in that place of doom. The very rats avoid the gloom. And dare not harbour there. " But they found in the court and near a shed, forgotten and ah)ne. An old grey horse but nearly dead. Wasted with hunger gaunt and dread, lie was only hide and bone. 8 THE NiGHT COACH. " And it was plain that famine dire He liail borne a week or more, For from the shed he had stript the straw, And was vainly stretching his meagre jaw To reach a mouthful more. " Not again this man was heard or seen, "Where ever he werjt or how, Since then there's no one long has been To dwell in the house on the lonely green. And the house is a stable now. " Some say that he for wealth and might His soul had signed away — And that at last, as is just and right, The devil had come in the dead of night To carry him off his prey. " And I knew an old man, who at that day As packman used to range, And he was often heard to say — That he one night had pass'd that way, And had heard a something strange. THE NIUUT COACH. 29 " He had lu;arc1 at iii<>lit a tlisiual cry Now feeble and now strong, Sometimes low and sometimes high, Like one in terror passing by, Who screamed as he went along. " The gipsies left the country too, Withervvard none can say, But one, the foremost of the crew, For cruel crimes of deadly hue. Was gibbetted on the way. " And he alas with heavy moan Did to a priest confess, He had done a deed that ne'er was known, And had hid beneath a certain stone His unseen wickedness. " And he said too, Avhen tlie deed was done A [)aper he had seen. By which he knew he was the son — The only child of the vanish'd one Who had lived on the lonelv f>;reen." 30 THE NIGHT COACH. The driver tells so drear a tale, As he drives his pair along, In trnth, as we thread this gloomy vale, I would I had ne'er but heard the vt^ail Of his dull and tedious song. Tor phantoms, of such spectral look As fancy will invent. Now people every leafy nook — And haunt the sedges by the brook — Lurking with foul intent. There are tangled branches all around And close depending o'er. And of waters falling underground Into an unknown depth profound I hear the hollow roar. And, as the foaming waters fell. There seemed from time to time To mingle with the gushing swell The clang as of a silvery bell Ptinging a plaintive chime. THE NIGHT COACH. 31 The driver sving his tedious strain, And the foaming waters fell, And still it came again, again, We nearer draw, and I heard it plain, The tone of a plaintive bell. " What village bell is that I hear ?" I begg'd the driver say, " There is," said he, " no bell so near Could send its voice so loud and clear Into this hollow way. " 'Tis of Bell brook you hear the tide, So called because they say — That in that stream a lady died. And she poor thing would have been a bride Had she lived to the morrow's day. " Yet twas not in this gushing rill That perished the maiden fair, But over the meadows near a mill, Where far away the waters still Were spann'd by an ancient weir. 32 THE NIGHT COACH. " The village smil'd with air serene, And hope and joy was there, And the merry bells o'er meadows green Peal'd glad, whilst in the wave unseen Peiisli'd that maiden fair. " And so the stream Bell brook they call, A name that suits it well, For ever amid the rush and brawl — Wheresoever the waters fall — There chimes a plaintive bell." " Now driver cease, three tales you've told As sad as sad might be — To hear them makes the blood run cold — So drear each one, but this I hold, The dreariest of the three." The driver has ceas'd his dreary strain And he sings his tedious song. THE NIGHT COACH. 33 Nor to iiiy word replies again, But presses the pace of his horses twain By a touch of his taper thong. And now, luethinks, a keener air Breathes over the open vale — And though no moon nor star is there, I plainly see the country bare Design'd in outline pale. The coach rolls on — rolls on — rolls on — Over an endless plain — And many another mile is gone — And I think this coach that I ride upon, Never will stop again. And still the restless rumbling wheel Whirls over the frosty ground — Till thought at last begins to i-eel — And visions vague my senses steal — And I sleep a sleep profound. 34 THE NIGHT COACH. Long time I sleep, whilst wearily A weary stage is past, For wearv stao^e must ended be — And at the Inn of Eltess Lee. The coach has stopt at last. Here cheery fire and lights engage And gladden awhile the sight ; And horsed once more is our equipage. Before a long and dreary stage That ends the voyage of night. Now, from the lumbering motion free, I seek the cheery light, Within the little hostelrie — And there are waiting travellers three To join our voyage of night. niA Tis pleasing when o'er a wintry track The hollow wind blows keen — When roads are white — and skies are black- To hear the crackling faggot crack In such a homely scene. THE NIGHT COACH. 35 Pleasing then the social strain Of converse Hght and gay — Pleasing the cordial cup to drahi — But — oh — 'tis hard to part again Upon the wintry way. But now the pair is coupled neat — And trimm'd afresh each light — And from the hearth we mnst retreat- And the driver, mounting to his seat, Mutters a rough " good night 1" We leave the crackling hearth so gay With recollection fond ; The turnpike lamp with pallid ray Shows through a yawning gate the way Into the gloom beyond. 3G THK NIGHT COACH. We have left the Inn of Eltess Lee — And are on the gloomy wold — Bnt cheery are the travellers three, And their discourse is light and free, In spite of gloom and cold. And they travel again their jonrnies o'er, They have travell'd long time and far, Two to the western and eastern shore ; The third a thousand miles or more Towards the polar star. The coach rolls on — more sharp, the air Is whitening bnsh and spray — And there's neither bend nor angle there — And the road across a country bare Stretches for miles away. But still of all they've heard and seen The travellers tales are told : And what they've done — and where they've been- They still recount with relish keen. In spite of gloom or cold. THE NIGHT COACH. 37 Right cheering is such bearing Hght — And tales and talk so free — But those three tales I heard to-night Still are haunting me, in spite Of the tales of the travellers three. The coach rolls on — rolls on — rolls on — We have gained the middle plain ; And now my journey is nearly done, And glad I'll be when the coach I'm on Shall come to a stop again. There is upon the middle wold, To a bridle path hard by, A post upon a mound of mould, Pointing as with finger cold Into the leaden sky. So desolate it looks and chill Upon that mound of mould, I feel of awe an icy thrill To see it spectral white and still Pointing its finger cold. 38 THE NIGHT COACH. Tliere sure must be some legend rare About that silent post ; It has so weird an aspect there Standing on its hillock bare Like a new risen ghost. I'll question not that driver more Who sits in silent mood, I've heard enough his legend lore. The dismal tales he told before Have verily chill'd my blood. But the driver guessed my thoughts of dread, Though silent was my tongue, And he sideways slowly bent his head As with a dreary smile he said : " 'Twas there that he was hung !" I well knew what the driver meant, As he sideway bent his head ; The travellers three no heeding lent, And, on their travels still intent, They heard not what he said. THE NIGHT COACH. 39 Now many another mile is gone — And 'tis bitter the freezino; nidit — And there, wherever the lamps have shone. Each object draped in hoar frost wan Starts out a spectre white. With crystals branch and twig are set, And gemm'd the feathery grass, And broider'd on a ground of jet Of tangled briars a silver net Is glistening as we pass The horses on their mettle got, Their homeward speed renew — And on they go with ardour hot, And crisp the ground beneath their trot Crackles and sparkles blue. The driver is holding them down a swell, And a backening rein he plies, Then slacks his hold across the dell. With skilful art to spring them well Up the opposing rise. 40 THE NIGHT COACH. But vainly now he slacks his rein To shoot the hollow deli — And the driver's skilful art is vain Up the opposing rise again To spring his horses well. For now the horse (with sudden start) On the off hand side who toil'd, Towards the near side made a dart, And I heard the loud beating of his heart As he back from the hedge recoil'd. And I saw his eye with terror bright, And nostril panting wide, As something through the dusky night, More dusk in the coach lamp's fading light He fearfully espied. And I feel the swerving carriage rock To this horse's sidelong rear, Whilst the other motionless as a stock Stricken by sympathetic shock Trembles with panic fear. THE NIGHT COACH. 41 Alul panic fear has seized me too, The driver and travellers three, As we turn to the hedge a startled view, Expecting something strange and new On the off road side to see. Down from the coach we all alight, We dare not there abide, And b)' the coach-lamp's flickering light We dimly see an object white Near the off road side. The driver hastes to take his stand At the heads of the frighten'd pair — Whilst we, the rest, with lamp in hand, Approach the hedge, a cautious band. To see what may ])c there. And what there is may well with fright The heart of the boldest thrill. To see it at the dead of night Sitting alone so ghastly white Motionless sightless chill. G 4.0 THE NIGHT COACH. It seems a witlier'd and aged one, Blind, helpless, and forlorn — As there he sits by night alone, Resting upon a granite stone, His back to the hedge of thorn. Through tangled locks of hoary gray Gleam dull the sightless eyes. Be lie old or young there's none may say, For the frost, that has whiten'd bush and spray, Has blanch'd his hair likewise. And death has quench'd his open eye, That looks, but nought can see — And yet it seems, I know not why. To kindle as it seems to spy Myself and the travellers three. With right arm raised above the breast He steadily seems to view, The fingers to his lips are press'd, As of some secret he is posscss'd, And bids us guard it too. THE NIGUr COACH. 43 Awe stricken with a sight so drear Myself and travellers stand : The driver now approaches near, Whilst I, to calm the horses' fear, Soothe them with word and hand. And long we form surmises vain, And vain suspicions tell — But see the night hours quickly wane— And we not longer can remain Within this hollow dell. And so we have left him stiff and cold, As he sits by the off road side ; And ne'er since then has it been told Hinted or guess'd by young or old, When or how he died. And since that time ('tis many a year) ] never have chanced to be 44 THE NIGHT COACH. Upon that road so dull and drear — And never have chanced to see or hear Oiioht of those travellers three. That driver too I saw no more — His coach and his horses twain — Since then the world I've wander'd o'er But that night coach ride I rode before I wish never to ride again. HHitinig for i\>\m. 'M weary, love, thus waiting lonely, Through lingering days, nor hope is sent me, AVaiting for thee ! Why in this world can one joy only, Why none of those by fortune lent me Why only that of all content me, Which cannot be ? I'm weary, love, yet still I wander. From spring and sunshine so uncheery Waiting for thee ! Glad sounds I love not — but I ponder Ever in stillness, to one weary Night's silent cloud is not so dreary, It cannot be ! 4G WAITIKG FOR THEE. It cannot be— Fate hath forbidden This wounded heart one hope to cherish Of what might be. Deep in my soul must tliis be hidden, A thought which but with hfe can perish, Deep in my soul witli life to perish, Known but to thee ! Wearily waiting, dreaming, waking Life so forlorn no more shall bind me. I will be free 1 Pree, through the confines of death breaking, Haste, love, tarry not long behind me. There may'st thou seek me, there wilt find me, Waitinsj for thee 1 §hc Drcnm, HEN night silently is weeping Dewy tears o'er flower and tree, In dull sleep, my senses steeping, Vanish'd one thou com'st to me. 'Tis no dream — no empty seeming — Thy smile once more is mildly beaming— And as of yore with fond love teeming — Thy living self again I see. All the day unseen thou'rt waiting — Waiting stih night's placid reign, And with strong love unabating Thou'It be with me there asain. No — 'tis a dream — an empty seeming — Thine eye no more with life is gleaming — Nor as of yore with fond love bcaniina: — Vanish'd one — my tears are vain. Wk iardon. VER the voiceless billow In a boat I darkly glide — Stirs not a leaf of the willow That weeps o'er the sullen tide. The wave with silent motion, Glides on to a distant main ; Lost in the fathomless ocean, 'Twill never come back again. And the night wind has no sound, As it passes along unseen — To regions remote, profound, Where never yet man has been. Where the deep mysterious fountains Are fetter'd with icy chain, Engulf'd in snow clad mountains, 'Twill never come back again. THE PARDON, 49 A flower on the ozier bed Is wan in the twilight's glcaiii, Dying, it droops its head Over the sullen stream. And its faded leaves are fallino^, And 'tis still the same sad strain, Life there is no recalling, It never will bloom again. Bloom never — its breath on the wings Of the wind hath passed away. So vanish all earthly things With Time that will not stav. Still o'er the voiceless billow In ray boat I slowly glide. Stirs not a leaf of the willow. That weeps o'er the sullen tide. The moon with crescent lam}) Pales feebly over head ; And wreaths of vapour damp Steal out from the river bed, n 50 THE PARDON. And through that vapour dank Shapes all uncouth I see, And nothing on either bank Is what it seems to be. Is that a scathed willow Beside the water's brim, Into the silent billow That droops a shatter'd liud) ? Methinks, as I near am borne On the untiring flood, 'Tis a figure aged and worn, And clad in a monkish hood. Mysteriously reclining, Its looks so thin and pale. Night's pallid beam is shining Athwart that phantom frail. In the silent river A ghostly hand it laves. Something ever and ever Seeking upon the waves. ft ■''llliil! ■" 1i THE PARDON. 51 And, ov tlie vague wind only Deceives my startled ear, Or a voice is plaining lonely In accents dull and drear — The ghostly hand is feeling — Seeking still in vain, And the word comes faintly stealing, " She comes not back aoain." I have past that dreary sight, That shape I would see no more — And under the cloud of nidit I have gain'd the further shore — And o'er a desolate track With quickening pace I tread, Whiles gazing fearfully back To the river's silent bed. By fancies dread unceasing Spurr'd on I have cross'd the j)lain, And ever with speed increasing A forest's skirt I gain, SC THE PARDON. Beneath that leafy cover. With spirit cahn'd I stray, AVhere things unearthly hover It is not good to stay. Now along a bosky glacle With slacken'd step I pass, Beneath the dark phie's shade. And through the tangled grass — But soon mid spray and stem A welcon'.e light I spy. Glittering like a gem Through a tissue of sable dye. I have reach'd in a tranquil dell A cottage of humble seeming, 'Tis a pious hermit's cell Prom whence the light is beaming — A holy man is there His vesper hymn attuning, Or wrapt in silent prayer, AVith his soul and his God couununing- THE PARDON. 53 To the portal open stealing, I watch that inmate lone, The ao-ed hermit kneelinoj, And the crucifix of stone — As I look on his pensive mien, Recnrs with inward thrill The mystic form I had seen By the side of the waters chill. But nought can here a[)pal In that cahn and pensive mien, In the hoary locks which fall Around that face serene. His look in mnte devotion Is fixed on things above, And his upraised eye, I know not why. Inspires a strong emotion Of reverence and of love. But now his vespers ending He turns with aspect bland 54 THE PARDON. A look upon me bending By the threshold where J stand. Within his humble dwelling He kindly bids me stay, Refreshment there to find And rest till the morrow's day. Soon at his modest board A hermit's feast I share, And many a courteous word Sweeten'd the scanty fare. But still, by hearth bright shining, I recal with inward thrill That mystic form reclining By the side of the waters still. My air absorb'd and dreaming The hermit saw with pain, And he cried, "This pensive seeming, My son, I pray explain ? Say wdience the secret fear That kindles at whiles thine eye ? THE PARDON. 55 And the pallor thy features wear ? I pray thee, my son, reply." " Good father," I replied — " I have seen a woful sight By yon solemn river side, Beneatii the cloud of ni2;ht. There where through vapours dark Strange forms I seem'd to see, And nothing on either bank Was what it seem'd to be. " It was not a scathed willow Beside the voiceless flood — That dark shape watching the billow Clad in a monkish hood. Nought human was there inclining — For I saw the moonbeam pale Athwart the outline shining As through a misty veil. " In the silent river A hand I saw it lave, 56 THE PARDON. Seeking ever and ever Something on the wave — That ghostl}'^ hand was feehng, Searching still in vain, And the word came faintly stealing : ' She comes not back again.' " The hermit bent in silence Attentive to my tale — And there passed a shade of sadness Across his visage pale — Yet from that sombre sadness A faint light gleam'd awhile, Though nought akin to gladness Was in that transient smile. " And thou, my son," he cried, " That phantom too could'st see, Kenn'd by the silent tide Ere now of none but me ! Of heaven's mystic ways A token I can read — THE PARDON. 57 List then beside the kiiulliiio; blaze, Whilst I recount of other days, A strange and piteous deed. Not many years have bow'd my head, Not age has blanch'd my brou', For lustres five have scarcely fled. Since I roam'd the world with as lioht a tread, And with heart as light as thine. I wore as thou my spurs of gold, And my tresses of golden hair — And though but twenty summers old Was nor unknown among the bold, Nor unheeded of the fair. That happy past is now a dream, Is a star in the milky plain. It lends alone a pallid gleam. But of youthful hope the kindling beam Can warm me ne'er again. 58 THE PAHDOM. One brotlier sole, of all our race, Was left my love to claim Alike in form, alike in face, In courage equal, and in grace, We differ'd but by name. But he was cast in sterner mould, More rash, more prone to ire, And yet his humour fierce and bold One spirit bland and blest controll'd And calm'd his angry fire. For he woo'd and won a maiden fair, Proudest and first of all — My lot was with that noble pair The charms of tranquil love to share In the old ancestral Hall. But now the Hosts of Christendom The Pagan land invade. And away across the salt sea foam My brother has left his blissful home To join the far crusade. THE PARDON. 59 He left his Hilda sorrowing there To stem the battle tide, Nor ought avail'd of tear or prayer, He left his dame and his hifant heir ; He would no more abide. Long in the fight with lofty mien He led his followers on, And ever where his crest was seen. Where glanced his falchion bright and keen, Heroic deeds were done. Think not that I in peaceful hall A life of pleasure led, Whilst sounded thus the trumpet call, And there before the Paynim wall Our Christian warriors bled. Nor idle was, or lance or brand, I have seen lusty blows. And oft have led a gallant band Upon the frontiers of our land. Against invading foes. 00 THE PARDON. I too in joust aiul tourney gay Have striven not in vain. For I have known my part to play, And with tlie brave in knightly tray A victor's wreath to gain. First saw I in like feat of arms, Where I successful strove, iMy Clara rich in modest charms, Who fill' d my soul with sweet alarms. And taught me how to love. Her winning smile and noble mien Inspired me in the fight, Resistless made my falchion keen, And she, of love and beauty queen, Crown'd the victorious knieht. Flenceforth I woo'd that peerless maid, Nor vainly urg'd my plea. Yet is awhile my bliss delayed, Nor till returns the far crusade. May we united be. THE PARDON. 61 But sweetly now the luomeiits glide, Blest moments past recall ; For still I meet my destin'd bride In forest glade, on mountain side. In bower, and festive hall. And oft she sought in her domain The pensive Hilda fair. And well they loved like sisters twain, Sharhig each other's joy and pain, As sisters twain should share. And the bright glance of Clara dear. With sweet and magic spell. Alone that pensive dame could cheer. Who mourn'd the absence long and drear Of the one slie loved so well. And Clara oft with nol)le grace My ruder toils would share, W^ould mingle in the dangerous cliace, At courteous tourney hold her place. And knightly armour wear. 62 THE PARDON. But time rolls by, the wnr is o'er, The weary troops return, They hail with joy the native shore. They reach the wisli'cl for home once more, That prize they well did earn. Yet not return'd that noble chief, Nor came his faithful train — Nor tidings were could bring relief To hearts that pined in doleful grief, And hop'd long years in vain. At length, since all must end below. Are ended doubts and fears, On Afric's shore, at length we know, Our lord made captive by the foe, Had sighed for two sad years. As homeward o'er the bounding wave lie strove with scanty train, A corsair seized that warrior brave, To Tunis bore, and left a slave. In dungeon and in chain. THE PARDON. (53 Within our hearts these tidings move Of joy, than anguish shed, For we had wept him o'er and o'er, Deeming that he on Paynira shore, Was numbered with the dead. Hope glows in Hilda's gentle breast To meet her lord once more. Her loving zeal will know not rest, Or, of his ransom high possess'd, She seek the Spanish shore. And soon she seeks the Spanish strand, The heavy ransom found, Of vassals true a gallant band Escort their lady lance in hand, On holy mission bound. My Clara, clad in glittering steel. Will join that mission too. Dissuasion mocks with friendly zeal, And heedless of my fond appeal, She gaily smiles adieu. 64 THE PARDON. Me fate forbade with cruel spite To join the cavalcade, Tor I to aid a brother knight In an impending border fight, A compact firm had made. But hope is in my Clara's heart Her smile has promise too. Yet see I tears unbidden start As, whilst we there in silent part, She gaily smiles adieu. I smil'd — but faintly smil'd again, My heart was bleeding sore. Then onward pass'd that joyous train, I saw them skirt the distant plain, I saw them never more. But let me now with rapid pace, Traverse the piteous tale. THE PARDON. 65 For as the doleful past I trace, Emotions strong niy words efface, And heart is ni^h to fail. The Afric shore is left behind, The ransom'd captive free, And, wafted by a favouring wind. Too slow for his inipatiejit mind. He is crossing the restless sea. Winds or waves no pace can keep, With wishes that homeward fly, Yet soon he spies beyond the deep A distant headland blue and steep Piercing the paler sky. Upon that point high pois'd in air The broad expanse to view, Stands day by day the Hilda fair, Breathing ever a silent prayer As she looks on the waters blue. K 06 THE PAUDOX. Now at this moment one and same Hearts each are other greeting, His sail she kens and the oriflamme, He sees the rock where that noble dame In breatldess hope is waiting. And now at length that hone is crown'd, Deferr'd through long sad years. And he stands again on Christian ground, And there his Hilda fair has fonnd, Adorn'd wnth smiles and tears. There Clara too, whose maiden grace Is veiled in knishtlv gear, Tends to the chief a frank embrace. Deputed in a brother's place, His welcome home to bear. Tor she with innocent intent Her tender sex would hide. Till, home arrived, with new content Our chief may learn the blest event. Shall make her then my bride. THE TARUOX. G7 My brother marked her noble air Beside his beauteous dame ; Her eye of bhie, and raven hair, And, as he mark'd, a look of care Upon his features came. But sombre care coukl never stay Where stay'd my Chira bright. She pass'd to all her humour gav. As can one taper's gentle ray Unnumber'd lamps ignite. But joy is fading as the grass, And goes as all things go. Some fleeting hours of gladness pass, The last bright days that hence, alas, My brother e'er must know. By durance long, and want and woe, His health robust was tried. And now a fever, dull and slow, With hi his frame begins to glow. Awhile he there must bide. 63 THE PAEDOIS. Abide awhile on couch of pain Beside the Spanish shore, By heahng arts his health to gain, Ere he can bear his arms again In vioour as before. And well each healing art was tiied By those who held him dear, And each in turn the couch beside, With anxious zeal his need supplied, And smil'd his heart to cheer. There is beside a river bright A garden cool and green. Where orang-e boughs wnth blossoms white, And mvrtles sweet embalm the nifjht And form a grateful skreen. Here breaks the blue sea's murmuring wave AVith ne'er receding sound. And, moor'd within a mossy cave, Where sea and stream united lave, A little skiff is found. THE PARDON. 69 Thither would sometimes Clara stray Beside the waters clear, Quitting awhile her humour gay, To think of one was far away, And drop a single tear. One evening to her favorite spot More sad than wont she stray'd, And Hilda sought but spied her not, Till there within the moss clad grot. She found the pensive maid. To float upon that tranquil stream The skiff she had unbound, For she, beneath the cold moonbeam, Of me, her absent love would dream. In musing thought profound. Oft heaven in wavs of mvsterv Misfortune will foreshow. This gloom, unknown, or whence or why. On Clara's soul's yet cloudless sky, Spoke of impending woe. 70 THE PARDON. Hilda hud iiiark'd her pensive mien, More pensive still and sad, And from such mood her friend would wean, And lead her to the social scene Her presence aje could glad. And well she urged with accent bland. Well urged with fond caress. As by the little skiff they stand, Pressing closely hand to hand With sister tenderness. What is it steals through cypress gloom And past the myrtle shade Then stands like ghost from yawning tond). Pale herald of some dismal doom. In ghastly white array'd ? The chief whose rest wild visions chase Has miss'd his Hilda fair. Strange doubts his sickly mind embrace. He has follow'd her track with stealthy pace, And has found that loving pair. THE PAllDON. 71 And he hears the tones of Hilda bland, And he sees the fond caress, As by the little skiff they stand. Pressing closely hand to hand With sister tenderness. Ah woe ! Scarce will my failing breath The sequel dire unfold — But ne'er before were done to death Fond hearts so innocent beneath The moonbeam pure and cold. There is beside a river bright A garden cool and green, And there two marble crosses white. Of myrtles that embalm the night Gleam forth from leafy skreen. There sleep our loves, wliilst mourns the wave With ne'er recediui? sound Near where within a mossy cave Which sea and stream united lave The little skiff was found. 72 THE PARDON. I waited long my love's return, I waited long in vain. — And a horse and his rider at last discern With frantic speed as the soil they spurn, Coming over the distant plain. And he came, that rider, wan and worn, Devour'd by anguish keen. — Sure never set eve nor rose the morn, On one so reft, one so forlorn, Since morn and eve have been. And I learn how of these victims twain Was Clara first who died. And, dying, Hilda had told, ah vain ! How that sweet maid, thus madly slain, Was my affianced bride. That chief's despair, oh ! who can tell ? That bitterness who could dream ? Commenced for him a pang of hell, That crimson stain as pure it fell Upon the limpid stream. THE PARDON. 73^ But pardon mortals all must crave, And vengeance leave to Heaven. My heart was buried in Clara's grave, So I that despairing soul forgave As I hoped to be forgiven. He has left his hall and his wide domain, He has quitted his arms for ever — And he seeks, with wild and tortured brain. This dreary spot, to still remain By the side of the silent river. For he said he saw his Hilda fair As he wander'd I knew not whither, He said, she ever was pointing there, As on we roam'd I knew not where. Until we wander'd hither. For here she had bid him pardon gain. Or pardon'd he would be never. 74 THE PARDON. And then would be wash'd out the stain When he should see her blood again Upon this silent river. So here, by doleful fortune borne, I fixed our lonely dwelling. And I pray'd for that poor soul forlorn From fading eve till early morn, My beads unwearied telling. But never here would he abide, Availed persuasion never. He quits no more the water side. Seeks blood — her blood upon the tide, Of the still unsullied river. And he died beside the rolling flood. And I buried him by the willow. In his mantle gray and monkish hood. And to pray his grace and ghostly good I have known nor rest nor pillow. THE PARDON. 7o And still, my son, I here must bicle, Thus interceding ever, Whilst he, still by the water's side, Seeks vainly blood upon the tide. Of the still unsullied river. For as the billow fleeting by Returns not from the main — As float not back the winds that fly — Nor bloom again the flowers that die — Her blood comes not again. The final word is spoken Of the hermit's doleful tale. And in silence long unbroken, I watch his visage pale, Bodings — vague — mysterious My senses captive take. And with impulse — strong— imperious The silence thus I break. 76 THE PARDON You have told me of the knight — You have told of Hilda fair — Of the phantom of the night — And what he is seeking there. But father, nothing hast thou told Of the son, the infant heir — I pray thee then the fate unfold Of the child of Hilda fair 1 When I abandon'd arms and fame. My brother's fate to share, Not heedless was I of the name That child should one day bear. Within a cloister's sure retreat I found him fitting place Where he should gentle nurture meet As best became his race. For him the hall and wide domain Were placed in trusty care. That when he should his spurs attain. He might bring honour there. THE PARDON. 77 riT That he in tourney and in fight His father's Wade shoukl wield. And with new blazon make more bright The glories of his shield. But from that convent's walls he fled. One sad ill-fated day. And be he living yet or dead My son I cannot say. He fled to join some far campaign, Or seek some foreign shore, And heirless now is the domain Of Karl de Waldebour. He gazed in mute amaze Upon the hermit pale, As by the flickering blaze Ended that piteous tale. His tongue refused its aid, Till at last he trembhng cried, " Then 'twas my father's shade I saw by the sullen tide. 78 THE PARDON. " That form that in the river Its fingers seem'd to lave, Somethins: ever and ever Seeking upon the wave. And 'twas mv mother's blood He was seeking there in vain When T came on the roUino; Hood The child of Hilda slain !" " Oh yes," the hermit cries, " Thou art child of Hilda fair ! Those are her gentle eyes And her tresses of golden hair. Then shall he Heaven's mercy share. And be free'd from his doleful pain For thou, the blood of his Hilda fair. Hast come back on the wave again." There is within a tangled dell A ruin void and lone. The hermit pale has left his cell, And his crucifix of stone. THE PARDON. 79 The glittering casque he wore of old Again his white locks wear And in joust or fight, he joins a knight With tresses of golden hair. There's a silent river flovvins: Mid evening vapours dank And a beauteous flower is "-rowino- Upon an ozier bank. And there the moonbeam sleeps, Like a smile from gracious heaven, That whispers one who weeps " His crime lias been forgiven." And there's a scathed willow Beside the watei-'s brim, Into the voiceless billow That droops a shatter'd limb. You would say, ere nearer borne On the untiring flooti, 'Twas a figure aged and worn And clad in a nionkish hood. (^rajmi^nt of an ®lri ^allud A¥HITE owl sate on the castle wall Ring, ring, the chimes are gone, A white owl sate on the castle wall, I toU'd three toUs^ and he came at the call And the old Bell of Beaiijey. A feather will fly, and a wind will blow, Ring, ring, the chimes are gone. The feather is gone where feathers do go, Bnt the lightest of all is a maid I know^ And the Old Bell of Beaujey. FRAGMENT OF AN OLD BALLAD. 81 The moon shone over a field of ice. Ring, ring, the chimes are gone, The okl man counted his rats and mice, Pie told them false, so he told them twice. And the Old Bell of Beaujey. M Wk Idl of '^m\]% HOU hast heard it once — hast heard it twice- To night, and yesterday. Guard thee well to hear it thrice, Wander far away. For never he 'scap'd death or dole Who heard three times the solenni toll Of the Bell of Beaujey. And twice beside the dark wood Thou hast seen a dainty dame — Twice out of the dark wood That dainty lady came — But ever he had cause to wail Who met three times the spectre pale Of the Belt of Beaujey. i|iiliHiill|l{|{!ill4Aijlililiiilllilli4. .rfef ■^ Fon t-^:rrrr^.