'^"r 
 
 -r V- 
 
 \ 
 
 A
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 /
 
 ELGIYA, 
 
 Or THE M O N K S. 
 
 3n !^i0tortcal poeiitf 
 
 WITH SOME 
 
 MINOR PIECES 
 
 Lord of unsleeping love, 
 From everlasting thou ! We shall not die. 
 These, even these, in metcy didst thou form, 
 Teachers of good through evil ; by brief wrong 
 Making truth lovely. 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 LONDON: 
 PUBLISHED BY BALDWIN, CRADOCK, AND .TOY. 
 
 1824.
 
 
 TO 
 
 Miss HOLFORD, 
 
 the authoress of wallace, 
 
 this poem, 
 
 designed to illustrate 
 the generous affections 
 
 AND HEROIC FORTITUDE 
 
 OF THE FEMALE CHARACTER, 
 IS, 
 BY HER KIND PERMISSION, 
 
 RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED. 

 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In clmsingthe present portion of Anglo-Saxon 
 history as the ground-work of a poem, the 
 authoress was chiefly influenced by a wish to 
 exemplify the force of conjugal attachment, as 
 well as the courageous fortitude, of the sex,which 
 proverb-mongers and physical philosophers 
 have denominated the weaker. She has since 
 found reason to repent her choice. The san- 
 guinary incidents, connected with the story, pre- 
 sent difficulties, which, perhaps, no genius, un- 
 less of the highest order, can entirely overcome. 
 The subject has, indeed, been already treated 
 by writers of popular celebrity ; but she declines 
 inviting a comparison, which might be injurious 
 to herself, by assuming the tone of a critical 
 objector. Let it suffice simply to state, that if 
 the substitution of the dagger or the bowl for 
 the modes of infliction, devised by the tender
 
 vr. PREFACE. 
 
 mercy of Romish churchmen, may be thought 
 to consist with a fair poetic licence, when the 
 events are cast in the form of the ballad or 
 elegiac tale, such an innovation must assuredly 
 offend the judgment in a poem avowedly his- 
 torical. Besides, the dignity of the art is 
 shewn, not in evading what is arduous, but in 
 coping with it. If the authoress shall have 
 failed in reconciling traditional fidelity with 
 poetic effect, the blame must be laid to the ac- 
 count of her own inadequate talents, and not to 
 that of the limited resources of poetry. 
 
 It was essential to the plan, that the heroine 
 should be supposed to have made advances in 
 the knowledge of pure Christianity, of which 
 the Saxon aira might vainly be expected to 
 furnish any example; we know no more than 
 that politically she stood opposed to the en- 
 croachments and insolence of the priests: 
 chiefly, no doubt, from the interference of their 
 hypocritical cant and unfeeling tyranny with 
 her private affections : she appears to have been 
 a warm-hearted and high-spirited woman, who
 
 PREFACE. Yll. 
 
 deserved a better fate, and who merited the 
 esteem, as well as the compassion, of her 
 countrymen. 
 
 The portraiture attempted of Dunstan is not 
 intended to justify the principle of Protestant 
 intolerance, or to foster a suspicious dislike of a 
 religious body, which includes individuals, 
 whom the traditions and dogmas of their church 
 have not prevented from being charitable and 
 enlightened; but religious liberality does not 
 necessarilyembrace the ad mission of pretensions, 
 which, overstepping the pale of the open pro- 
 fession and fearless defence of principles, claim 
 a decision without appeal, and a controul with- 
 out resistance, on the faith and conscience of 
 others. It has been, of late, the vogue with 
 Popish historians to vindicate the apostolic hu- 
 mility of Saint Thomas a Becket, and to justify 
 the mild and moral officiousness of Saint Dun- 
 stan : the attempt, therefore, will scarcely, by 
 Protestant Christians, be considered as mis- 
 timed, to clothe the testimony of unimpeach- 
 able chronicles in the form of verse.
 
 VIII. PREFACE. 
 
 To those friends who have long expectetl the 
 appearance of this very humble production, it 
 will, she trusts, be deemed a sufficient apology 
 for tlie delay to state, that a discovery of many 
 defects, and an encreasing diffidence of her 
 former self estimation as a writer of poetry, 
 induced her to re-cast her original sketch,* and 
 to re-write the poem almost line by line: it 
 is hoped that the postponement of its comple- 
 tion will be compensated, she will not say by 
 encreased pleasure in the perusal, but, by less 
 weariness, and fewer causes of disapprobation. 
 
 E. H. 
 
 CLIFTON, May 182^. 
 
 ♦ Thoiigb at the risk of offending one to whom she is under 
 infinite obligations, the authoress cannot refrain from gratify- 
 ing her own feelings by stating that she has received kind, and, 
 to her, great help from a friend who was raised up for her at a 
 time, when she might as soon have expected to hold communion 
 with the spirits of another world, as to possess the advantages 
 afTorded in the advice and assistance of a gentleman of great 
 literary reputation and correct taste: yet such has been her 
 good fortune; and if the touches given by his hand to her very 
 rude sketch have failed of effect, the fault must be attributed, 
 solely, to the weak conception of the original design, which 
 has rendered it unsusceptible of improvement.
 
 ELGIVA. 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST. 
 
 Often when I saw 
 The pictured flames writhe round a penanced soul, 
 Have I retired and knelt before the cross 
 And wept fur grace, and trembled and believed 
 A God of terrors. 
 
 Methinks it is not strange then, that I fled 
 The house of prayer, and made the lonely grove 
 My temple. 
 
 souTHsr.
 
 ELGIVA. 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST. 
 
 I. 
 
 Where the bleak headlaud o'er the deep 
 
 Frowned on the bay's receding sweep, 
 
 And high above the ocean's verge 
 
 With breast of stone repelled the surge, 
 
 Daring for many an age the brunt 
 
 Whose shock but smoothed its rugged front, 
 
 A Convent stood in gloomy pride 
 
 And every wintry blast defied. 
 
 It's massive walls of murky hue 
 
 Seemed of the rock from whence they grew ; 
 
 As if some cunning hand of power 
 
 Had carved it into roof and tower. 
 
 A sweeping arch the portal spann'd : 
 
 Low shafts enwreathed in stony band
 
 ELGIVA, CANTO I. 
 
 Propp'd the dark cove, and sculptured rare 
 Plat-band and fillet mingled there : 
 And pointed tracery there was seen 
 Each deep, dark aperture to screen ; 
 Thro' which the beam of light that fell 
 But clothed in deeper gloom the cell. 
 
 II. 
 Placed here by Edward's kingly power. 
 Bereft of liberty and dower, 
 While still was wet the filial tear 
 Upon her noble Mother's bier. 
 The fair Elfwina wept the day. 
 And sighed the weary night away. 
 Not that alone her sorrows flow 
 For Mercia's princely darae laid low : 
 Not that her cruel uncle's power 
 Had reft her of her princely dower. 
 Did the nightly stealing sighs 
 Within her pensive bosom rise. 
 She loved — AL, wherefore loved she, 
 A prince of the dark heaving sea ?
 
 CANTO I. Or the monks. 
 
 A Saxon love, perchance, had ne'er 
 Awakened Edward's jealous care. 
 Torn from that breast to wliicli alone 
 All her fond feelings now had flown ; 
 Within those lonesome walls immured. 
 She all the miseries endured 
 Of the warm heart's repressed emotion, 
 Ere softened into calm devotion. 
 
 III. 
 Tho' gloom and sadness seemed to reign 
 O'er superstition's drear domain; 
 Yet here was heard the carol gay 
 Of infant innocence at play : 
 And e'en the saddest sister smiled 
 At young Elgiva's gambols wild ; 
 When she would round those pillars rove 
 That bore the arches high above ; 
 And her shrill voice half-fearful strain 
 To hear it echoed back again, 
 As if some spirit spoke aloof. 
 Responsive from the fretted roof:
 
 ELGIVA, CANTO I. 
 
 Till some grave nun such sport reproved 
 And from the fane her steps removed. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And who was she, that thus had power 
 To cheer seclusion's lonely hour ? 
 (Cold as the cloyster's wall must be 
 The heart not moved by infancy) — 
 That bud of beauty's promise, whence 
 Came she in her innocence ? 
 Her sire was sad Elfwina's brother ; 
 A Saxon lady was her mother : 
 But brief his bliss with his young bride ; 
 Yes, he must quit his loved one's side 
 To join the conflict rude ; for here 
 Was seldom from its rest the spear. 
 
 v. 
 From regions of the stormy north. 
 
 With rapine's arm the ocean king 
 Came in all his terrors forth, 
 
 As eagles on their quarry spring.
 
 CANTO I. Or the monks. 
 
 Once more upon ttfe Mercian land 
 The Bay-king led his pirate band ; 
 And Ethelflida's warlike son 
 
 By his martial mother's side 
 The deadly north-men rushed upon — 
 
 And in the strife of battle died. 
 
 VI. 
 
 When closed the father's eyes in night. 
 
 That day the daughter's oped to light. 
 
 Her birth was hailed in wailings wild. 
 
 And tears baptized th' unconscious child. — 
 
 Elfwina wept a sister's woe ; 
 
 She wept a brother dear laid low ; 
 
 Yet more, she wept a banished lover : — 
 
 Anlaf, who from green Erin's land 
 Had come Northumbria to recover ; 
 
 He of the daring ocean band : 
 At Brunanburh the fatal plain 
 Was lost, and he must roam again. 
 Death often strikes with double dart ; 
 One pierced Elflida's noble heart :
 
 8 ELGIVA, CANTO I. 
 
 And he, who should have succour giveu 
 To widow, orphans, thus beriven ; 
 Young, princely, and in beauty's bloom, 
 Consigned^them to a living tomb. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Cherished by fond affection's dew. 
 In glooming shade the infant grew. 
 With holy zeal the sisterhood 
 The child of saintly promise viewed. 
 And deemed each early lisp and sleight 
 The dawn of future wonders bright. 
 And thought such budding beauty given 
 To mark the future bride of heaven. 
 With opening reason was impressed 
 A stern religion on her breast : 
 Not that of love the Gospel taught. 
 But that which bigotry had wrought 
 On minds retired, amid the glooms 
 Of Abbeys, in whose living tombs 
 A god, reversing heaven's plan, 
 Was formed and passioned like to man.
 
 CANTO I. Or the monks. 
 
 What solemn awe then tilled her mind, 
 Kneeling where relics were enshrined : 
 And oft she bathed with sinless tear 
 Each hallowed tomb and image there. 
 Her heart, the seat of warm emotion. 
 Glowed with the fervour of devotion: 
 Now to her kindred, now to heaven 
 The soft enthusiast's soul was given. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Shut out from nature's kindling ray 
 Which lights religion on its way. 
 And bears on high the grateful mind 
 The cause of nature's works to find. 
 Oh wonder not that piety 
 In youthful breast should fade and die ! 
 Or ardent feeling craving food. 
 Should, self-consuming, be subdued. 
 Day followed day, year followed year. 
 But brought not ought to wish or fear; 
 The matin prayer, the vesper hymn. 
 Came with the dawn and evening dim ;
 
 10 ELGIVA, CANTO I. 
 
 Her mind on listless vacuum buug ; 
 No hope within her bosom sprung; 
 Dull apathy began to prey, 
 And eat the budding mind away. 
 
 IX. 
 
 'Twas thus she felt, when woman's grace 
 
 Around her form began to flow, 
 And beauty brightened in her face 
 
 With marked expression's changing glow : 
 The playful sparkle of her eye 
 Had all of nature's witchery : 
 If from its wild attractive glance 
 
 The gazer dared too much presume, 
 To quell at once the bold advance, 
 
 Her brow would wear a shaded gloom. 
 And her high soul, in quick surprise. 
 Would dart its feelings from her eyes. 
 
 X. 
 
 The gentle heart in dull seclusion 
 Will find some being still to cherish ;
 
 CANTO I. Or THE MONKS. U 
 
 Or else in dreaming, wild delusion, 
 
 Its best affections wane and perish, 
 A Fawn, that from the hind had strayed, 
 Became the nursling of the maid ; 
 Its youngling helplessness alone 
 Had made her dearest cares its own ; 
 To bring it morn and evening food ; 
 To lead it browsing to the wood ; 
 To join it in its bounding play 
 Whiled many a weary hour away. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Once slipping from her gentle thrall 
 
 With merry bound it frisked away. 
 Regardless of her tender call 
 
 And reckless of her fond dismay. 
 With foot of feathery speed she flew 
 
 Her truant playmate to regain ; 
 When rushed upon her startled view 
 
 From out the wood, and o'er the plain 
 A rav'nous wolf, that sped his way 
 To seize the timid helpless prey;
 
 - 12 ELGIVA, CANTO I. 
 
 The fondling back for shelter fled, 
 And in her garments hid its head. 
 Sinking with terror on the lawn 
 She wildly clasped her dappled fawn. — 
 One moment, and they had been lost ; — 
 When, lo ! an arrow swiftly crossed. 
 Which met the monster's fateful bound 
 And brought him bleeding to the ground. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Deprived of motion by her fear. 
 
 These words fell gently on her ear. 
 
 •' Fairest of every thing that's fair. 
 
 Thy fears a mortal seeming wear. 
 
 Or I should deem thee some sweet sprite 
 
 Launched from thy heav'n on beams of light. 
 
 What blest appellative is thine ? 
 
 Thy beauteous form what walls enshrine ? 
 
 Oh say, sweet saint ! what thou may'st be. 
 
 That I might kneel and worship thee ?" 
 
 Amazed she raised her drooping head ; 
 
 The paleness of her terror tied ;
 
 CANTO 1. Or the monks. 13 
 
 Theflush of timid wonder spread 
 O'er her cheeks its glowing red ; 
 When first she saw her young adorer 
 In mute emotion bending o'er her. 
 The glances of his sunny eyes 
 
 On the young maiden beamed so bright. 
 Her fringed lids with sweet surprise 
 
 Fell bashfidly beneath their light. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Her veil recovered from the ground 
 
 She threw her favorite's neck around ; 
 
 The stranger took the floating lawn. 
 
 And gently led the struggling fawn 
 Toward the steep ascent, where stood 
 
 The Abbey far above the wood. 
 
 With fluttering heart, and flushing cheek 
 
 The maid her tale of safety told : 
 The holy dames, subdued and meek. 
 
 No breasts of cold indifference hold; 
 And warmly was their welcome given 
 To that brave youth, who, under heaven.
 
 i 
 
 14 ELGIVA, CANTO I. 
 
 Had rescued from a fate so wild 
 
 Their loved, their fondly cherished child. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The youth unbonneted his brow. 
 
 His meet obeisance lowly making ; 
 And the loosened quiver now 
 
 From his graceful shoulders taking. 
 He laid it, with his bow, aside ; 
 And now the silken jess untied 
 Which bound the Falcon to his wrist ; 
 Secured again the lengthened twist 
 Where 'gainst the pillar'd wall secluded 
 Sate perched the drowsy bird unhooded ; 
 And now the spread repast partook, 
 
 Joy dancing in his sparkling eyes 
 Whene'er they met the glancing look. 
 
 Where bashful beauty's magic lies. 
 With curious ken the sisterhood 
 Their young unwonted guest reviewed. 
 Whispering their wonder o'er and o'er 
 At ail he said and all he wore ;
 
 t 
 
 CANTO I. Or the monks. 15 
 
 Admired his height and courtly air, 
 But more the buoyant spirit there. 
 He said, of gentle blood he came ; 
 Panaclus, undeserved, his name ; 
 Humble the present rank he bore — 
 Prince Edwy's Falconer — no more : 
 " But such the love he bears to me. 
 That when his lofty destiny 
 Shall bind with regal badge his brow. 
 My state will higher be than now." 
 
 XV. 
 
 Withdrawing slow the floating veil. 
 That half obscured her visage pale, 
 The Abbess to the youth addressed 
 Enquiring looks of interest : 
 Demanding in a gentle tone 
 What of the character was known 
 Of that young prince, her kinsman dear. 
 Who stood to England's throne so near. 
 " I knew him when a child," she said, 
 " Eadgiva with her blooming boy
 
 IG ELGIVA, CANTO I. 
 
 Came, and here awhile she staid, 
 
 Giving to our retirement joy : 
 'Till Saint Augustine's fatal day 
 
 With tearful mourning filled the land. 
 And brought the tidings of dismay 
 
 Of Edmund slain by Leolf's hand. 
 The infant's sweet unconscious glee 
 Deepen'd our conscious misery. 
 'Tis said his youth doth promise fair 
 Under the saintly Dunstan's care." 
 
 xvr. 
 " Whate'er his promise, holy Dame, 
 It will not add to Dunstan's fame. 
 Who cannot bend to rule severe 
 Th' unshackled mind of Albion's heir: 
 And much I fear the wayward youth 
 Will form his estimate of truth 
 By reason, that best boon of heaven, 
 To him as well as Dunstan given. 
 Why should a man on mortal's shrine 
 Sacrifice that gift divine ?
 
 CANTO I. Or the monks. 17 
 
 Or why assume with monkish cowl 
 Dominion o'er a brother's soul 1 
 I look to higher source for grace 
 Than any of the priestly race, 
 Whate'er his magic sleights may be 
 With angel or arch-enemy." 
 
 XVII. 
 
 t 
 
 The pious Sisters start to hear 
 
 The daring language of the youth ; 
 And cross themselves for very fear 
 
 That the evil one in sooth 
 Had linked him with their dangerous guest. 
 When he such sinful thoughts express'd, — 
 A shade Elfwina's brow o'ercast. 
 
 But like a cloud across the moon 
 In silent pensiveness it passed, 
 
 Passed silently and soon. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 But from Elgiva's eyes there broke 
 A sparkling radiance as he spoke.— 
 
 B
 
 18 ELGIVA, CANTO I. 
 
 She had a mind of energy, 
 
 Tho' deadened by her dull seclusion ; 
 And oft, and long had pondered why 
 
 Her soul should bow before delusion ; 
 For she had seen, and she could tell 
 Saints are not all infallible; 
 Though schooled to deem such thoughts a sin ; 
 And much her mind perplexed had been : 
 But now it seemed as if the sun 
 
 Of truth divine with morning ray 
 Those darkling doubts had beamed upon. 
 
 And melted them like mist away. 
 Her heart beat high with new emotion ; 
 
 New freedom disenthralled her mind; 
 The liberty of pure devotion, 
 
 The gospel love from fear refined. 
 She stood erect the youth to view; 
 Her soul at once to vigor grew ; 
 The spells of monkery to her eye 
 Showed like the toys of infancy ; 
 Her feet the shepherd's pasture trod; 
 Her master one, her Father God ;
 
 CANTO I. Or the monks. 19 
 
 Exulting in the gleam of truth 
 
 She gazed upon the daring youth, 
 
 And hailed in his a kindred soul 
 
 That spurned the priest's usurped controul. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 A doating mother's anxious eye 
 
 Will soon the hidden heart descry, 
 
 Rowena marks her flushing cheek. 
 
 Her eyes that eloquently speak 
 
 Her arching brow, her heaving breast 
 
 Against the folding drapery press'd : 
 
 Though all the daughter's working mind 
 
 Vain e'en a parent's love to find : 
 
 And much she joyed when evening's gloom 
 
 Warned the young stranger to resume 
 
 His feathered arms ; his falcon hood : — 
 
 He did it in no willing mood: 
 
 His thanks repeating o'er and o'er 
 
 As they had not been said before ; 
 
 Loosening again the silken twist 
 
 Which bound the Merlin to his wrist, 
 
 B 2
 
 20 ELGIVA, CANTO }. 
 
 With many a studied fond delay 
 He whiled the fleeting time away. 
 At length with day's departing ligiit 
 He left the holy Sisters' sight. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Davs passed ; the convent precincts wore 
 
 The gloom that they had worn before : 
 
 Their dull rotation all things bear 
 
 As though the youth had not been there : — 
 
 And is he then indeed forgot 
 
 As there his foot had rested not ? 
 
 Why doth the mother's silent eye 
 
 Follow^ the daughter wistfully ? 
 
 Why doth she gaze upon her face 
 
 'Till rising tears its lines displace ? 
 
 'Tis, that the rose, which bloomed so fair 
 
 Upon her cheek, no more is there ; 
 
 And she will sit so still and dead 
 
 To all that moves around her, 
 It seems as if some wizard dread 
 
 In stony form had bound her :
 
 CANTO I. Or the monks. 21 
 
 And should affection's accent speak 
 Gently the marble trance to break. 
 She starts as if some spectral power 
 Had stolen upon her silent hour ; 
 And, when her scattered thoughts return, 
 Her eyelids fall, her flushed cheeks burn 
 With more than e'en their wonted glow : — 
 Then starting tears unbidden flow ; 
 And these again a smile will chase 
 Like young hope gleaming o'er her face. 
 
 XXI. ^ 
 
 When the sunk sun in glory beamed 
 And thro' the western portal streamed. 
 She loved in silence and alone 
 
 To pace the holy pavement o'er ; 
 l?ut she knelt not to altar stone \' ' 
 
 Nor did the sculptured saint adore: 
 . No, — rather loved she with the dawn 
 To brush the dew-drop from the lawn ; 
 To hail the rising sun, and pour 
 
 Her song of praise, while all around
 
 22 ELGIVA, CANTO i. 
 
 The vocal woods, the echoing shore. 
 That shouted to the wave's rebound, 
 
 The bleating flocks, the lowing kine 
 
 In one commingling hymn combine. 
 
 And sing in nature's powerful lays 
 
 Th' almighty maker's boundless praise. 
 
 Nor wanted there a human voice 
 To mingle with her own ; 
 
 Nor, though it seemed her wayward choice. 
 Still wandered she alone. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The simple sisters oft had heard. 
 When hastening to the matin prayer. 
 
 The whistle which recalls the bird. 
 
 Much wondering that they heard it there 
 
 And who the fowler strange could be 
 
 Whom all had heard, but none could see ? 
 
 The choral anthem floats along, 
 
 The echoing aisles give back the song. 
 
 The stony shafts that tower on high 
 
 Ring with the thrilling harmony.
 
 CANTO r. Or THE MONKS. 23 
 
 But where is she whose vocal swell 
 
 With the mellow cadence fell 
 
 So softly sweet, so liquid clear. 
 
 As though the strain were murmur'd near 
 
 From some soft seraph floating by 
 
 Warbling ethereal minstrelsy ? 
 
 She came to sister Clutha's cell 
 
 At sounding of the early bell ; 
 
 When by some malady possessed 
 
 Her cheek's slight tinges came and went; '^ 
 Folding her head-tire o'er her breast. 
 
 She from the cell her footsteps bent. 
 And sister Clutha deemed that she 
 
 Had hastened to her morn's devotion ; 
 And much she wondered not to see 
 
 The maid, and whence her strange emotion; 
 
 And she had marked, she said, of late 
 
 Elgiva had been much away : 
 'Twas strange a damsel so sedate 
 
 Should lone without the cloysters stray.
 
 24 ELGIVA, CANTO I. 
 
 ■* XXIII. 
 
 The brand upon the hearth blazed bright 
 And sent around its cheery light. 
 Shedding a flickering glory faint 
 Upon the brow of the patron saint. 
 The convent's simple inmates crowd 
 Around the fire, — the storm roars loud. 
 At each blast that rocked the studded door 
 They drew, still closer than before, 
 Their stools towards the brightening flame ; 
 And when the gusty rain-drops came 
 They felt a shiver of delight 
 For safety from th' inclement night. 
 When darted through the window narrow 
 The vivid lightning's forked arrow ; 
 And when the thunder's voice aloof 
 Rolled awful o'er their stony roof. 
 They crossed themselves from very fear 
 Of evil spirits hovering near; 
 And in the mutterings of the blast 
 They deemed unearthly voices passed.
 
 CANTO I. Or the monks. 25 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And liaik ! the portal horn is sounded 
 
 With so loud and long a blast, 
 A frightened glance the njins confounded 
 
 Towards the mother Abbess cast ! — 
 The Portress, trembling, dared not go 
 The cause of this alarm to know ; 
 But, awed by the Superior's look, 
 With quivering hand a lamp she took. 
 And started as the backward flame 
 In fitful Hashes went and came. 
 At length toward the outward door 
 Timidly the lamp she bore ; 
 And asked, but held the portal fast, 
 Who blew, so late, so loud a blast ? , 
 When, muttering low, a voice replied, 
 " May peace within these walls abide ! 
 But ope your holy doors with speed 
 To serve the blessed Dunslau's need." 
 An instant, and the gates flew wide : i ' 
 When raid the storm the sister spied, 
 Beneath the gloomy arch appearing,
 
 26 ELGIVA, CANTO r. 
 
 Two forms the cowl monastic wearing, 
 A joyful welcome uttered she 
 And led to the refectory. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 With active zeal the convent dames. 
 
 Soon as their honored guest they view, 
 Quicken the logs to brighter flames 
 
 And the spent cates iu haste renew. 
 Then crowd around the shivering pair 
 
 Whose dripping garments track'd the way. 
 As they advanced to the flame's bright glare. 
 
 And stood illumined by the ray. 
 The tirst its lustre fell upon 
 
 Was darkly shrouded in his vest. 
 Concealing half his visage wan. 
 
 And closed, with crossed arms, o'er his breast: 
 A strange mysterious awe profound, 
 Like his dark garment, wraj)ped him round. 
 The brother who his steps attended 
 
 Seemed a Monk of other guise; 
 Good cheer wilh mirtliAil spirit blended
 
 CANTO J. Or the monks. 27 
 
 In his face, tho' now surprize, 
 Or some strange undefined expression 
 Had taken uncontrouled possession. 
 Such were the pair that tempest-driven 
 Now took the welcome freely given. 
 The Sisters deemed their walls most blest 
 In holding such a saintly guest. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 His entering benediction o'er. 
 
 The Abbot Dunstan said no more ; 
 
 But, seated, seemed in fixed abstraction, 
 
 Absorbed in some conmiunion high. 
 While the blaze's bright refraction 
 
 Darted from his kindling eye. 
 When, despite the cowl's deep shade. 
 The flame on his wan visage played. 
 This form of such mysterious dread 
 
 Was yet in manhood's early prime ; 
 The gloom on his dark visage spread 
 
 Seemed more the hue of care than time : 
 O'er his bent brow his dripping hair
 
 28 ELGIVA, CANTO i. 
 
 With many a snake-like twining strayed ; 
 And many a deepened furrow there 
 
 The line of deeper thought betrayed ; 
 And bore in sullen pride the token 
 Of feeling, not subdued, but broken ; 
 Of passions turned from nature's course 
 To rush in tides of darker force. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Him as Elgiva gazed upon 
 She felt her quivering cheek grow wan ; 
 The blood that curdled to her heart 
 Seemed strange forebodings to impart. 
 Yet still she gazed, she knew not why, 
 'Till fixed the glance of that dark eye 
 Its steady, stern regard upon her. 
 
 And few, where fell that searching glance 
 Could dare th' unshaded eyes advance 
 Though in them shone the soul of honor. — • 
 Elgiva's bosom i)roudly swelled ; 
 As proudly she his glance repelled ;
 
 CANTO I. Or the monks. 29 
 
 Her steady lids no homage paid. 
 Her flushing cheek no fear betrayed ; 
 All her soul's majesty arose 
 Her late emotions to oppose, 
 She blushed for very shame to think 
 Her heart should for an instant shrink 
 Before that eye of gloom and pride 
 Which now her steady look defied. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The Abbot's stern mysterious mood 
 
 Glooms o'er the cowering sisterhood ; -* ' 
 
 Each bosom feels a weight like death 
 
 Press heavy on the heaving breath ; ' 
 
 The faint low voice of the Abbess alone 
 
 Mixed with the elements' lessening moan 
 
 In ofters of gentlest courtesy : 
 
 But brief and low was Dustan's reply : 
 
 And when the dashing rain gave o'er. 
 
 And the howl of the storm was heard no more, 
 
 And the moon blinked o'er the cloud's black billow. 
 
 Then the Monk he made a sign to his fellow.
 
 30 ELGIVA, CANTO I. 
 
 And rose to depart, though the Abbess still 
 Pressed a longer repose with a right good will. 
 But every heart beat more freely I ween 
 When the place of the Father alone was seen. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Fanned by the fresh breeze of the morn, 
 
 Elgiva at her window stood ; 
 The winding of an early horn 
 
 Came floating from the neighbouring wood : 
 A timid glance around she cast. 
 For well she knew the signal blast. 
 Her ample veil o'er her youthful head 
 And round her slender form she spread : 
 Glided with noiseless footfall through 
 
 The vaulted passage low and narrow. 
 The portal gained, and o'er the dew 
 
 Sped with the swiftness of an arrow : 
 And soon she left in towering pride 
 
 The bleak cold Abbey far above her. 
 And soon she gained the fresh rill's side 
 
 Where she was wont to meet her lover.
 
 CANTO I. Or the monks. 31 
 
 It was a lovely spot! more fair 
 
 In contrast with the cliff above. 
 The morning's mist hung trembling there 
 
 And seemed the silvery veil of love. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Wreathing its half bared roots along 
 
 The rivulet's hollowed bed, 
 With glossy bark its branches strong 
 
 A stately beech-tree spread ; 
 The playful troutlet darting shoots 
 For shelter to its twisted roots; 
 And while its sweeping branches toss 
 High o'er the green and golden moss 
 Their flexile sprays, through the chequered shade 
 The fluttering sun-beams gleam and fade. 
 Here the climbing eglantine 
 Wound its (horny-flowering twine 
 Around the giant limbs, and hung 
 Its garlands o'er the trunk, and flung 
 Sweet incense on the raorninir air : 
 And on the maiden's forehead fair
 
 32 ELGIVA, CANTO I. 
 
 Fell the scattering leafy shower 
 As she plucked her favorite flower. 
 Kissed from its cup the drop of dew. 
 Then, playful, to her lover threw 
 The rifled rose — " This precious gem 
 Thus place I in my diadem." 
 He said the while his busy hand 
 Had twined it in his bonnet band. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 What were the lover's tale without 
 
 The glances of the speaking eye. 
 When nature in its truth throws out 
 
 That joy the tongue would fain deny r 
 Love lurks beneath the drooping lid 
 And idly deems his presence hid. 
 As playfully he peeps to see 
 If he be sought for anxiously. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 " Oh, trifle not ! Elgiva dearest, 
 
 For one sliort moment grant thy faith.
 
 CANTO r. Or THE MONKS. 33 
 
 And when my earnest suit thou hearest 
 
 Doom me at once to Jife or death ! 
 I must, I must away from thee ; 
 
 Oh, say not that for aye we sever, 
 But ere I go resign to me 
 
 The right to call thee mine for ever ! 
 Ah, could I to thy bosom tell 
 
 What power my absence is compelling, 
 And could I paint the witching spell 
 
 Which keeps me hovering round thy dwelling. 
 That gentle heart so singly pure 
 Would feel the conflict I endure." 
 
 xxxui. 
 The traveller wandering o'er the wild 
 
 In darkness and in fear 
 Where from rent cloud no gleam had smiled 
 
 His lonesome track to cheer : 
 Should but a planet dart its ray 
 
 Athwart the shapeless gloom. 
 And to a home of rest the way 
 
 With its bright orb illume ;
 
 34 ELGIVA, CANTO I. 
 
 Would he not still its aid implore. 
 And dread to see it flash no more ? 
 Thus joyless, hopeless, desolate 
 In heart, had been the weary fate 
 Of young Elgiva; not a flower 
 
 Of early bloom for her had sprung; 
 She never knew life's buoyant hour, 
 
 Th' elastic spirit of the young 
 That springs on hope and fastens there. 
 And gaily floats o'er every care. — 
 The ray that broke her gloomy night 
 
 It was the star of love. 
 And beauteously its placid light 
 
 Seemed shining from above ; 
 Nor had she ever dreamt the ray 
 So calm, so bright, could pass away. — 
 And must she lose him then for ever ? 
 Renounce his presence r — never, never ! 
 Her new existence yield, and be 
 Again entombed in apatijy r 
 Or worse— to live and bear the thought 
 
 Of what had been so fair,
 
 CANTO I. Or the monks. 35 
 
 When dull indifference had brought 
 The sickness of despair ! 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 What wonder then if for awhile 
 
 She saw but him who stood before her. 
 And yielded with a tearful smile 
 
 Her fate, her faith to her adorer? 
 And she whose every thought had been 
 
 For many an anxious year 
 Bent on her sweet bud's opening 
 
 With all a Mother's fear, 
 Oh she was all forgotten now 
 
 In this one selfish day! — 
 She came— she heard her daughter vow 
 
 Her faith, her love away. 
 Mute, sad, she met the startled view 
 
 Of the conscience-stricken maid. 
 And quickly she those eyes withdrew 
 
 That all her shame, her fears betrayed. 
 
 A uiomciit stood she, mute, confounded. 
 
 Then to her mother's bosom bounded, 
 
 c 2
 
 36 ELGIVA, CANTO I. 
 
 And strove to hide her blushing face 
 In an infantile embrace. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Rowena gently put aside 
 
 The arm that round her neck would slide, 
 
 Gazed on her child with anxious care, 
 
 And all the anguish of despair, 
 
 And seemed as though her heart must break 
 
 Ere she could find the power to speak ! — 
 
 " To see thee withering by ray side, 
 
 My hope's fair blossom and my pride. 
 
 Blighted in heart, by sorrow riven 
 
 From the torn stem where thou hast thriven, 
 
 Elgiva, that were worse to me 
 
 Than ev'n for ever losing thee. 
 
 Perhaps it were a selfish fear 
 
 That fondly would detain thee here ; 
 
 But those who have a parent's heart 
 
 Must feel the pang it would impart, 
 
 To know a stranger had beguiled 
 
 The long, long love of their only child ;
 
 CANTO I. Or the monks. 37 
 
 Stolen in an hour the promise fair. 
 
 The labour of a life of care. 
 
 Then since her love no more is mine. 
 
 Youth, I to thee ray child resign : 
 
 Oh take my blossom, since with me 
 
 To fade were now its destiny ; 
 
 The sun of love may cheer the flower— 
 
 A Mother's tears have wanted power I"
 
 ELGIVA. 
 
 CANTO THE SECOND. 
 
 It was a fearful sight to see 
 Such high resolve and constancy, 
 In form so soft and fair. 
 
 SCOTT.
 
 ELGIVA. 
 
 CANTO THE SECOND. 
 
 I. 
 
 Death was within, and gloom around 
 
 The palace of the King : 
 And he who, if he smiled or frowned. 
 Could yesterday a world confound, 
 
 Was now a lifeless thing. — 
 'Twas evening ; they stepped stealthily 
 Who passed the silent chamber by ; 
 And whispered low with solemn dread 
 As though they feared to wake the dead ; 
 And two were pacing to and fro 
 With face of care and garb of woe ; 
 In low and muttered tone they talk ; 
 And ever and anon their walk
 
 42 ELGIVA, CANTO II 
 
 They stop, and listen anxiously :— 
 The eclios of their footsteps die 
 Along the wall : — again they go 
 Pacing the pavement to and fro. 
 Then pause to list — 'tis their own footfall 
 As it sounds along the pillared hall. 
 But soon the clatter of hoofs they hear. 
 And other footsteps now are near. 
 Now at the iron-studded door 
 The latch is raised, and full before 
 Th' expecting pair now stands to view 
 He whom they wished for, dreaded too. 
 
 II. 
 " Welcome to our hour of need. 
 Welcome, God hath been thy speed. 
 But here hath fallen his hand of power : 
 The King — " " I know, I know the hour 
 That he was summoned hence, to me 
 It was revealed in mystery." 
 The pair in wonder gaze, and he 
 Wrapped in his proud humility
 
 CANTO II. Or the monks. 43 
 
 Pursued, " From out the thunder cloud 
 He spoke to me, and spoke aloud : 
 Though not a sound but the thunder's clang 
 On my fellow's ear through the welkin rang, 
 Yet to me distinctly came, 
 Utter'd in peals and writ in flame, 
 " Edred resign thy earthly throne. 
 For one immortal is thine own ! " 
 This summons from eternal power 
 I heard, I saw at the midnight hour. 
 When, by the rack's swift glimpses given. 
 The northern wain rode high in heaven ; 
 And o'er my soul there came a vision 
 My humble stricken will compelling. 
 With all the power of high decision. 
 To haste me to the regal dwelling : 
 For, tongueless, it was told to me 
 That the boy monarch's destiny 
 Must be controuled by this weak hand. 
 Or scath would fall on prince and land. 
 The solemn charge of heaven is mine 
 Who braves it braves the wrath divine."
 
 44 ELGIVA, CANTO ii. 
 
 III. 
 While Dunstau spoke the wondering pair 
 Stood with a mute, awe-stricken air, 
 And tliought they saw a glory faint 
 Still play around the favored saint ; 
 A gleaming of the radiance given 
 To him who had communed with heaven. 
 This awful feeling was impressed 
 In fearfulness on Odo's breast : 
 But when, the first emotion o'er, 
 The chancellor had pondered more 
 On Dunstan's words, he found the last 
 
 Conveyed most food for thought; 
 As through his mind their import passed 
 
 And strange misgivings wrought. 
 He paused and then he spoke ; — *' But where 
 
 Is now the youthful King ? 
 And dost thou think, thy yoke to bear 
 
 That thou his mind canst brine ? 
 I've marked the boy ; his wayward will 
 Hath he not ever followed still,
 
 CANTO II. Ou THE MONKS. 45 
 
 Despite of Edred and of thee ? 
 And will his new authority, 
 Betiiink thee, make him humbly bow 
 His proud soul to thy guidance now ? " 
 
 IV. 
 
 " TurketuI, hear me ! this iirm soul 
 Had wilder passions to controul 
 Than his, so young and immature. 
 To me the same to will and do. — 
 I dared and I have proved it too. 
 Of this thou may'st be sure. 
 Did I not break the dearest ties 
 That in the breast of man can rise ? 
 Tear from my soul its cherished bliss, 
 
 Rending my heart asunder, 
 Till health, and, almost life, for this 
 
 Sank, the stern conflict under ? 
 And think'st thou that I cannot bow 
 A stripling to my spirit now ? — 
 Now — when I bear the seal of heaven, 
 Which late so awfully was given ?"
 
 46 ELGIVA, CANTO ii. 
 
 V. 
 
 " But know, the danger, which thou fearest 
 From Edwy's mind, is not the nearest. 
 With hound and hawk, a vain pretence, 
 Late hath the youth been much from hence : 
 With truth I feared some secret wile 
 Did far his truant steps beguile ; 
 And when the Great One spoke in thunder 
 That seemed to rend the world asunder, 
 When rushing fell the torrent rain 
 As if heaven's windows oped again. 
 That storm, commissioned from on high. 
 Drove me the cloistered Abbey nigh. 
 Where the young prince so oft was seen 
 Hovering about the copse-wood green. 
 That I might find the hidden snare 
 
 Whose fascinating power 
 So long had held the youthful heir 
 
 Far from King Edrcd's bower." 
 
 VI. 
 
 "It was a young and royal maid 
 That Edwy's willing footsteps stayed;
 
 CANTO II. Or the monks. 47 
 
 And he hath ta'en her as his bride, 
 
 Though the holy church hath said 
 That those so near in blood allied 
 
 Shall never with its sanction wed. 
 Beneath that roof, where she was given 
 In infancy a bride to heaven, 
 Hath the sacrilegious youth 
 
 Dared, despite that mandate high, 
 To plight, unknown, his regal truth 
 
 And twine with her's his destiny. 
 But by the canon's sage decree 
 His wedded bride she cannot be ; 
 And mine will be the task to sever 
 This mischief from his side for ever ! 
 But oh ! the power of this strong spell 
 O'er Edwy's heart ! — I know it well. 
 I saw the maid, and saw the charm 
 That might all souls but mine disarm. 
 
 VII. 
 
 'Twas not her form, 'twas not her face 
 Though this had bcauly, that had grace,
 
 48 ELGIVA, CANTO II. 
 
 But 'twas the sparkling glance of miiid 
 
 Which spoke her of a man-like kind ; 
 
 A daring liberty of thought 
 
 By which the youth was snared and caught. 
 
 She is not a mere thing of love, 
 
 For such might weak and harmless be ; 
 
 Some simple maiden of the grove. 
 
 Or nun that warbles psalmody. *" 
 
 No — she is such a thing as broods 
 
 Audacious on forbidden things : 
 And in her fancies and her moods 
 
 Conceits that she is mate for Kings : 
 I doubt our apostolic terror 
 
 Rebukes not her presumptuous eye ; 
 And that she gloats on lawless error 
 
 Which racks should bend or flames should try : 
 If she should wield our kingdom's rod, 
 How fares the pastoral staff of God V 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " 'Twas Satan's craft in my young day 
 To tempt me thus from heaven away.
 
 CANTO II. Or the monks. 49 
 
 I might have had a fair wife clinging 
 
 In fond confiding trust to me : 
 I might have had brave children springing 
 
 Gladsome to a father's knee: 
 But this had sunk my soul to hell ! — 
 I broke ray heart to break the spell. 
 And shall I let another sink, 
 Who stands upon perdition's brink, 
 Nor stretch my hand, that cord to sever 
 Which drags hira, ere he's lost for ever 1 
 Shall I who thus could crush the sin 
 Original, that so within 
 My heart had lodged, th' insidious snare 
 Was twined with every fibre there ; 
 Shall I forbear to wrench this toy. 
 This plaything from an idle boy; 
 To break the bonds that he hath tied 
 With such a fair but fatal bride? 
 For can we deem the grace of heaven 
 Is to forbidden nuptials given? 
 No, rather will its wrath be poured, 
 
 Odo, on this devoted land 
 
 D
 
 50 ELGIVA, CANTO ii. 
 
 'Till I have cleft as with a sword 
 
 The link of that unnatural baud. 
 Besides — this witching niiuion still 
 Alone will sway his wayward will. 
 And thou, sage Turketul, raust be 
 A slave to every fantasy. 
 That from a woman's brains can fly 
 Drunk with the power of royalty." 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Tliy words," the Chancellor replies, 
 " Bring doubts and fears before ray eyes : 
 The green years of the Monarch may 
 Require some guiding hand to stay. 
 Like manage to the fiery horse. 
 Their headlong and impetuous course : 
 But think thee father, if the steed 
 
 Were conscious of his strength and power. 
 What man could rein his rapid speed 
 
 Or lead him in his fury's hour ? 
 His youthful queen from Edwy torn, 
 Think'st thou it would be tamely born« ;
 
 CANTO II. Or the monks. 51 
 
 Or that he would not dare disdain 
 The curbing of thy galling rein ? 
 Could not some gentle mean be found 
 
 To soothe the youth and sway his will; 
 The bands that holy church hath bound 
 
 May they not rest unbroken still ? 
 Though they their blood to Alfred owe. 
 Apart the devious channels flow; 
 The church to pardon may incline 
 For meeting on the boundary line. . ■ . 
 
 My lord Archbishop, thinkest thou 
 The Pope would ratify their vo^y ?" 
 
 X. 
 
 " Whence are thy scruples ?" Odo cried, 
 
 " Heaven's will be done, whate'er betide: 
 
 Hath not its voice in darkness spoken. 
 
 Was not the cloud with lightning broken. 
 
 When as from Sinai's summit came 
 
 The tempest blast and smouldering flame ? 
 
 Heaven to this saint its best made knowD^- 
 
 And to that best I bow alone." 
 
 D 1
 
 52 ELGIVA, CANTO ii. 
 
 There flash'd a light from Dunstan's eye 
 
 Though not aa iron feature bent. 
 And Turketul mused silently 
 
 As through the shadowy hall they went. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Where sits that high-souled princess now ? 
 How blooms the garland on her brow ? 
 Yes — she has passed, a royal bride. 
 
 To Edwy's princely bower. 
 And by the fond Rowena's side 
 
 Sits in her tapestried tower. 
 Listening to the wassail roar. 
 As the frequent opening door 
 Gave the sound of mirth and glee. 
 Mingled with the minstrelsy. 
 In louder or in fainter flow 
 From the hall of feast below : 
 For now the regal symbol shone 
 Edwy's youthful brows upon, 
 And he amid his nobles sat 
 Enthroned in high and festive state.
 
 CANTO II. Oil THE MONKS. 53 
 
 XII. 
 
 The wiiie-red cup, the banquet song, 
 Could these detain his spirit long 
 From her he loved ? Her form alone 
 Through all the jocund pageant shone. 
 The moments they crept heavily 
 Towards the hour when he could fly 
 To her who watched the taper's burning 
 That marked the time for his returning. 
 Each slowly wasting waxen minute 
 Seemed to have an hour within it 
 While thus she watched, but when he came 
 How brightly did time's measure flame ! > 
 Oh, these were moments passing fair. 
 But fleeting, as such moments are ; 
 How soon from this bright pair they passed ? 
 They were their sweetest and their last. 
 
 , (■. ] I 
 
 XIII. 
 
 His massive crown of rare device, 
 High wrought with gold and gems of price, 
 From his pressed brow the monarch drew, 
 And at her feet the jewel threw.
 
 M ELGIVA, CANTO 11. 
 
 " To ray fair liege I fain would pay 
 The deepest homage that I may ; 
 'Twas the first glance of that bright eye 
 
 Which told me that I had a heart, 
 And claimed that heart in fealty 
 
 At once, and, tyrant as thou art, 
 I know my badge of royalty. 
 Like vassal true, would hold from thee. 
 More blest in this fond slavery 
 Then reigning in yon revelry." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Loud clamour from the hall below 
 Seemed wakened by the goblet's flow ; 
 Exulting shout and angry tone 
 The liot mingled into one ; 
 Then lower sank, and mutteringly 
 As doth the blast of winter die ; 
 Then rose at once the wild uproar 
 Like tempest billows on the shore ; 
 Then on a sudden, all was still 
 As midnight on a lonely hill,
 
 CANTO II. Or the monks. 65 
 
 Save that a step was heard to jar 
 
 The vaulted corridor afar: 
 
 On it came more near and near. 
 
 Like the hurried stride of rage or fear :— 
 
 The heavy tread on the pavement rung ; 
 
 Back on its hinge the door was fiung; 
 
 And on the presence bursting rude 
 
 Stood Dunstan in his spleenful mood. 
 
 - _, XV. .... .._..,. 
 
 No greetings passed, no word was spoken 
 
 Ere he in voice with passion broken 
 
 Thus spake. — " And such was then the call 
 
 That drew the King from the banquet hall ? 
 
 And darest thou for a damsel vain 
 
 Throw insult on thy noble train ? 
 
 Thus brave th' anointed priests of heaven. 
 
 To whom the staff of God is given, 
 
 That thou mayst spend such hour of thine j 
 
 In dalliance with thy concubine ? 
 
 And dost thou, stripling, deem it meet 
 
 To lay that circlet at her feet
 
 66 ELGIVA, CANTO ii. 
 
 Which, with each holy rite, e'en now 
 Was placed on thy unworthy brow ? 
 Hence, vain one ! to thy cell again. 
 Nor think, presumptuous, here to reign ; 
 Thy wiles may hire an idle boy 
 A kingdom's welfare to destroy. 
 Were there not found a hand of power 
 To curb him in his folly's hour. 
 Back to thy convent's holy shade ! 
 Let tears be dropped and vows be mnde ; 
 In sack-cloth wrap that form of thine ; 
 In ashes lie before the shrine: 
 So mayst thou win to pardon thee 
 The God, whom thy impiety 
 Hath dared insult, whose altar thou 
 Prophanest with an unhallowed vow !" 
 
 xvii. 
 While thus he spake, in mute amaze 
 The princess with alternate gaze 
 Surveyed the two : undaunted she 
 Sato in her Noutlilul niajcsly:
 
 CANTO II. Or the monks. 57 
 
 The cold indifference of her eye 
 
 Should seem in silence to imply, 
 
 " This can have nought to do with me, 
 
 This raving of insanity." 
 
 Though Edwy's heart indignant swelled. 
 
 The rising of its rage he quelled : 
 
 His darkening eye and lip compressed 
 
 Betrayed the struggles of his breast: 
 
 His brow was smooth : — the gentle bride 
 
 Sate she not by the monarch's side ? — 
 
 As Hecla's snow-topt front serene 
 
 While mining fire-floods toss unseen 
 
 He stood. — " Thou knowest not I trow, 
 
 Lord Abbot, in whose presence thou ? 
 
 Hence, or the royal vengeance dread; 
 
 This outrage may be visited : 
 
 Thiuk'st thou a soul by God made free 
 
 To chain in monkish tyranny ? 
 
 Thy threats, thy frauds have lost their spell : 
 
 Arch hypocrite ! I know thee well!"
 
 •''i ELGIVA, CANTO II. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 To madness rose the Abbot's ire : 
 
 His glaring eye-balls rolled in tire : 
 
 His sallow cheeks to livid hue 
 
 Were changed j his voice to thunder grew :•— 
 
 " And thinkest thou, sacrilegeous boy. 
 
 This hand is powerless to destroy ? 
 
 Is not to us the mandate given 
 
 To shut or ope the door of heaven ? 
 
 Sinner and Rebel ! — thou shall find 
 
 Tis I that loose from sin or bind : 
 
 Yet more— to rae a trust is given. 
 
 Peculiar delegate of heaven ; 
 
 And mystic signs have come to me 
 
 And power to judge both her and thee : 
 
 Who hath at least I mean to try 
 
 Divine commission, thou or I." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 He seized, and with audacious frown 
 On Edwys forehead forced the crown. 
 But all the king in Edwy rose : 
 Aloof the daring priest he throws :
 
 CANTO II. Or the monks. 69 
 
 Throng to the presence many a peer 
 Whom rouzed alarm kept hovering near ; 
 Round Dunstau's head the falchions flash'd. 
 And as he fled, the portals clash'd. 
 Vacant the bower, and still'd the feud : 
 
 And both were silent long; till she 
 Gave the keen feelings way, subdued 
 
 By consciousness of majesty, 
 
 XIX. \ 
 
 " And canst thou tamely see," slie cried, ' 
 
 " This insult to thy new made bride ? 
 
 Art thou a king ? — If thou hast power - 
 
 Revenge the wrongs of this dark hour. 
 
 Nor let that priest for ever more > . -' 
 
 Appear this outraged sight before. '. ,'■' 
 
 My Edwy — can'st thou pardon me •* — 
 
 Think not I ere distrusted thee ; 
 
 I know, I know thou lovest me still ; 
 
 Resentment spake, and not my will. — 
 
 But better I had never been 
 
 Then to be thus, and yet a queen !"
 
 60 ELGIVA, CANTO II. 
 
 XX. 
 
 With flushing cheek and sparkling eye 
 Did Edwy to the queen reply. 
 " Elgiva! little dost thou know 
 The thoughts that in this bosom glow : 
 Deem not thy Lord could tamely see 
 A subject offer wrong to thee. 
 Ho, Guthran ! — bid the Chancellor here; 
 See that thou find him, far or near ! 
 Of pressing need, of moment great 
 Th' affairs that for his counsel wait.— 
 Lord Turketul ! I know thee still 
 Prompt to attend thy sovereign's will, 
 Which now admits not of delay. — 
 We cannot stoop so low to say 
 What Dunstan dared. — Sulfice it now 
 We send our signet ; bear it thou ! 
 He wears in jeopardy his head 
 Or flies ; we doom him banished."
 
 CANTO 11. Or the monks. 61 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " My prince ! the winters, that bestrew 
 
 These locks, have brought discretion too : 
 
 Old as I am, I need not fear 
 
 To breathe a counsel in thine ear. 
 
 Dunstan's self denying life. 
 
 With demons his victorious strife. 
 
 By wouderous miracles approved. 
 
 Is by the people dreaded, loved : 
 
 Imports not whether from on high 
 
 He bears the seal of sanctity. 
 
 Or from his own ambitious heart 
 
 He plays the cowl'd dissembler's part, 
 
 And wears religion's holy dress 
 
 To hide his proud deceitfulness ; 
 
 Groveling with the vilest things 
 
 To rule a realm and govern kings ; 
 
 It matters not, the people still 
 
 Bears to the seeming saint good will ; 
 
 And such a sudden banishment 
 
 Of him whom they revere, ' 
 
 Woidd stir them up to discontent. 
 
 And there are spirits here.
 
 02 ELGIVA, CANTO II. 
 
 Whose crafty treason's aim would be 
 To turn the evil all on thee. 
 Think not, the Abbot gone, his power 
 Were lost in England from that hour. 
 His partisans the palace fill 
 Ready to work his impious will. 
 And think they serve their God the while 
 They serve the monk by force or guile. 
 My Liege, an old man's pleadings heed ; 
 Restrain thine anger's headlong speed ; 
 Pause; — for the general feeling may 
 By its excess soon pass away, 
 And thou mayest find some safe pretence 
 To send the haughty Abbot hence." 
 
 XXIT. 
 
 " But majesty insulted may 
 Not stoop," cried Edwy, " to delay. 
 Go to him then, and straight demand 
 He give those treasures to thy hand 
 Which royal Edred to his care 
 Consigned, or bid him quick prepare
 
 CANTO n. Or THE MONKS. «a 
 
 To render just account, if he 
 
 Shall have dispensed them righteously. 
 
 The haughty priest, full well I know. 
 
 In Glastonbury did bestow 
 
 The treasure, and to fetch it thence 
 
 Was sent in Edred's sickness ; whence 
 
 He came to prowl in storms and thunder. 
 
 And raise his tales of fraud and wonder: 
 
 On this I build ray strong reliance. 
 
 This monk — he will refuse compliance : 
 
 Thy mission to him then deliver. 
 
 That he depart this realm for ever.— 
 
 Now then my love ! my queen repose;;, ^y. - • 
 
 For Edwy's sake thine eyelids close ; 
 
 Rude the first welcome for ray bride— 
 
 But soon the tempest shall subside; 
 
 I leave thee that I might assuage 
 
 Its fury, blown by Dunstan's rage ; 
 
 And trust me, dearest ! that the morrow 
 
 Shall beam to smile away thy sorrow."
 
 G4 ELGIVA, CANTO ii. 
 
 XXIII, 
 
 Repose — can that breast find repose 
 
 Labouring with past passion's throes ? 
 
 As well go bid, the tempest o'er. 
 
 The swelling ocean heave no more. 
 
 As the late troubled mind find rest 
 
 While memory's waves o'erwhelm the breast. 
 
 Elgiva in her loneliness 
 
 Eelt trains of sad reflection press 
 
 With boding fears across her soul. 
 
 Like clouds that o'er the pale moon roll. 
 
 She gazed upon that pale moon's light 
 
 As its orb moved slow through the stilly night. 
 
 And she seemed on earth herself forlorn 
 
 Like the moon through its clouds of silence borne — 
 
 But there was an eye that watched above 
 
 In the silent hour ; she thought of His love. 
 
 And that thought like the poppy's fragrant balm 
 
 Soothed her anguish with holy calm. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 No sound she heard but the rising wind : 
 When she felt that her arms were seized behind
 
 CANTO II. Or the monks. 66 
 
 And her head in a muffling veil was bound, 
 
 And her feet were lifted high from the ground, 
 
 And she was borne off, without the power 
 
 To cry for help, from the royal tower ; 
 
 And she was held on a lofty steed 
 
 By a man who spurred him on to speed, 
 
 And in vain she shrieked, when some kinder hand 
 
 Had loosened her veil's oppressive band : 
 
 Till worn and wasted by her fears 
 
 She sank to silence and to tears : 
 
 By hope abandoned, dead to care. 
 She felt the peace of a dull despair. 
 
 '."■' 
 
 XXV. 
 
 From woods emerging on the plain 
 
 An Abbey's portico they gain. 
 
 Beneath an archway sculptured o'er, 
 
 A monk unbars the grated door ; 
 Cautious and slow the hand, that threw 
 
 The torch's glare her face to view. 
 
 And back with awe that brother drew, 
 
 E
 
 66 ELGIVA, CANTO II, 
 
 And wild his pallid eye; 
 And a hectic wander'd o'er his cheek. 
 And his lip seemed trembling as to speak; 
 As he would grace and pardon seek 
 
 For this foul injury : 
 And sudden left with him alone 
 To rest upon a couch of stone. 
 His hand the board officious spread 
 With the red wine and wheaten bread ; 
 She raised her searching eyes and read 
 
 Th' expression of his own : 
 " There is some kindness in thy face ; 
 Some reverence for a royal race ; 
 Aid me to quit this fearful place. 
 
 Or make the purpose known 
 For which this outrage wreaked has been 
 On me, a lady and a queen !" 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Ere from his lips reply could fall 
 Lights glanced athwart the gloomy hall ;
 
 CANTO II. Or the monks. 67 
 
 Two entering monks like shadows stand 
 Stern beckoning with a silent hand ; 
 And with an eye that flash'd command 
 
 She followed in their train ; 
 Her arms were crost upon her breast. 
 Her lifted eyes to heaven addrest ; 
 Her mien the ruffian touch repressed, 
 
 Which shrank from her disdain. 
 Apart the chancel doors then flew 
 And gave a cowl-clad group to view. 
 Their figures lengthened on the floor 
 By flashings of the fire before 
 Whose flame they stood ; the holy shrine 
 From many a gem sent back its shine, 
 That in high niche illumined faint 
 The virgin robed or carvelled saint : 
 The tapering shafts caught gleams of light. 
 And each deepened arch was plunged in night. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 '* What scene of midnight horrors drear," 
 
 She said, " will now be acted here ?" 
 
 E 2
 
 68 ELGIVA, CANTO ii- 
 
 As she discerned by Odo's side 
 The form of Dunstan in his pride. 
 The venom from his evil eye 
 Upon her shot imperiously. 
 And in its jaundiced glowering rays 
 His glance was like that serpent's gaze. 
 Which bound in its deadly withering spell 
 The fluttering victim on whom it fell. 
 Fain would the monk the glance he cast 
 On the lovely queen had power to blast : 
 One shiver through her cold frame ran, 
 Her cheek was for a moment wan, — 
 The fearful hue remained not there ; 
 She bent her spirit up to bear ; 
 And with firm step and steady eye 
 Advanced, and gazed successively 
 On all around ; her dauntless jiiien 
 Proclaimed the presence of the queen. 
 Each monk awliile bent coweringly 
 Before her youthful majesty — 
 Save Dunstan all — no dastard he, 
 But bold in holy villany.
 
 CANTO II. Or the monks. 69 
 
 O'er prouder heart than beat below 
 His sack-cloth, ne'er did the purple flow : 
 And he in His all-gracious name 
 Whence every love and blessing came 
 Could dare such deeds as fiends might tell 
 Exultingly to mates in hell. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " Lord Abbot," thus the queen, " thy guest 
 I doubtless am : — at thy behest 
 Brought here : — though somewhat strange I own 
 The courtesy that thou hast shewn 
 Thy mistress,— but of that no more. 
 Thou now wilt to thy lord restore 
 His bride ? — 'twere best, — who knows but he 
 May else requite thy courtesy ?" 
 " Proud dame, thy scorn doth ill beseem 
 Thy present state. — Thy royal dream 
 Is past. — The impious king no more 
 Shall see his ruin and adore. 
 The beauty which thou boastest ne'er 
 Shall meet his eye again.
 
 70 ELGIVA, CANTO II. 
 
 Be wise, and ceasing to be fair 
 
 Cease lady ! to be vain. 
 Cast the fond circlet from thy brow : 
 Thou standest at God's tribunal now : 
 The king of kings arraigns ; and we. 
 Presumptuous renegade ! are he." 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The Abbot ceased, the brotherhood 
 
 That round the priest and victim stood. 
 
 Muttered applause. Stern Odo sat. 
 
 Pontifical in all his state, 
 
 A seeming judge. His locks of gray 
 
 Did o'er his robe of scarlet stray, 
 
 And by their time-bleached hue they told 
 
 The mercy he did now withhold 
 
 He soon might need : a thing most vile 
 
 Dupe to another's cruel guile. 
 
 But where are stronger fetters found 
 
 Than those by superstition bound ? 
 
 Had not the false proud Abbot thrown 
 
 Such bonds of fear on every one.
 
 CANTO II. Or the monks. 71 
 
 Each heart had sunk in homage now 
 
 Before that high unbending brow. 
 
 For it was awful sure to see 
 
 Such martyr-like calm energy 
 
 In one so soft, so fair, so young.— 
 
 No tremor on her utterance hung ; 
 
 And though her swelling heart rose high 
 
 It troubled not her steady eye ; 
 
 Though scarce a laboured breath she drew, 
 
 No furrow on her forehead grew 
 
 While thus she spake. " And darest thou. 
 
 Thou impious priest, such pride avow 
 
 As hath thy soul presumptuous driven 
 
 To arrogate the power of Heaven ? 
 
 Dost thou presume as God to be 
 
 When earthly passions master thee 1 
 
 And shall the slave of such base things, 
 
 Audacious, lay his hand on kings } 
 
 No royal robe conceals more pride 
 
 Than what thy weeds of russet hide; 
 
 Pluck that mean cowl from off thy brow. 
 
 Thy fraudful crow n, and what art thou ?
 
 72 ELGIVA, CANTO ii. 
 
 I fear thee not— I trust that He 
 Whose servant thou wouldst seem to be 
 Will steel ray soul thy rage to bear ; 
 And though thou mayst this body tear. 
 That soul will scorn thy Aveak endeavour. 
 And rest upon its God for ever. 
 Tremble thou false and impious band. 
 For retribution is at hand!" 
 She said, _as Dunstan's signal glance 
 Bade the ruffian monks advance. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 " Our judgments are in mercy sent. 
 We bid thee tremble, but repent. 
 Thy mortal flesh we put to pain 
 That thou mayst thus be born again : 
 Better that soul and body sever. 
 Than that thy soul be lost for ever." 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Strong was the grasp — the iron glowed 
 As with the fire of hell:
 
 CANTO II. Or the monks. 73 
 
 Even priestly tears might well have flowed 
 To see what there befell. 
 
 The starting limbs convulsive spoke. 
 
 But not a scream the silence broke : 
 
 By drops (hat quivered on her brow 
 
 You might alone the torture know ; 
 
 But glances of defiance came 
 
 Through scars of blood and stains of flame : 
 By the bitten lip of the monk you could see 
 The brand was uufelt for the soul was free. 
 And the man of sin shrank heart-struck now 
 From the blasting scorn of that mangled brow ! 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Borne upon the swelling wave 
 To where receding billows lave 
 The shores of Erin, she was left 
 Of every hope and aid bereft. 
 While scarce a ray of reason's beaming 
 Across her fevered brain was gleaminc 
 The wretches, who the victim bore 
 To that bleak and dreary shore
 
 74 ELGIVA, CANTO ii. 
 
 To perish there, before again 
 They launched their pinnace on the main. 
 With many a threat command that she 
 No more her native land shall see. — 
 They said ; and spread before the gale 
 Their reefless snowy-bosomed sail. 
 And the dancing wave and the freshening breeze 
 Soon bore them away o'er the swelling seas.
 
 ELGIVA. 
 
 CANTO THE THIRD. 
 
 That pressure of life's hopelessness, the sense 
 Of the drear present, and the future dim 
 And anxious. 
 
 ELTON.
 
 ELGIVA. 
 
 CANTO THE THIRD. 
 
 I. 
 
 1 HERE is a lip whose curve of pride 
 
 Shall smile contempt on all around ; 
 Yet that lip of scorn a heart may hide 
 
 That shrinketh to inflict a wound : 
 There is an eye whose glance of fire 
 
 Shall fix another's wandering rays. 
 Though in that eye we nought admire. 
 
 But gaze, and wonder why we gaze. 
 Perchance that eye of scorn and pride 
 
 May soften into love's devotion : 
 Resisting every eflfort tried 
 The workings of the soul to hide 
 
 That lip may quiver with emotion.
 
 78 ELGIVA, CANTO in. 
 
 II. 
 A mauly form that bore on high 
 Such brow of bold temerity 
 Was seen to pass the heathy moor : 
 He on his back a cross-bow bore 
 And in his hand a hunter's spear; 
 Two leash -bound dogs were running near. 
 Deep chested, strong in limb and nerve, 
 With speed and scent that ne'er would swerve. 
 Slipped from the leash, they onward fly 
 With elastic bound and with beaming eye : 
 Now turn and snuff the tainted gale. 
 Now thread the thicket in the vale. 
 Where the brambled brakes o'ergrow 
 The moss — embrowned rocks below ; 
 The briery covert bursting through 
 A grim wolf darts ; with loud halloo 
 The hunter shouts, and the grc-hounds spring 
 The scent of his fanged feet following ; 
 Now the opposing hill they gain 
 And every limb of strength they strain.
 
 CANTO III. Or the monks. 70 
 
 The chief appears with nerve unbending 
 Against the rugged steep ascending: 
 Anon they sink in a glade of green 
 Where a bubbling brook hurls its current sheen ; 
 Swift the wolf through the clear wave dashing 
 Laves his sides in the waters plashing ; 
 Follows with fleet and Jiimble bound 
 O'er the chafed stream each eager hound ; 
 And vaulting with his trusty spear 
 Stoutly the chief doth the barrier clear, 
 Now o'er the plain with ardent speed 
 The hunter flies, and the rocks recede. 
 
 III. 
 And now they seemed to have lost the scent 
 For they doubled and turned and came and went. 
 Then darted away in rapid race 
 While the hunter pursued with a quickened pace. 
 And reached the dogs as they stopped their speed 
 By the river's side 'mid the sedgy weed ; 
 They stopped their speed and they cowered around 
 A form that lay on the damp cold ground.
 
 80 ELGIVA, CANTO III. 
 
 Lifeless he deemed that form to be, 
 'Till he heard the moan of misery. 
 
 IV. 
 
 He strove to raise her on his arm ; 
 She shrank in coyness or alarm ; 
 Concealed her face within her vest 
 And once again the cold earth pressed. 
 " Shall it ere be said," quoth Anlaf bold, 
 " Sigtryg's son had a heart so cold 
 That could leave the daughter of distress 
 In ail her female helplessness ?" 
 Athwart his back the spear he flung, 
 And by his side his cross-bow slung, 
 Then raised the maiden and to her ear 
 Spoke words that softly soothed her fear. 
 And in her mantle wrapped he Lore 
 His languid burthen from the shore. 
 
 V. 
 
 To where his buttressed towers arose, 
 Formed in rude strength 'gainst ruder foes.
 
 CANTO III. Or the monks. 81 
 
 He bent his steps ; the portal door 
 With wolves' gaunt heads was garnish'd o'er : 
 The wild deer's hide and antlers tall 
 Bedecked the hunter's high-roofed hall : 
 The looped windows long and narrow, 
 A passage for the barbed arrow. 
 Admit by glints the stinted light 
 Checquering the floor with dark and bright. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Here on a couch of skins he laid 
 
 The passive senseless-seeming maid; 
 
 And summoned strait an ancient dame 
 
 Who with her scrip of simples came ; 
 
 And herbs of vulneary power 
 
 Distilled in morning's primest hour. 
 
 And gathered when the stellar light 
 
 Propitious shone on the fateful night. 
 
 " Strange scars are here that should demand 
 
 Nona ! thy ministering hand ; 
 
 But had the caitiff wretch a heart 
 
 Who thus could play the torturer's part V 
 
 F
 
 82 ELGIVA, CANTO iii. 
 
 " May the virgin mothers bless thee child ! 
 Well may thy looks be dazed and wild: 
 What evil mind hath had the power 
 To wrong thee in thy fatal hour ? 
 Unholy things have had their day ; 
 Where did thy guardian spirit stray?" 
 
 VII. 
 
 With lenient hand was poured the balm ; 
 
 The torment was soothed and the pulse grew calm ; 
 
 They hailed the first returning gleam 
 
 Of reason, that in languid beam 
 
 Shone from those eyes, where the soul o'erwrought 
 
 Had lit the spark of unsettled thought ; 
 
 With glaring search they rested never, 
 
 Rolling in wilderment for ever ; 
 
 But now their glance was calm and staid ; 
 
 Though few and guarded the words she said : 
 
 And with a tale of fictious fear 
 
 She lulled her host's believing ear : 
 
 Suns rose and set ; and slow the trace 
 
 Of torture fadrd from licr face;
 
 CANTO III. Or the monks. as 
 
 But still the woe remained behind. 
 And brooding of the anxious mind. 
 
 VIII, 
 
 And when the chief would near her stand 
 
 She leaned upon her pensive hand : 
 
 She seemed as every sense were fled. 
 
 As thought were quenched and feeling dead ; 
 
 But no — her heart was busiest then, 
 
 Vacant and still to outward ken. 
 
 With cold disdain she thought upon 
 
 The vengeance that was dealt and gone ; 
 
 Spite of past contumely and pain 
 
 She longed to brave that hate again ; 
 
 And pondered thus unceasingly, 
 
 On means to cross the severing sea. 
 
 IX. 
 
 But seldom had that chieftain seen 
 
 So proud a glance, so high a mien 
 
 Touched with such exquisite distress. 
 
 Such a shade of pallid pensiveness : 
 
 f2
 
 84 ELGIVA, CANTO in. 
 
 The murmur of her thrillinjr voice 
 Made Anlaf sorrow, yet rejoice ; 
 And struck some chord of memory 
 That trembled to grief or ecstacy : 
 And when her mellowed tones expressed 
 
 Thanks for his frank and generous care 
 Of such a strange and wo-fraught guest. 
 
 His heart replied " and one so fair." 
 
 X. 
 
 " To see thee thus hath well repaid. 
 Lady ! my poor but willing aid ; 
 And I could wish to serve thee ever. 
 That death alone may the link dissever. 
 Rude in speech, in manners wild, 
 Not mine the tongue that ere beguiled : 
 Abide with me : this vigorous arm 
 Can shield thee from each threatened harm ; 
 Though not those arts arc in my power 
 That best may grace a lady's bower. 
 Thou hast subdued to gentleness 
 This ruder spirit's bold excess;
 
 CANTO III. Or the monks. 85 
 
 Be then my own ; my life's best treasure. 
 And mould me to thy wiser pleasure." 
 
 XI. 
 
 " It must not be," Elgiva cried, 
 
 " That 1 should hear the name of bride : 
 
 Wake not the stings of madding thought ; 
 
 I love thee Anlaf ! as I ought : 
 
 I honour thee with soul and heart. 
 
 But thou must be, what now thou art ; — 
 
 Thy baud has struck a painful cord — 
 
 My host — my friend— but not my lord." 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Know haughty lady ! few the eyes 
 That glance on Anlaf and despise. 
 For all along this winding shore 
 Where the saintly crosier swayed before 
 His red banner floats, and his vassals draw 
 The ready glaive, for his word is law : 
 And few there are who dare withstand 
 Entreaties, where he might command.
 
 »6 ELGIVA, CANTO in. 
 
 But I oflfend, and I forbear ; 
 
 I see lliee sorrowful and fair ; 
 
 A mystery seems to wrap tliee round 
 
 And veil thy bosom's secret wound ; 
 
 Let then my fond forbearance plead ; 
 
 My speech rude-fashioned ; mild my deed ; 
 
 Rest damsel, whatsoe'er thou be, 
 
 Within thy tower, or wander free 
 
 Where Anlaf's step shall ne'er intrude 
 
 Upon thy reverenced solitude: 
 
 And let him owe the will to bless 
 
 To time, the soother of distress." 
 
 XIII 
 
 And thus the queen would with Nona stray 
 Down the sloping dingle's winding way 
 When the flushed evening's sparkling star 
 Would beam o'er ocean wide and far ; 
 And dear she felt th' indulgence given 
 To muse on ties so rudely riven ; 
 And nature breathed in that still hour 
 Compassion's sympathy and power
 
 CANTO III. Or the monks. 87 
 
 Unfelt amidst the garish noon 
 
 And when the melancholy moon 
 
 Sailed through the void, she thought that he, 
 
 Though parted by the dreary sea, 
 
 Might on its orb a gazer be : 
 
 And weep for her who from his side 
 
 Was torn, his soul-selected bride. 
 
 . XIV. 
 
 It chanced when dropped the deepening shade 
 
 On wood and river, cliff and glade. 
 
 That Nona pressed her arm and near 
 
 Clung with the whispered breath of fear: 
 
 " Lady ! thy wandering steps retrace 
 
 For nigh yon shed is the fated place 
 
 Where the spectre stag, when the sun has set. 
 
 Skims by the haunted rivulet. 
 
 A warning and a fear to all 
 
 Who scorn the stranger's sacred call. 
 
 And dare profane the sanctuary 
 
 Of hearth-stone hospitality.
 
 88 ELGIVA, CANTO HI. 
 
 A hunter reared that ruined shed ; 
 
 And a stag to his hearth from a wolf had fled 
 
 And sank at his feet ; and in silence round 
 
 Lay, harmless couched, each gazing hound : 
 
 But the hunter thrust his hunting spear 
 Through the panting heart of the trusting deer. 
 
 And when again to the chase he flew 
 
 The murdered deer started full in view : 
 
 The hounds shrank back with a stifled moan. 
 
 And the hunter urged his steed alone : 
 
 O'er hill and dale, o'er brook and moor. 
 
 The man behind and the stag before 
 
 Till it stood at bay, and the crimson tide 
 
 Came rolling forth from its panting side ; — 
 
 That hunter's horn is mute on the hill. 
 
 But the phantom deer is wandering still." 
 
 XV. 
 
 " Peace Nona ! — not thy stag I fear 
 But something human hovers near. 
 The rock that overhangs the glade 
 Is darkened with its crossing shade.
 
 CANTO III. Or the monks. 89 * 
 
 Methiuks I marked it yesternight, 
 
 And still it haunts and shuns my sight. 
 
 An amice with its ample fold 
 
 Is round the lurking aspect rolled. 
 
 But I caught the glance of an evil eye 
 
 Bent on ray face suspiciously ; 
 
 Nona — I would not idly fear, 
 
 But danger threats me, and is near." 
 
 XVI. ; 
 
 She turned ; when on th' opposing side 
 To that high rock, was seen to glide 
 An antlered shape, and far above 
 The holly's rustling undergrove : 
 And Nona with averted head 
 Shrieked shrill " the spectre deer !" and fled. 
 With smile incredulous of scorn 
 The queen surveyed the branching horn. 
 But her mind was crossed by another fear 
 When she saw not the form of a forest deer; 
 But a shape that crept on the reedy ground 
 With a trailing deer-skin girt around ;
 
 90 ELGIVA, CANTO in. 
 
 Grovelling by fits or bounding fleet 
 Till a leap had brought it to her feet : 
 She stepped aside, but a grasping hold 
 Was on her kirtle's broidered fold : 
 " Queen of Albion ! banish fear : 
 List and trust the phantom deer : 
 When the morrow's evening shade 
 Dims the day and glooms the glade, 
 Bold and secret climb the mountain 
 To saint Arnold's holy fountain " 
 
 XVII. 
 
 And in the twilight's gleamy hour 
 The queen alone has left her tower. 
 In wimple wrapt 'gainst the evening gale 
 She glided to the appointed dale ; 
 The glcu was flanked by a verdant hill 
 And the rock that shrined the healinjr rill : 
 From whose high summit with foamy sweep 
 A river rolled down the shelvy steep. 
 From ledge to ledge in gushes fell, 
 'Till bosomed calm iu the distant dell.
 
 CANTO III. Or the monks. 91 
 
 Through the copse tJiat greened the river's descent. 
 
 By winding paths her steps she bent, 
 
 'Till to her sight the well was known 
 
 Bubbling within the living stone : 
 
 For the birchen sprays that quivered o'er 
 
 Many a rustic offering bore ; 
 
 And the string of beads and the tress of hair 
 
 Were hung above those waters fair. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 In the rock beneath the basined wave 
 
 Was St. Arnold's bed: a hermit cave. 
 
 Elgiva in her loneliness 
 
 Threw a watchful glance on its dim recess : 
 
 Till to her darkness-daunted look 
 
 The gloom a human outline took ; < j 
 
 She firmly stood, though her pulse beat high. 
 
 And measured the form with a wary eye. 
 
 For her only hope of aid or flight 
 
 Was hung on the chance of that desperate night ; 
 
 A man came forth with stealthy stride 
 
 And flung from his shoulder the dun deer-hide.
 
 92 ELGIVA, CANTO in. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The dull cold light on his visage played 
 And deepened the mass of his forehead's shade ; 
 His lynx-like eyes were with meaning frought. 
 Yet shattered gleams as of twilight thought. 
 When the brain has been crossed with the shade of 
 
 madness. 
 Gave a mingled look of care and gladness, 
 And keen wild lights would flit the while 
 In the shrewd intents of a passing smile. 
 
 XX. 
 
 It was a face remembered well 
 As the yellow beam of evening fell 
 And gave those features strong to light ; 
 They seemed to her a vision bright 
 Of new and better destiny 
 Hailed in her hopes young extacy. 
 " Berdic is it thyself," she cried, 
 " And standest thou surely by my side ? 
 What of my lord ? haste thee to tell 
 If thou didst leave him ill or well ?
 
 CANTO III. Ok the monks. 93 
 
 Doth he not seek rae ? — can he stay 
 M idst pomp and pageantry away ; 
 While I, though but his three days bride. 
 Am torn by ruffians from his side 
 To bear — this tongue shall never name 
 Th' indignant horror and the shame !" 
 
 XXI. 
 
 A shade of rueful mockery spread 
 
 O'er the glee-man's face while thus he said, 
 
 " He who could so indifferent prove 
 
 But ill deserves a lady's love." 
 
 "Indifferent! — doth thy lawless tongue ' 
 
 Dare thus to do thy monarch wrong ! 
 
 Indifferent ! — if a pulse doth beat, 
 
 A drop yet flows with vital heat 
 
 In his true heart, for me it flows — 
 
 I know he all of rest foregoes, 
 
 I know he wanders day and night 
 
 To trace my sad mysterious flight : 
 
 Or else my death from some feigned tale 
 
 Doth evermore in tears bewail. —
 
 94 ELGIVA, CANTO iii. 
 
 IndifFerent ! — but no more: — to me 
 What should a gleemaii's jesting be." 
 
 XXII. 
 
 "A jest," said Berdic, "lady's troth 
 Should teach them trust in lover's oath : 
 Know that thy lord, I must be brief. 
 His pageant holds of rage and grief; 
 For he hath sought thee far and near, . 
 In convent walls and forests drear; 
 Nor Abbey cell, nor church, nor tower 
 Hath 'scaped the swoop of his falcon power; 
 In holy place he hath descried 
 Evils enow ; but not his bride. 
 Abbot and Prior, saints without. 
 And hooded confessors devout 
 Have made the King's good treasure shine 
 With fatted buck and stoop of v^ine. 
 The King hath shewn a frowning face. 
 Nor feared to flout our lady's grace, 
 Unfrocked the saintly brethren strait, 
 And thrust them from without the gale.
 
 CANTO III. Or the monks. 95 
 
 The mountain stone King Edwy threw 
 (As hard and as unfeeling too) 
 From out his realm, doth now recoil 
 And bringeth havoc and turmoil. 
 The priests the bloody ensign spread 
 O'er the youthful Edgar's head. 
 To me the blessed chance was given 
 
 My banished queen's retreat to trace 
 Through one from Glastonbury driven. 
 
 For though the cowl was on his face 
 
 Yet this was his redeeming grace." 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " Edwy in doubt and danger too ! 
 
 O, let me to my lord away ; 
 Whilst thy tale thou lingerest through 
 
 Thy words, each one, reproach my stay. 
 Hast thou a bark ?" " The mind may dare 
 To tread the seas and wing the air. 
 But lady's frame thus worn and broken, 
 And cheeks thus pallid, but betoken
 
 90 ELGIVA, CANTO iii. 
 
 The need of rest in easy bower. 
 
 Not strength for travels periled hour." 
 
 " Bid the dark Valkyr sisters ride 
 
 On billowy clouds of mist beside 
 
 My sea-ward path, and spread before 
 
 These eyes, aye bent to that far shore, 
 
 The mystic web of dread and doom. 
 
 And woven in prophetic loom. 
 
 Inscribed with all I fear and hate 
 
 In living characters of fate ; 
 
 Give me one plank to bear on high 
 
 This clog of dull mortality 
 
 Above the rising surge, I'll dare 
 
 All evil things of earth, sea, air 
 
 To fly to Edwy, peril pressed. 
 
 And shield him with this faithful breast." 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " Cautious lady, must thou be 
 
 If thou wouldst hope thy lord to see. 
 
 Evil spirits hover round thee, 
 
 Watchful, and would fain confound thee.
 
 CANTO III. Or the monks. 97 
 
 More dread than those wild sisters three 
 Were to thy heathen ancestry. 
 For know beneath the high sun's beaming 
 An evil eye on thee is gleaming ; 
 And when evening's shade hath found thee 
 Fiends of darkness flit around thee : 
 Thy sacred chamber of repose 
 Is entered by thy mystic foes, 
 
 And midnight's darkest, deepest hour ; ■' 
 
 Shrouds thee not from their secret power. 
 Then cautious, lady, must thou be — 
 
 Bear thine eye still warily ! 
 
 And in the murkiest hour of night, . ■ 
 
 For we must shun the morning light, 
 
 Steal thou to Anlaf 's trophied hall. 
 
 And touch the seeming massive wall : . 
 
 In a vaulted way thou'lt find thy guide. 
 
 Its entrance hid by the dun-deer's hide ; 
 
 The winding chasm, though deep and dark. 
 
 Shall lead thee to a floating bark : 
 
 And let thy orisons be said 
 
 With many a prayer for the virgin's aid, 
 
 G
 
 9a ELGIVA, CANTO in. 
 
 For thou canst not know and thou dost not see 
 The evil eyes that are bent on thee. — 
 Now, even now my practised ear 
 Hath caught a short thick breathing near. 
 And — softly lady — dost thou see 
 A shade beside yon blasted tree r 
 Brace thy firm soul and haste away : 
 'Twere dangerous longer here to stay. — 
 One glass beyond day's dawning hour. 
 Remember — speed thee to the tower." 
 
 XXV. 
 
 He said, and vanished from her sight 
 Within the cavern's inner night ; 
 With quickened pulse and hectic cheek 
 Elgiva heard him cease to speak ; 
 Then turned, and bold, yet wary, traced 
 Her homeward track in cautious haste ; 
 A hovering form its blackness cast 
 Athwart her way as swift she passed ; 
 And every nerve to vigour strung. 
 Her mantle from her shoulders flung,
 
 CANTO III. Or the monks. 99 
 
 She threw lier bosom on the wind 
 With a stealthy glance still bent behind : 
 But she reached the castle gate alone : 
 And she had sunk on the threshold stone. 
 When an arm her slender waist entvvinine 
 Upraised her, half on earth reclining. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And a voice fell softly on her ear, 
 
 " Ungrateful Lady !— why such fear ? 
 
 Why thus for ever dost thou fly 
 
 From one who would to serve thee die 1 
 
 Is Anlaf hateful to thy sight 
 
 That thou wouldst dare a desperate flight, 
 
 In darkness and in danger dare ? 
 
 Seek peril to avoid his care. 
 
 While he with fond forbearance strove 
 
 ft 
 
 To win thee, willing, to his love? 
 
 Oh, if thou wilt my presence flee 
 
 Give back ray former peace to me ! — 
 
 For till I drank the stream entrancins 
 
 Of liquid light from thy blue eye glancing, 
 
 G 2
 
 100 ELGIVA, CANTO III. 
 
 Free as the breeze that fanned my breast 
 
 I cloiub the cliff for the eagle's nest, 
 
 Or with my spear or my tough yew bow 
 
 Laid the boar or the roe-buck low ; 
 
 The wolf-hide my pallet, I slept 'till the morrow, 
 
 Nor dreamed that its sun would be shaded with sorrow. 
 
 But now the very wish is dead 
 
 For the trophy skin and the wild wolf's head ; 
 
 No sport can now have charms for me 
 
 Since I have learnt to sigh for thee ; 
 
 And though my hand may poise the spear. 
 
 And though the shafted bow I bear, 
 
 I wander onward listlessly ; 
 
 Thy step in every glen I see : 
 
 'Twas thus e'en now I paced the glade. 
 
 And gave thy form to every shade ; 
 
 To mock my fond imagining, 
 
 
 
 How unlike thee, a gloomy thing 
 Of human outline crossed my sight. 
 Like a black spectre of the night : 
 "She flies!" he said in mystic tone, 
 "If sooth or false to thee is known."
 
 CANTO III. Or the monks. 101 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " Though evil things about me hover 
 
 To work me woe in every way — 
 Yet in thy spirit I discover, 
 
 I fain would hope, a generous ray ; 
 And if in thee my trust I place "^ 
 
 Thou canst not, darest not be base.— 
 Elgiva — hath no busy tongue - 
 
 Whispered to thee of her wrong ? — : ^ 
 
 Disasters linked to mighty name ... . ., 
 
 Will spread to realms remote their fame : 
 On this far land, by ocean bounded. 
 Must royal Edwy's oft have sounded, „ : i 
 Coupled with one — I will not shame ■:.'. :.. 
 My lips by breathing e'en his name ; .' . 
 
 That man of treason and priestly pride 
 Who wrested from a king his bride I— 
 1 am Elgiva !" — Anlaf gazed, •: ,'_.. .. I.:'. 
 
 His heart seemed broke — his spirit crazed : 
 And when her low-breathed tale was done 
 He sighed, and started, and was gone.
 
 102 ELGIVA, CANTO III. 
 
 xxviir. 
 Returning soon with calmed look 
 The lady's hand he gently took, 
 And she felt his nerves of iron shake 
 Like the lonely leaf in the winter brake ; 
 His sallow cheek did his grief betoken 
 And his voice was tremulous and broken. 
 " Then thou art near in blood and beauty 
 To my Elfwina, and 'twas duty 
 That made me love that angel mien ; 
 Again Elfwina's glance was seen 
 Darting from thine eyes so pure 
 This heart, time-chastened, to allure, 
 As when in freshness of my youth 
 To her I gave my lore-pledged truth.— 
 Fair child of my Elfwina's brother. 
 Yes, thou belongest to another ! — 
 And Anlaf, though it sear his brain. 
 Will bear thee to thy lord again, 
 F.'en in that meddling monk's despite 
 Though backed by all his church's might ;
 
 'i-,; 
 
 CANTO HI. Or THE MONKS. 103 
 
 Nor shall he dare, by this strong dart, 
 Pollute the pure air where thou art, 
 For I will hover round thy dwelling 
 All evil things from thence expelling ; 
 The sanctuary of thy shrine 
 I'll guard as 'twere a thing divine ; 
 My whole of life and joy shall be 
 From every ill to shelter thee. 
 And all that to thy heart is dearest 
 Shall, saving thee, to mine be nearest. 
 This night let needful rest be thine ; - ' 
 
 Such rest, I fear, will not be mine ! — 
 By the faint morning's rosy ray 
 Yon bark shall bear us on our way. - ^^ • 
 I leave thee — Princess still too dear ! 
 Thy thanks I must not, dare not, hear." — 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Elgiva sought her couch that night. 
 But there was much of dark and bright 
 Wrapt in her warm soul's passioned theme ; 
 She closed her eyes in half-waking dream ;
 
 104 ELGIVA, CANTO III. 
 
 Her chamber was a turret hitih. 
 Her window looked on the open sky ; 
 And though iu the trance of sleep reclined 
 The scene was shaped in the waking mind. 
 She stood and watched the silent beam 
 Through the quivering foliage stream ; 
 She stood and watched the chequered shade 
 Each far-projecting buttress made : 
 From very hope intense she sighed 
 To think that moon might see her glide 
 In her floating bark across the main 
 When it careered the heavens again. — 
 Was that her sigh repeated ? — no — 
 It was some murmured wail of woe. 
 As if a supernatural moan 
 Had breathed from a statue's lips of stone. 
 So echoless the sound, though near. 
 So dead it fell upon the ear. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 So in the vision of her sleep 
 
 She looked towards the castle keep,
 
 CANTO III. Or the monks. 105 
 
 And saw the moonlight fall in showers 
 On the cold walls and flanking towers ; 
 But midway on the moonshine air 
 She saw a woman hovering there ; 
 Her tossing arms were lank and bare. 
 
 Her mantle of blood-red hue ; 
 The silvery tresses of her hair 
 
 Seemed dabbled with midnight dew : 
 The features cold and motionless ' . ; j ;. 
 
 Did a world of woe express ; • 
 
 And mournful was her piercing cry. 
 And awful was her fixed dead eye ; 
 The while Elgiva gazed upon 
 The air — borne vision, it was gone; 
 And she knew in her dream 'twas the banshee sprite 
 That comes with its warning cry at night. 
 And hovers around the lordly hall 
 When its noble chief is doomed to fall ! 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And ere her anxious heart was still, . .; . 
 
 Or her prayer was said to ward the ill
 
 106 ELGIVA, CANTO III. 
 
 That fate might hang o'er her guardian friend. 
 
 Loud shrieks from the distant hall ascend ! 
 
 She sprang from the bed and her sweeping hair 
 
 Waved loose as she wound down the spiral stair ; 
 
 Folding her hasty gathered vest 
 
 Within the feet-thronged hall she pressed — 
 
 And stood aghast in astounding woe : 
 
 For there on his festive couch stretched low 
 
 In the numbness of death was the warmest, the boldest, 
 
 Aulaf, who now lay the weakest and coldest. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Did she the noble chief behold. 
 Though lifeless, motionless and cold, 
 In that calm gentle sleep of death 
 When all is left save vital breath> 
 And you might gaze with fixed eye 
 In grief's sublimest extasy ? 
 Ah, no ! — disturbed was that noble face. 
 Distended was that brow of grace. 
 And that drawn lip of livid hue 
 Did the foam of agony bedew.
 
 CANTO III. Or the monks. 107 
 
 Around with clamors loud and shrill 
 
 The hall his frightened vassals fill ; 
 
 And many a wild surmise arose. 
 
 And vague as dread — who, whence, his foes ? 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 The voices sank to nmtterings low, ^ , . 
 
 Broken by sudden starts of woe, 
 
 'Till the murmur died in the silence dread 
 
 And nought was heard but the stealthy tread 
 
 Of the matron train as they came and went 
 
 On the last sacred rites intent. .' 
 
 They cast the shrouding mantle o'er 
 
 The lifeless form, now seen no more : 
 
 The tapers placed in order meet ; 
 
 And at his head and at his feet 
 
 One took her stand, and then the song 
 
 Of death echoed shrill from the choral throng. 
 
 CRONACH. 
 Boldest, bravest — art thou gone, 
 And is thy noble spirit fled ? —
 
 108 ELGIVA, CANTO III. 
 
 The note of woe with tears shall flow 
 O'er the stony pile of the honored dead. 
 Woe to Eriu, woe ! 
 
 Could not ihy hall, or thy archers tall. 
 
 Thy noble sport and wide domain ; 
 Thy princely bower with buttressed tower 
 
 Longer thy spirit proud retain ? 
 
 Woe to Erin, woe! 
 
 How many the guest at thy hall of feast 
 That shared thy board and flowing shell ; 
 
 Ne'er from thy door went the hungry poor. 
 Who knew thy generous soul so well. 
 Woe to Erin, woe ! 
 
 What warrior so bold, as this mighty hold 
 
 And all tliy conquered land can tell ; 
 And many the foe by thy prowess laid low. 
 
 Ah ! many a mighty chieftain fell ! 
 
 Woe to Erin, woe !
 
 CANTO III. Or the monks. 109 
 
 A hero of fire was thy princely sire ; 
 
 And noble was thy beauteous dame ; 
 Thine each manly charm, and strong was the arm 
 
 Of the chief that over the dark waves came! 
 Woe to Erin, woe ! 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Elgiva sought her turret bower 
 
 Full of the dirge's saddening power. 
 
 And while the bitter tear she shed 
 
 O'er the mystic fate of the generous dead, - ' 
 
 Her shaken soul to the pressure yielded • ■ 
 
 Of the danger which his arm had shielded : • • 
 
 She mused in doubt if the passage lay • .. 
 
 Still free to her steps on the shoreward way ; 
 
 If Berdic would come with the coming light; 
 
 If still he breathed, to aid in her flight ; 
 
 For might not the same mysterious hate 
 
 Have doomed the faithful glee-man's fate ? ' 
 
 She watched for the rise of the morning sun 
 
 And oft turned the glass ere the sand had run ; 
 
 The brown lone elm in the court below 
 
 Was tipped with the day-break's streaky glow.
 
 no ELGIVA, CANTO III. 
 
 And the lirst grey gleams through the casement broke 
 
 And tinged the rafters of darkened oak : 
 
 Then a thought arose, uncalled before. 
 
 How she might gain the secret door 
 
 l^eneath the dun hide in the hall, where they 
 
 Who wailed for the dead would watch till day. 
 
 " My soul thou must dissemble at last. 
 
 So desperate my hope, that hall must be passed." 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 While the doubtful darkness spread 
 Its shadow o'er the quick and dead. 
 And while the chanted wail of woe 
 To silence sank, and all below 
 Was still and sad as best beseeraeth 
 That sleep in which none ever dreameth. 
 She softly oped her chamber door 
 And paced the vaulted gallery o'er, 
 With stealthy tread approached the bier 
 Where watched, with piety and fear. 
 Two aged dames, when thus the queen— 
 " Mothers, I visit this sad scene
 
 CANTO III. Or the monks. Ill 
 
 To mourn through morn's dim hours, and pray, 
 
 And penance do till the risen day : 
 
 For I have vowed a vow to abide 
 
 Alone with my friend by his dark bier's side." 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 They went, and left her of the hall 
 
 Joint tenant with the murdered dead : 
 
 The spreading dawn on the distant wall 
 
 The pallid shine of the opal shed. 
 
 Blent with the taper's flickering ray 
 
 As it waned in the gleam of the coming day ; ; ' 
 
 And all was hushed as the sepulchre 
 
 In the desert rock when no leaf doth stir: : 
 
 The shrill small cricket chirped alone 
 
 A requiem from the cold hearth stone. 
 
 It was an hour of grief and dread. 
 
 And anxious hope, and horror blended ; 
 While brain-sick fancy shadows spread. 
 
 And mystic forms in air descended. 
 Her pulse would own a throb of fear 
 At some imagined footfall near. 
 As the wind would wave and the shadow fall 
 From the uncouth hangings that swept the wall:
 
 ll'i ELGIVA, 
 
 She saw it move !— that dun-deer's hide ! 
 Twas drawn by a visible hand aside !— 
 And a stifled shriek from Elgiva broke 
 When the gleeman stepped on the floor of oak. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 One sorrowing look she backward cast; 
 
 Then seized a lamp that was waning fast ; 
 
 With a sign of haste and of mute command 
 
 She grasped with hers his supporting hand ; 
 
 And drew him through the secret door 
 
 And sent her piercing glance before. 
 
 The sound of their feet receding falls 
 
 As they thread the maze of the castle walls ; 
 
 Down broken steps with moss o'ergrown. 
 
 Through vaults delved deep in the living stone, 
 
 They wound their subterraneous way 
 
 'Till the day-light quenched the sick taper's ray ; 
 
 And issuing from the rock's grated door 
 
 They felt the fresh breeze from the sun-gilt shore ; 
 
 And the mariners hoisted the swelling sail 
 
 That wafted them free from green Innisfail.* 
 
 • An ancient name for Ireland.
 
 ELGIVA. 
 
 CANTO THE FODRTH. 
 
 Thine eye sees but the outward side of things, 
 So thick a film o'erspreads the visual ray ; 
 1 have beheld the saints throned in the blaze 
 Of highest heaven.— Without God, not a hair 
 Falls from the head of man. 
 
 Schiller's Maid of Orleans, 
 Translated by Salvin. 
 
 H
 
 ELGIVA. 
 
 CANTO THE FOURTH. 
 
 I. 
 
 Where now there spreads a dreary moor 
 
 A forest waved in the days of yore ; 
 
 The hill that since with its lofty tor 
 
 O'er-watched the bannered march of war, 
 
 Then reared its summit, green and bare. 
 
 From its base of woods through the heights of air. 
 
 That tower still rears its lofty pile : . ^ .;' ' 
 
 O'erlooking Avalon's holy isle, 
 
 And haply shall last till the trump of doom. 
 
 That shall break asunder both tower and tomb: 
 
 But none save chronicler or bard 
 
 Does that walled space of earth regard : 
 
 The mystery lives with them alone. 
 
 What lay beneath that foundation stone. 
 
 H 2
 
 lie ELGIVA, CANTO IV. 
 
 II. 
 Upon that lonely hill, a scite 
 For wizard or for anchorite. 
 Had Dunstan delved a narrow cell 
 
 At times apart from man to dwell. 
 In subterranean solitude 
 To pamper his fantastic mood. 
 On high and mystic things to brood, 
 
 And foil the snares of hell. 
 'Twas delved as deep as a man could stand. 
 Who could reach its length with each outstretched hand: 
 It seemed, so scant its breadth, t'inter 
 The living in a sepulchre : 
 Its only wall was a heavy door 
 That closed the grave-like dwelling o'er; 
 An inlet was by its air-holes given 
 To the breath and light of the outward heaven. 
 Why on that lonely hill did he 
 Delve his cell of sanctity ? 
 Was it because with penance holy 
 He fed his brain-sick melancholy;
 
 CANTO IV. Or the monks. 117 
 
 Or that from its summit high 
 His gloating sight exclusively 
 Could range o'er rich and fertile plains, 
 Proud Glastonbury's broad domains ? 
 
 III. 
 Here oft the early cerf might see, 
 Ascending white and taperingly, 
 A column of thin smoke arise 
 High in the cold gray morning skies ; 
 u And often at the midnight hour 
 
 A blackening cloud would in ether lour, 
 
 And a dull and ruddy light would glare 
 
 Around the mountain summit bare ; 
 
 And you might know by that dull red light 
 
 The Abbot was in his cell that night. 
 
 He plied his craft of cunning skill 
 
 In the delved cave on the midnight hill: 
 
 For he was versed in his age's lore. 
 
 And with furnace-blast fused the softened ore, 
 
 And his hand could polish the Saxon gem. 
 
 For lady's fillet or diadem.
 
 118 ELGIVA, CANTO IV. 
 
 The harp his owu hand had rudely strung 
 On the cavern's shelving side was hung ; 
 The harp that once with untouched string 
 Spoke — as if touched by a seraph's wing: 
 And oft, 'twas said, when his lone psalm ended 
 Had angel visitants descended, 
 And the rush of wings and their plumy light 
 Had been heard and seen in the still dim night; 
 
 'Twas here ambition's haughty slave 
 At midnight sat in his living grave. 
 Above, below, no sound was heard 
 From gale or rivulet, beast or bird. 
 The flickering blaze amid the gloom 
 Could scarce the narrow don iUume ; 
 The crucible of molten ore 
 Stood unnoted on the floor ; 
 Thr: sign of grace, the figured cross. 
 Which his cunning hand in rare imboss 
 Had wrought and wreathed with golden lay, 
 On the rude bench unfiuished lay ;
 
 CANTO IV. Or the monks. 119 
 
 And with nerveless grasp of over wearied might, 
 
 He held the iron still glowing white. 
 
 His cowl back on his shoulders flung, 
 
 His matted hair disordered hung; 
 
 His deep o'ershadowing brow was bent 
 
 Above his eye intense, which sent 
 
 No outward glance, it turned within 
 
 On his grained soul, that glossed its sin 
 
 With pious aims and fain would dress 
 
 Dark deeds in garb of holiness. - 
 
 V. 
 
 " With holy church her spirit strove 
 
 Or I had not marred the minion's love. 
 
 Why these misdoubtings ? oh, ray soul ! 
 
 I read my name on that flame-writ scroll : 
 
 What art thou ? oracle or spell? 
 
 And charactered by heaven or hell ? 
 
 Misgiving still— fr)r ever so 
 
 Will this infernal iron glow ? 
 
 I see thy shape — I know thee there — 
 
 Hence — tempt me not to my despair '. 
 
 'Twas Heaven that warned me not to spare ;
 
 120 ELGIVA, CANTO iv. 
 
 And what hast thou with me ? 
 Laugh'st thou ? — the brand that seared her brow 
 It arms ray grasp — then tremble thou ! 
 Shrink from its flame ! I cross thee now— 
 
 And bid thee howl and flee !" 
 
 VI. 
 
 His bloodshot eyes from their sockets sprung. 
 As he to the bodiless phantom clung ; 
 With gnashing teeth he the den bestrode ; 
 The cold round drops from his forehead flowed : 
 With his bare arm lifted the iron glowed — 
 
 And his weeds were flung in air ; 
 The fire of the forge through the murky night 
 Cast broad o'er his stature its ruddy light, 
 And he stood in the smoke a ghastly sight 
 
 In the fury of his despair : 
 When looking down the roofless cell 
 Appeared a face remembered well. 
 
 vti. 
 The iron fell from his loosened grasp, 
 And Odo's hand did he firmly clasj) ;
 
 CANTO IV. Or the monks. 121 
 
 And he gazed upon him fixedly 
 
 With looks of dark perplexity : 
 
 " And saw'st thou nought ?"' " What should I see r" 
 
 Said Odo, wild and doubtingly — 
 
 " And heard'st thou not that savage yell 
 
 Which nought could utter but voice from hell 1 
 
 And did no broad and filmy wing 
 
 Of midnight's blackness o'er thee fling 
 
 The shade of death as thy foot descended ? 
 
 But well th' infernal battle ended. ' 
 
 Strong in heaven's delegated power, ' . 
 
 The shield of faith upon my arm, . ; r 
 I triumphed in temptation's hour — 
 
 The fiend of darkness could not harm." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 As Dunstan's limbs their nerve unbent, 
 
 Their rigour seemed to Odo's sent : 
 
 And as the Abbot's eyes regained 
 
 Their wonted look, the Primate's strained 
 
 As though he saw the hellish guest 
 
 In his infernal horrors drest : ' v
 
 122 ELGIVA, CANTO IV. 
 
 Terror fastened on his mind 
 And it was long ere he could find 
 His scattered thoughts, or words to tell 
 What brought him to the midnight cell 
 In secret haste : with visage pale 
 And faltering speech he told his tale. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Edwy from Winchester advances 
 
 With ten thousand bowmen strong, 
 And troop on troop of trusty lances 
 
 Join him in his march alons. 
 The Monks of Malmsbury have armed — 
 Dost thou see ought ? thou look'st alarmed ! — 
 Have armed their vassals and advance 
 To meet him — why that anxious glance?" — 
 "Lord Primate, this is idle fear: 
 Let demons come, if I be here 
 Can they prevail ? — thy tidings tell, 
 They are of moment, ill or well." 
 " The Chancellor remains behind ' 
 
 To levy forces ; ere combined
 
 CANTO IV. Or the monks. 123 
 
 With those of Edwy, hasten thou — 
 I hear advancing footsteps now !" 
 
 X. 
 
 " Have years so robbed thy manhood's might 
 
 That fear should overcome thee quite?" 
 
 Thus Dunstan spake, " art thou the man 
 
 Who to the peril'd Athelstan 
 
 Supplied a sword, when his good blade 
 
 At Brunanburh was useless made? 
 
 Odo, thou do'st nought inherit 
 
 Of the bold ancestral spirit r;-' ■; ■..,.•.■ .■: ' . .; 
 
 Which led thy wild progenitors, 
 
 Adventurous, to wage distant wars. 
 
 And lords of far-off realms to be 
 
 From nought but wanderers of the sea." 
 
 " Dunstan, from thing of earth would I, 
 
 More than thyself shrink dastardly ?" 
 
 " But why at hellish power shouldst thou. 
 
 Here met and mastered, tremble now ?"
 
 124 ELGIVA, CANTO iv. 
 
 XI. 
 
 " ' Twere well if thou thiue earthly foes 
 Could'st as triumphantly oppose. 
 If thou fall under Edwy's power 
 ' Twill be for thee a woeful hour : 
 Maddened by the outrage done 
 To her so fondly doated on, 
 And by thy late uncalled return 
 From banishment, hast thou to learn 
 How hateful must thy presence be ? 
 How firm and unrelenting he ? 
 If his impious aim succeed 
 The holy church were fallen indeed." 
 
 XII. 
 
 " What though his arms should now prevail 
 It will not much his cause avail: 
 Think'st thou the people e'er will see 
 Reviled Rome's mitred majesty ; 
 The Host's higli altar trampled down, 
 The saints deprived of their earthly crown ?
 
 CANTO IV. Or the monks. 125 
 
 Thou decmest too high of the headstrong youth : 
 
 His mind hath not the power in sooth 
 
 To wreak such mighty mischief here ; 
 
 There would be greater cause for fear 
 
 Were the proud Elgiva still 
 
 Nigh to brace his weaker will." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " Dunstan, thou hast good service done 
 In humbling low that haughty one : 
 Her sinful soul, redeemed by thee, 
 Shall learn to bless thy firm decree. 
 But now ray mission to unfold. 
 That thou in readiness raayst hold 
 All those beneath thine ample sway 
 To march in disciplined array 
 And intercept the king ere he — 
 
 Dost thou not hear a footstep fall ? — 
 Ha, sounds it not advancingly ? 
 
 And nearer now ! — Lord Abbot, call !"
 
 120 ELGIVA, CANTO IV. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The monk and prelate stood amazed ! 
 
 The cell's o'erclosing door was raised 
 
 With a hand of strength, but stealthily. 
 
 And a mantled form stood darkling by. 
 
 The strange intruder raised his cowl : 
 
 A piercing glance beneath the scowl 
 
 Of his bent and bushy brow 
 
 He cast upon each churchman now. 
 
 " And know you not your guest ?" he said 
 
 As he slowly raised his matted head. 
 
 And the tire tiashed suddenly and bright 
 
 With a wild unsteady light 
 
 On features deep and harshly lined. 
 
 Each angle sharp by the shade defined. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " iiilfheag! — and where's thy charge? — be brief." 
 
 " My errand will not pleasure thcc." 
 " Why this evasion villain ? if 
 
 Elgiva live not, answer me."
 
 CANTO IV. Or the monks. 127 
 
 " Not many leagues from hence by this 
 
 To Winchester she wends her way, 
 And will be there ere long, I wis, 
 
 Unless thy courtesy delay." 
 "Elgiva is escaped, say'st thou. 
 And near to Edwy now, e'en now ? 
 Where was thy well-worn dagger hid 
 When from thy boasted guard she slid 1 
 But hold — her vaunted charms are gone 
 By which the foolish boy she won." 
 " It had been well if this were so ; 
 The charms thou teil'st of freshlier glow ' . 
 Than e'en before thine act of grace 
 To save her soul despoiled her face." 
 "Thou liest."—" Thine error thou'lt discover 
 When she regains her power and lover." 
 " Away — she must be met — away — 
 To the Abbey speed without delay 
 And summon Gutliron from his cell ; 
 
 Dark Ladbrog will thy purpose aid. 
 And Wolfgar ; see they arm them well 
 And let them use their trenchant blade —
 
 12a ELGIVA, CANTO IV 
 
 As thus — a whisper in thine ear — 
 We need no more her wanderings fear. 
 Hut if the wanton 'scape thee now 
 Beware — for by the rood I vow. 
 We own thee no more for the church's son. 
 If the holy work be left undone." 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The morning dawned, the abbey rang 
 With preparation's busy clang ; 
 The cloyster's pavements clattered aloof 
 With the pawing courser's impatient hoof; 
 Lay-brothers were hurrying to and fro. 
 The neighbouring Theows did come and go ; 
 And bow-strings were tried and corslets laced, 
 And friars were mounting in strange haste: 
 
 Their garments of humility 
 
 Backward on the breezes fly. 
 As they spur on in eager speed 
 The panting sides of the foaming steed : 
 A busier calling was theirs that day. 
 And no time was found or to preach or pray.
 
 CANTO IV. Or the monks. 129 
 
 XVII. 
 
 The sun's last shadow had streaked (he plain. 
 
 When one rode swiftly with loosened rein, 
 
 Whose visage was hid in the falling gloom 
 
 That dropped from his crowned helmet's plume ; 
 
 And by the side of his courser ran. 
 
 As with roebuck bound, a distracted man; 
 
 There were glancing lights in his fearful eye ; 
 
 And he pointed on with a wailing cry ; 
 
 His garment was dabbled with blood, and rent ; 
 
 His brow with the damps of travel sprent ; 
 
 Yet swift he paced, as he trod the wind. 
 
 Nor the courser had left his speed behind .- 
 
 'Twas the gleeman who ran with that fay-like speed, 
 
 And 'twas England's king that bestrode the steed. 
 
 XVIIl. 
 
 They have passed the rock and the hawthorn tree. 
 As the sun shot askance o'er the western lea ; 
 From the courser's back the youth has sprung 
 And the turret-stair to his tramp has rung.
 
 130 ELGIVA, CANTO IV. 
 
 And their feet slide now on an oaken floor, 
 
 But the track of their footsteps is marked in gore. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Who that hath watched the couch of sorrow 
 
 Where one, more dear in suffering, lay. 
 Wishing, in vain, each pang to borrow 
 
 That made the maddening pulses play ; 
 What though his soul hung on that breath 
 Tast fleeting and resigned to death. 
 But hath hoped each throb of agony 
 Would set th' imprisoned spirit free ? 
 In the deep silence of Edwy's eye 
 Was horror's chill intensity. 
 As he gazed upon her pale lips severed, 
 That with convulsive movement quivered ; 
 And saw the drops of anguish now 
 Roll slowly from her pallid brow : 
 And when in dying feebleness 
 Her temple's throb grew less and less, 
 It seemed she either prayed or praised, 
 For her lips were moved and her eyes were raised
 
 CANTO III. Or the monks. 131 
 
 With a look so full of heaven 
 As if beatitude were given. 
 Ere the soul had yet laid by 
 The load of earth's mortality. 
 
 XX. 
 
 If ever sound could rouse the dead 
 That sound was in " Elgiva" said. 
 So agonized, so thrilling came 
 To her dying ear that single name ! 
 She turned a look in langour bright, 
 A passing smile of deep delight 
 Beamed on her Edwy, and her clasp. 
 Ice-cold, was linked within his grasp : 
 Ihat clasp remained as if locked with steel. 
 Nor loosed 'till the hand had ceased to feel. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 'J'Le words that scarce her lips escaped 
 
 In whispered sighs their accents shaped;— 
 
 " 'J'he trump shall sound that wakes the dead. 
 
 And they that drew their painful breath 
 
 I 2
 
 132 ELGIVA, CANTO iv. 
 
 Lift up with joy th' expecting head— 
 
 And what is pain or what is death ? 
 The blaze that dawned on martyr's eyes 
 
 I feel it dawn on mine; 
 There is a place beyond those skies — 
 
 I am and shall be thine : 
 But here thou canst no longer be 
 Aught to myself, nor I to thee ! " 
 
 XXII. 
 
 A movement near the couch of death ; 
 A deeply drawn and heavy breath 
 Drew the king's quick-startled glance 
 From its sad and awful trance ; 
 Dark as his soul he saw him stand ; 
 'Twas Duustan;— Edwy's eager hand 
 Was on his sword ; but her own was laid 
 With gentle check on the half-drawn blade : 
 At the sight of the king the abbot starting 
 In sudden wonder seemed departing, 
 But, as though by spell of magic bound 
 His feet were rooted to the ground ;
 
 CANTO IV. Or the monks. 133 
 
 And when again he sought to turn. 
 From the lowly couch of mountain fern 
 The queen, half raised, with head on high. 
 Had fixed him with her fearless eye ; 
 For the sudden gleam of the rising moon 
 Shone full on her forehead as broad as noon : 
 The scorn that had frowned on her branded brow 
 From its marble paleness defied him now ; 
 And a glance as of strange unearthly light 
 
 Flashed wild through her floating hair; 
 That eye-beam intense was scorching bright 
 
 In the terror of its snare ; 
 And the lips moved quick ; seemed every limb 
 
 With preternatural elFort strung : 
 Still that dilated gaze on him 
 
 With terrible enchantment hung: 
 One hand was on the king's wrung hand, 
 The other lifted in command ; 
 She bade arraigned that mnrderer stand 
 
 And quailed his spirit proud; 
 Them from her bosom rapid heaving 
 
 A voice of scarcely human tone.
 
 134 ELGIVA, CANTO IV. 
 
 The chamber's brooding silence cleaving, 
 
 Rose gradual from a stifled moan ; 
 And thrilled on Dunstan's shrinking ear 
 As a river-echo piercing clear 
 Still nearer uttered and more near. 
 
 And louder still and loud. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " Welcome — I bid thy hell begin ! 
 
 Behold and fear me ! man of sin ! 
 
 I hear the tramp of armed heel ; 
 
 The portals burst with blows of steel ; 
 
 The visiting of wrath divine 
 
 Spares not the carved and pictured shrine ; 
 
 The saint '.—the tyrant of his king ! 
 
 I summon him away ; 
 His arras in vain to idols cling 
 
 The doomsmen strike their prey; 
 And to his gods of stone and wood 
 Pour out their sacrifice of blood. 
 Though pilgrim offerings load the tomb 
 And miracles be done.
 
 CANTO IV. Or the monks. 135 
 
 They shall not change Rome's fearful doom— 
 
 Her gory race is run. 
 See ! on that hill, thy boasted hold. 
 The monk, who gorged on monarch's gold. 
 Quivers upon th' accursed wood. 
 And feeds the raven's gathering brood. 
 O'er Glastonbury's loopholed walls 
 The yew bursts wild, the ivy crawls: 
 Heaven's choristers on fearless wing 
 Amid thy roofless cloysters sing : 
 And thou — I see the judgment throne ! 
 It is not set for nie alone ; 
 The hour is fixed ; the hour is nigh, 
 
 When thou must stand beside me there ; 
 And look again on the steadfast eye 
 
 That dooms thee now to thy long despair : 
 She shrinks not from thy aspect now 
 
 Who trembled not before ; 
 Thou lookedst on ray burning brow, 
 
 Thou seest me in my gore ; — 
 Gaze — for the sight shall leave thee never. 
 But bleed within thy soul for ever !"
 
 136 ELGIVA, CANTO iv. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The head was dropped that aloft was raised ; 
 The heaven-blue eye was fixed and glazed ; 
 The hand relaxed its clinging hold. 
 The stiflfening limbs grew pale and cold : 
 A snowy wanness its langour shed 
 On Edwy's face as it bent o'er the dead : 
 A hue more strange than sorrow gave. 
 Like one who is marked for an early grave : 
 But none save gifted eye can trace 
 The doom of death in living face. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 A cold and deathy silence hung 
 O'er the chamber that late to her voice had rung ; 
 And its walls were wrapt in a sudden gloom 
 Like the utter darkness within the tomb — 
 When Berdic starting from the ground, 
 Where couched he lay, scattered light around ; 
 From embers caught, the taper's spark 
 Glanced on the abbot's visage dark,
 
 CANTO IV. Or the monks. 137 
 
 And he sickened at heart, for he knew the light 
 That scares the fiend from a parting sprite : 
 With hands hard clenched, and hair upraised. 
 The monk astounded stood, and gazed 
 On those blue wild eyes so fixed and glazed, 
 
 One moment and no more : 
 On her parted lip a smile had spread. 
 It lingered still though the life was fled ; 
 And he looked once back on the silent dead 
 
 Slill beautiful in gore : 
 And in vain he strove to cross his breast; 
 And starting in haste the stone stair he pressed : 
 His horse's hoofs were heard on the wind, 
 As he left the death-scene far behind : 
 But the smile and the scorn of the death-fixed look. 
 
 Which his malice and wrath disdained. 
 His humbled spirit to madness shook. 
 
 And the sight of blood remained : 
 In minster and cell, in court and bower, 
 ' Twas ever present with blasting power ; 
 When he rode on high above the crowd 
 And the host was borne before ;
 
 138 ELGIVA, CANTO iv. 
 
 And the people in worship and terror bowed. 
 
 Yet the day-light was dimmed with gore. 
 His eve of life was stretched in its span. 
 But he lived a doomed and a fearful man : 
 The look, that never had passed away. 
 Withstood him when on his death-bed he lay. 
 Like the fiery sword of the cherubin. 
 Though the priest stood by to absolve his sin.
 
 NOTES.
 
 NOTES TO CANTO THE FIRST. 
 
 NOTE I. 
 
 From regions of the stormy north, 
 
 With rapine's arm the ocean king 
 Came in all his terrors forth 
 
 As eagles on their quarry spring. 
 
 " The sea-kings of the north were a race of beings whom 
 Europe beheld with horror. Without a yard of territorial 
 property, without any towns, or visible nation, with no wealth 
 but their ships, no force but their crews, and no hope but from 
 their swords, the sea-kings swarmed upon the boisterous ocean, 
 and plundered in every district they could approach. 
 
 " It is declared to have been a law or custom in the north, 
 that one of the male children should be selected to remain at 
 home, to inherit the government. The rest were exiled to the 
 ocean, to wield their sceptres amid the turbulent waters. The 
 consent of the northern societies entitled all men of royal 
 descent, who assumed piracy as a profession, to enjoy the name 
 of kings though they possessed no territory. 
 
 " The name by which these pirates were at first distinguished 
 was Vikingr, which, perhaps, originally meant Kings of the 
 Bays. It was in bays that they ambushed to dart upon the 
 passing voyager. They were educated to exist with the most 
 excited and most pleasurable vitality in the tempests of war, 
 and no failure deterred them, because, having no homes but
 
 142 NOTES TO CANTO I. 
 
 their ships, or a conquered country, no trade but piracy, no 
 provisions but their spoils, they had no chances of enjoyment, 
 or even of existence, but from the battle. It was dreadful to 
 have such an enemy to encounter, who must gain his point or 
 perish, because there is a vivaciousness in his despair which no 
 danger can intimidate, no defeat less than total annihilation can 
 destroy." 
 
 Turner's "History of the Anglo-Saxows," 
 
 Vol. I. p. 456, 457, 462.-~Fol. II. p. 117, Svo. 
 
 NOTE II. 
 
 Aniaf, who from fair Erin's land 
 
 Had come Northumbria to recover, 
 He with his daring ocean band, 
 
 At Brunanburh, the fatal plain 
 Was lost, and he must roam again. 
 
 Anlaf was the son of Sigtryg, one of the Danes or Vikingr, 
 a reigning king in Northumbria at the accession of Athelstan, 
 whose sister he married. Sigtryg embraced Christianity on 
 the occasion ; but soon repenting, he put away his wife 
 and returned to idolatry, which occasioned a war between 
 him and Athelstan ; he died, and his son Anlaf fled to Ireland, 
 where he obtained a sovereignty ; but wishing to regain his 
 power in Northumbria, he confederated with Constantine 
 king of Scotland and some of the Danish princes, descend- 
 ants of those who had colonized Northumbria and East 
 Anglia, against Athelstan. Anlaf entered the Ilumber with a 
 fleet of 615 ships, and soon after was fought the celebrated 
 battle of Brunanburh. Anlaf was again forced to flee, but he 
 renewed his competition with Edmund the elder, the Anglo- 
 Danes of Northumbria inviting him from Ireland and appoint- 
 ing him their king. The result of this, his more successful 
 incursion, might be found in " Turner's History of the Anglo-
 
 NOTES TO CANTO I. 143 
 
 Saxons." The character in the poem is purely imaginary, as 
 Anlaf died before the accession of Edwy. 
 
 Ethelflida, or Elfiida, Countess of Mercia, after the death 
 of her husband, carried her arms into Wales and obliged 
 that people to become tributary to her: on her death all her 
 possessions were seized on by her brother, Edward the elder, 
 who immured her daughter Elfwina in a nunnery, to prevent 
 her marrying a Danish prince to whom she was attached. 
 
 NOTE III. 
 
 He said, of gentle blood he came, 
 Panaclus, undeserved, his name. 
 
 Panaclus, or the fair, a name given to Edwy from his per- 
 sonal beauty.
 
 144 NOTES TO CANTO II. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO THE SECOND. 
 
 NOTE I. 
 
 -From out the thunder cloud 
 
 He spake to me, and spake aloud. 
 «' Edred, who had been ailing all his reign, felt au alarming 
 crisis to be approaching, and desired his treasures to be col- 
 lected, that he might dispose of them before he died. Dunstan 
 went to bring those intrusted to him. Edred expired before he 
 returned; and the monk was either credulous or bold enough to 
 assert, and the Anglo-Saxons were weak enough to believe > 
 that on the road an etherial voice had, in thunder, announced 
 to him the royal demise." 
 
 " Their prognostics, from the sun and moon, from thunder, 
 and from dreams, were so numerous, as to display and to per- 
 petuate a most lamentable debility of mind." 
 
 Turner's " History or thk Anglo-Saxons," 
 
 rol. IT. p. 400, Svo—Fol. III. p. 169. 
 
 NOTE II. 
 
 Did I not break the dearest ties 
 That ill the breast of man can rise ? 
 
 «' After he left the court he formed an attachment to a maiden 
 whom he wished to marry. It is with regret we read that such 
 honourable impressions were deemed to be diabolical sugges- 
 tions, by the relations and biographers of Dunstan. The bishop 
 JE\\>hea^, his relation, opposed them. Attached by his own 
 ta'stc and habits to Ihc ecclesiastical order, he conjured him to
 
 NOTES TO CANTO II. 145 
 
 become a monk, a character then much venerated, and, notwith- 
 standing its superstitions, allied to many virtues, 
 
 " These unfortunate entreaties disturbed the mind of Dunstan : 
 he became agitated by a tumult of contending passions. His 
 health was unequal to the conflict ; a dangerous disease attacked 
 him before he could decide, and his life was despaired of. He 
 lay without a prospect of recovery, and so senseless, that the 
 pulse of life seemed to have ceased ; at last it slowly returned, 
 and life renewed in gradual convalesence. But he rose from 
 the bed of sickness with an altered mind: he renounced the 
 flattering world, assumed the monastic habits and condemned 
 himself to celibacy." 
 
 Tukner's " History or the Anglo-Saxons," 
 
 Fol. II. p. 392, 8vo. 
 
 NOTE III. 
 
 To her, who watched the taper's burning 
 That marked the time for his returning, 
 
 " The darkness of the night afforded him (Alfred) no natural 
 means of measuring the progress of the revolving globe ; and as 
 clouds and rain often concealed the sun, which is the only chro- 
 nomoter of uncultivated man, he was compelled to frame some 
 method of marking his day into regular intervals. Mechanics 
 were then so little known, either in theory or practice, that 
 Alfred had not the aid of this science, from which most of our 
 comforts, both domestic and political, have arisen. He used a 
 simple expedient : his chaplains, by his orders, procured wax, 
 and he ordered seventy-two denarii of it to be made into six 
 equal candles, each candle to be twelve inches long, which 
 were separately marked. These candles successively used, 
 lasted through the whole twenty-four hours, and of course, 
 every inch marked the lapse of twenty minutes; but sometimes 
 the wind rushing in through the windows and doors, the numer-
 
 146 NOTES TO CANTO II. 
 
 (HIS chinks of the walls, or the slender covering of the tents, 
 cousumed the candles with undue celerity. To cure this evil, 
 which confused his calculations, he thought skilfully and 
 wisely, says Asser ; and the result of this skill and wisdom was 
 the invention of lanthorns. He found that the white horn be- 
 came pellucid, like glass, and with this and wood, a case forhis 
 candle was (mirabiliter) admirably made. By these schemes, 
 which our clocks and watches make us deride, he obtained what 
 he wanted, an exact measurement of the lapse of time." 
 
 Turner's " History of the Anglo-Saxons." 
 
 NOTE IV. 
 
 His massive crown of rare device 
 
 High wrought with gold and gems of price. 
 
 The royal crown, which is described as being richly wrought 
 in gold and silver, was lying on the ground when Dunstaa 
 burst on the presence of the king and queen. It is said that 
 Dunstan forced the diadem on the king's head, and indecently 
 drajjg-ed him to the riotous hall. The latter fact is not adhered 
 to in the poem for obvious reasons. A poetical license has like- 
 wise been taken to introduce Dunstan in the branding scene. 
 
 NOTE V. 
 
 Emerged at length upon the plain 
 An Abbey's portico they gain. 
 
 " William of Malmcsburie, in his booke of the antiquities of 
 Glastonbury, allegeth Freeulphus to write in his secoudo booke 
 and 4 chapter as followelh: — Philip the apostle preachyng the 
 woorde of God in Gaule (now called France) chose out twelve 
 amongst his disciples, whom he sent into Britayne, to preach 
 the wordcof lyfe, and upon eucry one of thcin hee most de- 
 uoully stretched out his right hand; over these he apointed for
 
 NOTES TO CANTO II. 147 
 
 chiefe his deare fricnde Joseph of Aramathic, that burycd our 
 Lord. These, sayth John Capgroue (who alleageth Melkiii and 
 Merlin) Came into this lande the yeare of Christes incarnation 
 63, in the time of Aruiragus, who gaue to them the isle of 
 Avalon, where they buylded an oratorie of wrythen wandes, 
 and after there were buryed; which place being since encrcased 
 and newly buylded by dyuers princes, was named Glastcuburie. 
 KingHenrie the Seconde, having deligently perused the priui- 
 leges and charters, which he caused to be presented and read, 
 not only of William 1st, of William 2nd, and Henrie 1st, his 
 grandfather, but also the charters of the princes, his predeces- 
 sours of more ancient tyme, to wete, of Edgar, Edmund, Ed- 
 warde, Elfred, Bringwalthius, Kenthwin, Baldrid, Ina, Arthur, 
 and that noble man Curdred, and many other Christian kings, 
 beside also of Kenewalla, sometime a. heathen and pagan king, 
 concerning the house of Glastonburie,. found that in some of 
 those charters it is called the mother of the saintes, of some 
 other the grave of the saintes, and that the sayde place was first 
 buylded even by the very desciples of Christ themselves, and 
 by them dedicated to our Lorde, as the firste place which he 
 chose to himselfe in this realme, all which the foresaid king 
 Henrie confirmed and established by bis charter." 
 
 Extract from '• a siimmarie of English Chronicles " printed 
 in the year 1575. 
 
 Dunstan appears to have been Abbot of Glastonbury at the 
 early age of twenty-two. He introduced the severe order of the 
 Benedictines into his monastery. His parents seem to have 
 lived near Glastonbury ; and he is said to have visited frequently 
 in his youth, the old British church there, where he had a 
 vision of his future greatness, a venerable phantom appearing to 
 him, and pointing out the place where he was to build a superb 
 monastery- 
 
 K 2
 
 J48 NOTES TO CANTO HI. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO THE THIRD. 
 
 NOTE I. 
 
 Deep chested, strong in limb and nerve, 
 With speed and scent that ne'er would swerve. 
 
 " The Leporarius, or Gre-hound ; Dr. Caius informs us that 
 it takes its name, quod prcecipui gradus sit inter canes, the first 
 in rank among dogs : that it was formerly esteemed so, appears 
 from the forest laws of king Canute ; who enacted, that no one 
 under the degree of a gentleman, should presume to keep a 
 gre-hound; and still more strongly from an old Welsh saying ; 
 with ei JValch, ei Farch, aH Filgi, yr adwaenir Bonheddig : which 
 signifies, that you may know a gentleman by his hawk, his 
 horse, and his gre-hound. 
 
 *' The variety called the Highland gre-hound, and now become 
 very scarce, is of a very great size, strong, deep chested, and 
 covered with long and rough hair. This kind was much es- 
 teemed in former days, and used in great numbers by the 
 powerful chieftains, in their magnificent hunting matches. It 
 had as sagacious nostrils as the blood-hound, and was as fierce. 
 This seems to be the kind Boethius styles genus venaticum cum 
 celerrimum turn audacissimum : nee modo inferos, sed in Jiostes 
 etiam latronesque ; prcBsertim si dominum duetoremve injuriH 
 affici cernat aut in eos concitelur. 
 
 "The third species is the Lcvinarius,or Lorarius; thcLcviner, 
 or Lycmmer ; the first name is derived from the lightness of the 
 kind, the other from the old word Lyemme, a thong; this 
 species being used to be led out in a thong, and slipped at the 
 game. Our author says that this dog was a kind that hunted 
 both by scent and sight ; and in the form of its body observed a 
 medium between the hound and the gre-hound. This probably
 
 NOTES TO CANTO III. 149 
 
 is the kind now known to us by the name of the Irish gre-hound, 
 a dog now extremely scarce in that kingdom, the late king of 
 "Poland having procured from them as many as possible. I have 
 seen two or three in the whole island : they were of the kind 
 called by M. de Buffon, Le grand Danois, and probably imported 
 there by the Danes, who long possessed that kingdom. Their 
 ••use seems originally to have been for the chase of wolves, with 
 which Ireland swarmed till the latter end of the last century. As 
 soon as those animals were extirpated, the number of the dogs 
 decreased, for from that period they were kept only for state." 
 
 Pennant. 
 
 NOTE II. 
 
 For all along this winding shore 
 Where the saintly crosier swayed before. 
 
 *' So great was the reputation of the Irish for sanctity and 
 strict discipline in their monasteries, about the seventh and 
 eighth century, that the Anglo-Saxons went from their own 
 country to Ireland for instruction, where they were maintained, 
 taught, and furnished with books, without fee or reward. The 
 Irish writers aflSrm that at the college of Armagh alone seven 
 thousand students studied at one time. 
 
 " But the labours of the Irish clergy were not confined to their 
 own country ; their missionaries were sent to the continent ; 
 they converted heathens ; they confirmed believers ; they erected 
 convents ; they established schools of learning ; they taught the 
 use of letters to the Saxons and Normans ; they converted the 
 Picts by the preaching of Columb-kill, one of their renowned 
 ecclesiastics; Burgundy, Germany, and other countries re- 
 ceived their instructions; and Europe with gratitude confessed 
 the superior knowledge, the piety, the zeal, the purity of the 
 Island of Saints." 
 
 Lejland's History of Ireland, 
 " rol.I.p.32.
 
 150 NOTES TO CANTO HI. 
 
 NOTE III 
 
 Bold and secret climb the mountain 
 To St. Arnold's holy fountain. 
 
 About midway between Ballysidare and Ballina, in the 
 county of Sligo, and very near the sea coast, is situated a ro- 
 mantic little glen, formed by a verdant slope on the one side, 
 and an almost perpendicular rock on the other, covered by a 
 thick coppice, through which several narrow winding walks 
 are cut ; one of them leads to a small excavation, called by the 
 country people " St. Arnold's bed." A little above this ca- 
 vity, on a natural platform surrounded by shrubs, a beautiful 
 little spring bubbles up in its rocky basin; the bushes that shade 
 this well, as well as those which embower the bed of the saint, 
 bear on their pendant branches many a pious rustic offering, 
 such as shreds of cloth, buttons, locks of hair, and strings of 
 coarse beads, taken from the person of the humble pilgrim or 
 grateful votary whose health has been restored, or imagined to 
 have been so, by the holy waters which the saint had blessed. 
 From the top of this verdant rock falls a river of no contempti- 
 ble size, dashing over its shelvy strata, step after step, till it 
 falls into the bosom of the glen, and then glides quietly on to 
 the sea. 
 
 Tradition reports that the holy hermit of this sequestered 
 glen became blind from the following circumstance : At the 
 distance of twenty miles lived another of these pious person- 
 ages, for whom St. Arnold entertained a very great friendship, 
 and being of more social dispositions than anchorites in general, 
 or wishing to compare their progress in mysticism and the 
 workings of their imaginations, which have always great power 
 on those with whom religion is more the result of feeling than 
 of reason, Ihcy used to meet every day at an equal dislancc 
 from each of their dwellings. Unforlunalcly for our saint, his 
 habitation was situated due west of his contemporaries, so that 
 when he set out in the morning he had always the sun in his
 
 NOTES TO CANTO III. 151 
 
 face, and on his return in the evening the rays of the departing 
 luminary again met him with their dazzling light, which con- 
 stant blaze of glory proved too much for the visual organs of the 
 holy father ia their mortal infirmity. 
 
 It is still the custom among the peasantry round to assemble 
 on a certain day in the year, at this spot, to hold what they call 
 " the Patron," All the diseased for miles round are brought 
 and washed in the holy well ; sinners do penance by going, on 
 their bare knees, a certain number of times round a large heap 
 of stones, the collection of ages, that stands by the side of the 
 river, just above the point where it falls into the glen. After 
 performing all their superstitious rites, they conclude the day in 
 drinking, dancing, smoking, and fighting, the usual concomi- 
 tants of an Irish gathering. The author has been assured by a 
 family residing near the spot, that the country people sometimes 
 assemble to the amount of eight or ten thousand. 
 
 It is a custom among the Irish to throw a stone to mark the 
 spot where a crime has been committed, a disaster has happened, 
 or an unblest person has been buried. This custom gave birth to 
 a circumstance rather whimsical. A philanthropic old gentle- 
 man was riding one day near Killala, when his horse happened to 
 stumble over a large stone that lay in the road ; wishing to pre- 
 vent a future accident, he dismounted and cast the offender aside ; 
 he was observed by a party of countrymen, who supposed that 
 he meant to mark the spot of some disaster, and the next time 
 he passed the same way he was surprized to see " a gathered 
 heap," where he had cast the first stone. 
 
 Almost every high mouatain in Ireland has one of these 
 cairns on its iunimit. The same custom seems to have been pre- 
 valent in Scotland.
 
 102 NOTES TO CANTO III. 
 
 NOTE IV. 
 
 And the string of beads, the tress of hair. 
 
 Dr. Clarke, in his " Travels in various countries of Europe, 
 Asia, and Africa," Vol. iv. p. 8, speaking of the superstitions 
 of the modern Greeks, mentions amongst others, which he 
 enumerates as having; been transmitted from the earliest ag-es of 
 the Grecian history, the custom of offering locks of hair to 
 their divinities, to which he has the following note. 
 
 " Vid. Lucian, Pausanias &c. Human hair is often suspended 
 among the dona voiiva made by the inhabitants of India to their 
 Gods." And though he makes no remark on this custom being 
 still prevalent among the lower order of Irish, he goes on to 
 add, " An attention to such examples of antient ceremonies 
 and superstitions is however useful ; because, having been 
 transmitted from father to son, and being found to this day in 
 countries widely separated, they serve to assist an inquiry into 
 the origin of nations; and if they do not enable us to trace a 
 connection between different branches of the same stock, with 
 as much certainty as the relationship of languages, yet they 
 sometimes tend to confirm the truths which are thereby sug- 
 gested. In such an inquiry perhaps there will be found nothing 
 more perplexing than the evident analogy between some of the 
 customs of the present inhabitants of Greece and those of other 
 nations, differing both as to situation, and in every peculiarity 
 of language ; such, for example, as may be observed in 
 comparing the funeral ceremonies of the Albanians with those 
 of the fVild Irish and the Abyssinians.* It is quite impossible 
 
 * " They interrogate the deceased as to his reasons for quitting the world, 
 crying out, " Why nin you die? Why did you die?" fSee Iloblwuse's 
 Travels, p. 522, London. 18i:3l.) The reader will find the same circumstance 
 related also by Gudletiere. The Irish make use of tlie same questions, and in 
 a similar manner enumerate all the good tilings which the deceased enjoyed. 
 Among the Abyssinians the ceremony is precisely the same. " A number 
 of hired female mourners continually keep up a kind of fearful liowl ; calling 
 at limes upon the deceased by name, and crying out, " Why did yol leave
 
 NOTES TO CANTO III. 153 
 
 that these three nations can have had a common origin ; because 
 nothing can be more striking than the radical difl'crencc in their 
 speech. Yet the remarkable feast in honor of the dead, as prac- 
 tised by the Albanians, exactly corresponds with the Caoinun\ 
 of the Irish, and the Toacar of the Abyssinians. There is not 
 the smallest difference ; and a coincidence so extraordinary at- 
 tending the funeral rites of such distant nations, is utterly 
 unaccountable." 
 
 NOTE V. 
 
 The Glee-man. 
 
 " It was in the character of a glee-man, or, as it was expressed 
 in the Latin term, joculator, that Alfred visited the Danish 
 encampment. That these persons were not only valued, but 
 well rewarded in their day, we learn from a curious fact; 
 Edmund, the son of Ethelred, gave a villa to his glee-man or 
 joculator, whose name was llitard. This glee-man, in the 
 decline of life, went on a visit of devotion to Rome, and pre- 
 vious to his journey gave the land to the church at Canterbury. 
 In Doomsday-book, Berdic, a joculator of the King, is stated 
 to have possessed three villas in Gloucestershire." 
 
 The ambulatory glee-men is thus described: — " While at one 
 time they tumbled and danced, showed their bears, and fro- 
 licked before the people in the dresses of various animals, at 
 others they may have told little tales to interest the mob." 
 
 Turner's " History of the Anglo-Saxons." 
 
 cs? Had you not house and lands? Had you not a wife that loved 
 YOU?" &c. &c. (See Salt's Travels in Myssinia, p. 422. Land. 1814.^ 
 Judging solely from the analogy thus pointed out, it would appear that the 
 Celts, Albanians, and Abyssinians, were descended from the same stock as 
 the Arabs, and Egyptians, among whom the same ceremony also exists." 
 
 f Lord Byron says, " Wul-wulleh, is the death-song of the Turkish 
 women." The term the Irish use to express the same thing sounds like 
 Whul-luhih.
 
 154 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO III. 
 
 " One part of the glee-man's profession, as earJy as the tenth 
 century, was teaching animals to dance, to tumble, and to put 
 themselves into variety of attitudes at the command of their 
 masters," 
 
 Strutt's " Sports and Pastimes." 
 
 Vol. III. p. 71, 323, 134, Bvo. 
 
 NOTE VI. 
 This Mountain stone — — 
 The names of the Anglo-Saxons were generally compound 
 words, thus- 
 mountain stone 
 prosperous in battle 
 the prosperous guardian 
 the prosperous patron 
 tall as an elf 
 the elf favor. 
 Ethelflida the noble pregnancy. 
 
 Dunstan signifies 
 
 Eadwin 
 
 Eadward 
 
 Eadmund 
 
 yElfheag 
 
 TElfgiva 
 
 NOTE VII. 
 
 Bid the dark valkyr sisters ride 
 On billowy clouds of mist 
 
 The Scandinavian Fates— The "Fatal Sisters" of Gray. 
 Their number in a subsequent line is limited to three, merely, 
 it is feared, to accommodate the rhyme. If the reader should 
 have heard of the N. U. to the Welsh epitaph, " Her name was 
 not Mary Jones, but Mary Thomas, so wc only put Jones to 
 rhyme with stones," thi>> will infallibly put him in mind of it.
 
 NOTES TO CANTO III. l;j*> 
 
 NOTE VIII. 
 
 And she knew in her dream the banshee sprite 
 That comes with its warning cry at night. 
 
 It is a supeistitioa still very general in Ireland among the 
 lower classes, that, previous to the death of any great person, a 
 little old woman is seen hoverins: about the dwelling and utter- 
 ing piercing cries; she is represented as wearing a red mantle 
 over which streams her long white hair dropping with rain or 
 tears. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott mentions the same superstition as being pre- 
 valent in Scotland ; but he makes the mantle blue. — Lady of the 
 Lake, Canto 3, ^ote 6. 
 
 NOTE IX. 
 
 And then the song 
 Of death echoed shrill from the choral throng. 
 
 It seems almost superfluous to mention the Cronach in a note, 
 since every one who reads poetry has read Scott. But it might 
 not be very obvious to those readers, that the Irish howl, con- 
 sidered as one of the greatest of modern barbarisms, is in fact 
 the very death-song of antiquity so dignified in the poetry of the 
 Scottish bard, which has come down to the present day, rather 
 degenerated certainly, as the family bard is superseded in his 
 office by two or three old women, whose business it is to attend 
 all the wakes in their immediate neighbourhood, and to cele- 
 brate the riches, honours, courage, and above all the hospitality 
 of the defunct, in their native tongue, which they do with a 
 richness of ideas, and a fluency of language that would be truly 
 astonishing to one who was unacquainted with the facilities 
 afforded by the Irish idiom. (See JVolc Fourth to Catiio Third.)
 
 15G NOTES TO CANTO III. 
 
 NOTE X. 
 
 Through vaults delved deep in the living stone. 
 
 " The power and government of a provincial king were 
 exactly similar to those of the monarch. His successor or 
 Tainist, was elected in his life time; he received tributes from 
 inferior chieftains, paid for their services, was entertained in his 
 visitations, and attended hy thera in his wars. Inferior toparchs 
 governed their respective districts in the same manner, and to 
 these again a number of lords were subordinate, who dwelt in 
 their Raths, as they were called, or enclosures of a dwelling- 
 house and oflBces." 
 
 Leland's " History of Irei,and," 
 
 l^'ol. I. p 33. 
 
 This name, Rath, is now given by the Irish to large mounds 
 of earth that occur very frequently in Connaught, and are said 
 to have been the work of the Danes, or north-men ; they have, 
 almost all, an entrance either on the top or the side, which 
 leads to subterranean passages and chambers, many of which re- 
 main unexplored, and as the imagination will run to an inde- 
 finable limit when left to itself, it has been affirmed that one of 
 these raths, situate near Castle Conner, in the county of 
 Sligo, is connected by a passage running under the bed of the 
 river Moy, there more than a quarter of a mile across, with the 
 town of Killala. Certain it is, that in repairing the bishop's 
 palace some years since, the workmen discovered a subterranean 
 passage, the termination of which no one has yet had the cou- 
 rage to explore, though many have gone so far in it as was sup- 
 posed to lead under a great part of the town. 
 
 At Pologh-heany, which signifies mossy-hole, about ten miles 
 from the former, is another rath, though here it does not rise 
 above the level of the field under which it is situated ; its en- 
 trance being by a square hole about four or five feet deep, at the 
 l)()ltom of which is a low opening inlo a vaulted passage, arched 
 in very good masonry, thai leads to a small room roofed with a
 
 NOTES TO CANTO III. 157 
 
 single stone ; from this apartment there arc several passages 
 branching off in various directions, but now nearly filled up 
 with rubbish. Soon after the invasion of Ireland by Humbert, 
 at the time that those unfortunate beings who had joined his 
 forces were hiding in every place that afforded them the 
 least chance of eluding the vigilant search that was making 
 after them by the king's troops, some ladies, who were on a visit 
 to a gentleman that lived very near the rath, went by themselve 
 to explore its recesses; each holding a lighted candle in her 
 hand, they penetrated as far as the small apartment before men- 
 tioned, in one corner of which, to their great dismay, they dis- 
 covered a bed covered with a red rug, and bearing evident 
 marks of having been lately used. The ladies retreated as 
 quickly as possible, and informed the gentlemen of their party, 
 whom they had left at table, of their discovery. The gentle- 
 men hastened immediately to the place, but when they came 
 there found not a vestige of the bed remaining, nor could they 
 discover whither, nor by what means, it had been removed.
 
 158 NOTES TO CANTO IV 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO THE FOURTH. 
 
 NOTE I. 
 
 Upon that lonely hill, a site 
 For wizard or for anchorite, 
 Had Dunstan delved a narrow cell. 
 
 " He made with his own hands a subterraneous cave or cell, so 
 unlike any thing of the sort, that his biographer, who had seeu 
 it, knew not what to call it. It was more like a grave than a 
 human habitation. Cells were commonly dug in an eminence, 
 or raised from the earth : this was the earth itself excavated. It 
 was five feet long and two and a half wide. Its height was the 
 stature of a man standing in the excavation. Its only wall was 
 its door, which covered the whole, and in this was a small aper- 
 ture to admit light and air. 
 
 " One of the legendary tales, which has been used to exalt his 
 fame, shews, if it ever happened, the arts by which he gained it. 
 Dunstan carried to his sepulchral cell a fragment of his former 
 disposition. He exercised himself in working on metals. One 
 niffht all the neighbourhood was alarmed by the most terrific 
 howlin"-s which seemed to issue from his abode. In the morn- 
 iiio- they flocked to him to inquire the cause: he told them that 
 the devil had intruded his head into his window, to tempt him 
 while he was heating his work ; that he had seized him by the 
 nose with his red-hot tongs, and that the noise was Satan's roar- 
 ing at the pain." 
 
 Turner's "History or tue Anolo-Saxons," 
 
 I ol. 11. p 396, 397, S.VO.
 
 NOTES TO CANTO IV, l^W 
 
 NOTE II. 
 
 For he was versed in his age's lore, 
 And with furnace blast fused the softened ore, 
 And his hand could polish the Saxon gem 
 For lady's fillet or diadem. 
 
 " Besides the persons who made these trades their business, 
 some of the clergy, as we advance to the age preceding the 
 Roman conquest, appear to us as labouring to excel in the me- 
 chanical arts. Thus Dunstan, besides being competent to draw 
 and paint the patterns for a lady's robe, was also a smith, and - 
 worked on all the metals. Among other labours of his industry, 
 he made two great bells for the church at Abingdon. His 
 friend Ethelwold, the bishop, made two other bells for the 
 same place, of a smaller size ; and a wheel full of small bells, 
 much gilt, to be turned round for its music on feast days. He 
 also displayed much art in the fabrication of a large silver table 
 of curious workmanship. Stigand, the bishop of Winchester, 
 made two images and a crucifix, and gilt and placed them in the 
 cathedral of his diocese. One of our kings made a monk, who 
 was a skilful goldsmith, an abbot. It was even exacted by law 
 that the clergy should pursue these occupations ; for Edgar says, 
 " we command that every priest, to increase knowledge, dili- 
 gently learn some handicraft." It was at this period that it be- 
 o-an to be felt that skill could add value to the material on 
 which it operated ; and as the increasing wealth of society en- 
 abled some to pay for its additional cost, a taste for ornament 
 as well as massy value, now emerged. 
 
 " Dunstan, great in all the knowledge of his day, as well as in 
 his ambition, is described to have made an organ of brass 
 pipes, elaborated by musical measures, and filled w ith air from 
 the bellows. The bells he made have been mentioned before. 
 About the same time we have the description of an organ made 
 in the church at Ramsey. 
 
 " Dunstan is stated to have diligently cullivated the art of 
 painting, and to have painted for a lady a robe, which she after-
 
 100 NOTES TO CANTO IV. 
 
 wards embroidered. There is a drawing of ChrisL, witti himself 
 kneeling at his feet, of his own performance, in the Bodleian 
 Library," 
 
 Turner's " History of the Anglo-Saxons," 
 
 Vol. HI. p. 28, 494, 497, Svo. 
 
 NOTE III. 
 
 The harp that once with untouched string 
 Spoke, as if brushed by a seraph's wing. 
 
 " Dimstan is also described by his biographer to have carried 
 with him to a house his cythara, ' which in our language we 
 call hearpan.' He hung it against the wall, and one of the 
 strings happening to sound untouched, it was esteemed a 
 miracle." 
 
 Turner's "History of the Anglo-Saxons." 
 
 Vol. [II. p. id], 8vo 
 
 NOTE IV. 
 
 Odo, thou dost nought inherit 
 Of the bold ancestral spirit 
 Which led thy wild progenitors, 
 Adventurous, to wage distant wars. 
 
 " Odo was the son of one of those ferocious North- men who 
 had infested England under Ingwar and Uhbo. He had been 
 himself a soldier in the first part of life, in the reign of Edward, 
 and he (juiltcd the military life to assume the ecclesiastic. He 
 attended Athclslau in the haltle of Brunaiiburh : and as other 
 bishops often combated at that time, and as it is confessed that 
 he knew immediately of the king's sword breaking in the con- 
 flict, and supplied the loss, it is probable that he partook of the 
 fray, though his encomiasts talk only of his prayers. These
 
 NQTES TO CANTO IV. 161 
 
 circumstances may be worth noticing, as they explain that stern 
 severity of temper which was so unhappily excited against 
 Edwin and Elgiva." 
 
 Turner's " History of the Anglo-Saxons." 
 
 Fol. 11. p. 383. 
 
 Odo seems to have been the tool of Dunstan in his conduct 
 towards Elsriva. 
 
 The name only of the Chancellor TurketuI is used in the 
 text. He seems to have been rather the friend of Dunstan, and, 
 though he was living in Edwy's reign, it was in retirement at 
 Croyland. 
 
 NOTE V. 
 
 The neighbouring theows did come and go. 
 
 The theows were the slaves attached to the land. A freeman 
 might be reduced to slavery as a punishment; one offence that 
 made him liable to this degradation was breaking the sabbath. 
 A freeman, reduced to slavery by the penalties of the law, was 
 called a white theow. 
 
 NOTE VI. 
 
 See on that hill, thy boasted hold, 
 
 The monk, who gorged on monarch's gold, 
 
 Quivers upon the accursed wood. 
 
 And feeds the raven's gathering brood. 
 
 Richard Whiting, the sixtieth and last Abbot of Glastonbury, 
 was hanged, by order of King Henry VHL, for refusing to sur- 
 render the revenues of his monastery, on the Tor hill, where a 
 church dedicated to St. Michael once stood, the tower on the 
 hill being all that now remains of it.
 
 NOTES TO CANTO IV. IG'2 
 
 This Abbot lived in almost regal state; his ofiScers and 
 domestics were very numerous ; he is said to have entertained 
 five hundred persons of fashion at a time, and never went abroad 
 without being attended by upwards of one hundred persons. 
 
 That the monks peculated is not concealed. (See Andrews's 
 Hist, of G. Brit. p. «82, note.) Of the heads of monasteries, who 
 escaped the statutes, Lord Herbert observes that " their crimes 
 at least made them guilty of the law." There is not, so far as 
 appears, any direct historic proof that Whiting was personally 
 so implicated; it is so supposed for a poetic purpose: the reader 
 needs not be reminded that, in employing these transactions as 
 signs of the downfal of priestly tyranny, the authoress has no 
 intention of justifying either the murder of Becket, or the 
 rapine and hypocrisy of Henry.
 
 MINOR PIECES. 
 
 Farewell delightful dreams that charmed my youth. 
 Farewell th' aerial note, the shadowy train ! 
 
 SOTHEBY.
 
 MINOR PIECES. 
 
 A TALE OF THE MERMAID. 
 
 Oh, how I love on the wild sea shore 
 
 To sit, when garish day is o'er ! 
 
 When the sun's golden ray doth sleep 
 
 In tempered glory on the deep. 
 
 And rippling waves their sparkles bring. 
 
 Then die in distant murmuring ; 
 
 Where the rugged rock is cleft. 
 
 And the lucid water left, 
 
 There, as in chrystal shrined, to see 
 
 The clinging sea-anemone 
 
 Spread its fringed bosom to the light. 
 
 With torquoise beads encircled bright :
 
 166 A TALE OF THE MERMAID. 
 
 Should these some daring hand allure 
 Toward its rocky embrasure, 
 As when surprized the eastern lady 
 Enfolds her in her mantle shady, 
 So shuts the living flower from view 
 Its anthers brown and gems of blue. 
 There too, on glittering bed, bespangled 
 With pebbles sheen, the sea-weed tangled. 
 Apart its floating fibres throwing 
 In rosy gay luxuriance glowing. 
 Awhile the haven of rest might know ; 
 But soon the ebbing tide will flow. 
 And tljat poor weed, on surges tossed. 
 Will in the world of waves be lost. 
 And then, to treasured ocean changing, 
 As ray thoughts are wildly ranging, 
 I love to think how sweet 'twould be, 
 Were I a maiden of the sea, 
 To rove mid coral groves, and clamber 
 O'er the high rocks of shining amber. 
 Or float supinely on the billow. 
 Its curling wave my moving pillow.
 
 A TALE OF THE MERMAID. 167 
 
 But why should I with fancy play ? 
 List to the legendary lay. 
 
 Yon castle, towering in its pride. 
 And frowning darkly o'er the tide. 
 Once owned a lord of power and fame ; 
 O'Doud the mighty chieftain's name. 
 It was his usual sport to lave 
 His giant limbs in the swelling wave, 
 With sinewy arras to cleave the tide, 
 And dash its whirlpool foams aside. 
 'Tis said, one morn the ocean's maid. 
 As she upon the waters played. 
 Mistook him by his bending sweep 
 For some companion of the deep ; 
 And, coyly sporting in his view. 
 Her charms his wondering glances drew : 
 And now she shook her wavy hair 
 From off her cheeks and forehead fair ; 
 Now playfully the ocean's daughter 
 Would sport upon the buoyant water :
 
 168 A TALE OF THE MERMAID. 
 
 But wlien his graceful arms threw back 
 The wave, and left a foaming track 
 As he approached, she sank beneath 
 The waters, and the curling wreath, 
 There eddying wide, alone was seen 
 To mark the spot where she had been. 
 Next morn he to the waves resorted. 
 The mermaid there again disported ; 
 Riding on the billows bright 
 Shunn'd approach, yet lured his sight. 
 At length some cunning snares he laid 
 To take the beauteous water maid: 
 The meshes round her, coiling, thrown 
 Made th' entangled nymph his own. 
 He bore her to his tower of strength. 
 And won her to his love at length: 
 Yet, cautious, from his water bride 
 Her native element would hide. 
 Years sped away, and to his care 
 She gave brave sons and daughters fair. 
 Her maidens led her, one bright day. 
 Where oped the casement o'er the spray ;
 
 A TALE OF THE MEBMAID. 169 
 
 Serenely smiled the flowing ocean, 
 Freed from every rude commotion. 
 Save the wave with gentle plashing 
 The castle's rocky basement dashing. 
 She gazed, and in her azure eyes 
 Smiled delight and quick surprize ! 
 One bound sufficed : the waves closed o'er 
 1 he mermaid — she was seen no more. 
 But still, 'tis said, when clouds deform 
 Heaven's placid face and burst in storm. 
 When the wild waves that lash the rock 
 The fisherman's vain labours mock. 
 They oft have heard in the gusty blow 
 The sea-maid's song of sorrow flow. 
 And that between each shrilly sweep 
 Distinct these words steal o'er the deep : 
 The mournful cadence wildly charms 
 To lure her children to her arms ; 
 Amid the storm, the whole night long. 
 She floats, and warbles wild her song.
 
 170 A TALE OF THE MERMAID. 
 
 CSe ^ermatti'S ^ang^ 
 
 Oh, come to me ! oh, come to me! 
 
 I'll guide you through the pathless deep. 
 The wonders of its stores to see. 
 
 Each flowing font and rocky steep. 
 I'll lead you to my grotto sparkling. 
 
 Its sparry lustre far outshining 
 All the gems of earth born darkling, 
 
 Though with sunny ray combining. 
 My shells, with vivid colours glowing. 
 Shall outblush the rose just blowing. 
 Oh, come to me ! oh, come to me. 
 The wonders of the deep to see. 
 
 Your feet I'll bind with pearly sandal. 
 And you shall have a mirror rare 
 
 Of chryslal clear with coral handle 
 By which to comb your golden hair:
 
 A TALE OF THE MERMAID. 171 
 
 I'll show you where the god of light 
 Retires to cool his forehead's glow; 
 
 His glorious palace all so bright 
 
 That shines beneath the water's flow. 
 
 The dolphin sporting in the wave. 
 
 For a playmate you shall have; 
 
 Oh, come to me ! oh, come to me. 
 
 The wonders of the deep to see.
 
 172 TO 
 
 TO 
 
 1 HOUGH sordid poverty hath twined 
 His iron links around thee. 
 
 And, serpent-like, dependence vile 
 In slimy coil hath bound thee ; 
 
 Yet might the free-born soul still reign 
 Thy bosom's monarch solely ; 
 
 Indignant spurn the body's chain, 
 And breathe of freedom wholly. 
 
 'Till death th' imperial mandate brings 
 
 All servile bonds to sever, 
 And the soul soars on morning's wings 
 
 To dwell in peace for ever.
 
 GALIOGEE. 173 
 
 GALIOGEE. 
 
 Xhe lowering clouds and munuuring wind 
 
 Suited well my pensive mind, 
 
 When I took my customed way 
 
 To Moyu's old ruined abbey gray. 
 
 The rippling flood, that softly beat 
 
 Against its time-indented feet. 
 
 The curlew skimming o'er the tide. 
 
 The hills, that rose on either side 
 
 To shadow o'er the sacred dome. 
 
 Earlier gave the twilight gloom. 
 
 Which well accorded with the scene 
 
 Where each ruined arch between. 
 
 Mouldering tombs and garlands broken. 
 
 Of humble love the recent token. 
 
 The moral, mortal lesson told 
 
 Persuasively to young and old. 
 
 And here, by superstition led. 
 
 Still were brought the neighbouring dead,
 
 174 GALIOGEE. 
 
 To place the poor and mouldering clay 
 Where holy monks and abbots lay. 
 I loved the anxious thought to while 
 In tracing what was nave and aisle ; 
 And in the window still could see 
 Stone fragments of rich tracery. 
 There stood the altar, there was raised 
 The Host in native gems emblazed ; 
 And here it was, in ancient days. 
 That the shrined saint had all the praise 
 From those so far in folly gone 
 To think that He, with whom is none, 
 Would portion out his majesty 
 And power to man ; thus multiply 
 Divinities, till they, who bore 
 The name of Christ, would still adore 
 As many gods as erst could be 
 In Egypt's dark idolatry. 
 As I gained the ruined tower 
 Where oft I passed a thoughtful hour, 
 My way led over crumbling bones, 
 Skulls, and monumental stones.
 
 GALIOGBE. 175 
 
 Saddening my thoughts ; they dwelt upon 
 Days of grief that now were gone ; 
 Gone, yet had they left behind 
 The wounded, almost broken mind; 
 And future prospects seemed to borrow 
 From retrospect their hue of sorrow. 
 And almost dared I to repine 
 That feeling's anxious throb was mine ; 
 When, to check the impious thought, 
 A lesson to my heart was brought. 
 The murmurings low of those that mourn 
 On the sullen air were borne, 
 And well the rising whul-laluh 
 The wail for Erin's sons I knew ; 
 And soon I saw the rude array, 
 That bore along the coffined clay. 
 Where in its rest, the last and lowly. 
 It now might blend with ashes holy. 
 From the mouldering turret's height 
 The mournful gathering met my sight, 
 And suited well the gloomy hour 
 The shattered aisles and ruined tower.
 
 17G GALIOGEE. 
 
 The train dispersed, and all alone 
 I thought myself, but there was one. 
 That lingered near the heaving mound 
 As if by strong affection bound 
 To that small spot, which now contained 
 AM that of one beloved remained. 
 And much I wondered there to see 
 The idiot boy, poor Galiogee. 
 As o'er the new-raised earth he hung 
 Some unknown words he wildly sung : 
 And oft he raised his head and smiled 
 While chaunting forth his discant wild; 
 No other sound his utterance knew 
 But the words he sang, so soft and few. 
 
 And do thy scattered senses gather 
 To tell thee, thou has lost a father ? 
 And is one ray of reason given 
 To shew of what thou art beriveu ? 
 But no, the spark of light divine 
 Was never, never will be ihine.
 
 GALIOGEE. 177 
 
 Nature, when she formed thy face 
 
 With every lineament of grace. 
 
 And gave thee too a form of pride, 
 
 The ray of intellect denied; 
 
 And what art thou ? a casket rare, 
 
 But with no jewel in thy care ; 
 
 And thou canst not incur the fate 
 
 That on perverted gifts await ; 
 
 No trust betray where none was given ; 
 
 Thou'rt unaccountable to Heaven. 
 
 But thou canst feel, poor fool, I see 
 
 The drizzling rain disturbeth thee. 
 
 'Twas thus I mused, as the senseless wight 
 
 Fled from the Abbey and my sight. 
 
 Within the cloister's dark arcade 
 
 A pile of stones my seat I made. 
 
 And, waiting for the passing shower, 
 
 I mused upon the recent hour: 
 
 When, through the severed wall discerning 
 
 Poor Galiogee once more returning, 
 
 I watched the senseless elf, to see 
 
 What his errand back could be : 
 
 M
 
 T[78 GALIOGEE. 
 
 One touch of feeling scarce defined ; 
 One gleam, one transient gleam of mind. 
 Had led him where beside the road 
 Stood the priest's white-paled abode ; 
 And off, unseen, the cloak he bore 
 That wrapped the pastor's limbs before. 
 Smiling o'er his stealthy treasure. 
 With foot of speed and eye of pleasure. 
 Chanting still his simple song 
 As he paced the tombs among. 
 He spread the cloak, poor witless knave ! 
 And laid it o'er his father's grave !
 
 SONNET. 179 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 1 HE winds are midst the branches sighing. 
 
 The trees low murmuring o'er ray head ; 
 Rustling leaves are falling, dying, 
 
 Round my mossy seat bespread : 
 The light clouds, that the swift winds scatter. 
 
 Scud the denser clouds before. 
 While slow and sullen rain drops patter 
 
 Upon the trembling foliage hoar ; 
 Upsoaring ravens hoarsely croaking 
 
 Skim along the ebon sky 
 To where in leafy cradles rocking 
 
 They sheltered from the storms might lie. 
 Like Autumn's leaf am I, the whirlwind's guest. 
 And envy, as he flies, the raven's rest. 
 
 M 2
 
 180 TO THE RUINS OF CORFE CASTLE. 
 
 TO THE RUINS OF CORFE CASTLE. 
 
 It is not when day's gaudy glare is upon thee. 
 
 And thy grey ruins gleam in the sun's smiling ray. 
 That fancy can fasten her wild glances on thee. 
 And revel midst scenes that are long past away. 
 
 It is not the mild moon-beam that streams thro' thy chambers, 
 And shadows the breach in thy time-broken towers ; 
 
 Or the breeze gently brushing the ivy that clambers 
 To mock thy rude summits with gay-seeming bowers, 
 
 That can waken the dream of the days of thy glory 
 When panoplied chiefs paced thy stone-paven halls. 
 
 And high regal dames sat in state, while the story 
 Of days yet more distant was harped in thy Avails. 
 
 But when the dark storm thy bold pile is enfolding, 
 When zoned with the light'ning and sheeted in rain. 
 
 Thus awfully vestured thy dark form beholding. 
 Then fancy can revel with all her wild train.
 
 TO THE RUINS OF CORFE CASTLE. 181 
 
 And then she can hear in the low niuttcied thunder 
 The dark tale of death and of mystery long past; 
 
 And in echoless sound to the deep ear of wonder 
 The name of Elfrida shrieked forth in the blast. 
 
 And there where the towers are s(^wfully riven 
 As if parted to mark, by command from on high. 
 
 The spot so accurst where the death-blow was given. 
 While the regicide mother stood smilingly by. 
 
 Oh, from thence when the tempest the dense cloud is parting, 
 In the fast-flitting moon-beam, pale, pale as a corse, 
 
 Is visioned by fancy, the raartyr'd king starting. 
 The mist for his mantle, a meteor his horse. 
 
 On that donjon's high summit the loose flag hath floated. 
 O'er the victims of famine close pent in its gloom 
 
 By the homicide John, while his red eye hath gloated 
 With savage delight o'er his dark deeds of doom. 
 
 Perhaps in the cell of that deep dungeon tower 
 Was the prophet imiQurcd by the merciless king :
 
 182 TO THE RUINS OF CORFE CASTLE. 
 
 And said he not sooth of the fall of thy power ? 
 
 Yet thy ear heard unmoved his deep death-shriekings ring. 
 
 Where now the wild daws have their roost undisputed. 
 At that window the darae might have stood in her pride ; 
 
 With the eye of precaution her forces computed. 
 And boldly the dark foe beleagering defied. 
 
 That lady at peace in the home of affection 
 
 Was soft as the dove when she bosoms her young ; 
 
 Yet could dare like the eagle to save from distraction 
 These ties and that home where her happiness hung. 
 
 But ruthless was Cromwell, by treachery prevailing, 
 How dreadful the deed, and the ruin he hurled ! 
 
 When thy bulwarks, that stood against ages assailing, 
 Lay scattered around like the wreck of a world. 
 
 But still thou art lovely amidst devastation; 
 
 Thy historicd fame shall depart from thee never, 
 While thy towers hang impending in proud isolation, 
 
 To frown nn the deed of destruction for evert
 
 A lover's musings on the sea-shore. 183 
 
 A LOVER'S MUSINGS ON THE SEA-SHORE. 
 
 Xell me, thou restless, roving wave, 
 In thy ranibliugs didst thou lave 
 The margin of that happy shore 
 Where dwells the maid that I adore ? 
 
 In thy mirror bright and green 
 Didst thou reflect her angel mien ; 
 And did the pearly tears that fell 
 Mingle with thy water's swell > 
 
 Thou zephyr too, that lovest to sweep 
 With fluttering wings across the deep. 
 Tell me if her murmuring sigh 
 Doth in thy breezy cadence die ? 
 
 This falling tear ye surges bear ! 
 Thou zephyr make this sigh thy care ! 
 And by fancy's dreams attended 
 I'll think our siahs and tears are blended.
 
 184 A FAREWELL. 
 
 A FAREWELL. 
 
 How blest in this valley of silent seclusion, 
 Away from the bustle and bruit of the world. 
 
 Could I glide to the grave, far from folly's intrusion. 
 While science her roll of instruction unfurled. 
 
 Soft solitude, dear to my heart, I must leave thee; 
 
 Thy bosom of rest hath ray sorrows controuled : 
 Thy quiet so welcome awhile did deceive me. 
 
 But 'twas only the semblance of peace thou didst hold. 
 
 Adieu to thy woods with dark foliage adorning 
 
 Each head-land that peers behind head-land remote ; 
 
 Reflecting the glow of the iirst ray of morning. 
 And vocal at eve with the nightingale's note. 
 
 No more in that glen with the dark shade surrounded. 
 
 Shall I list to the rivulet gliding unseen ; 
 Or climb where the vista of green gives unclouded 
 
 The view of (all lowers and far hamlets between.
 
 A FAREWELL. 185 
 
 No more shall I seek that wild flower so deceiving. 
 That bears on its bosom impressed the gay bee. 
 
 Illusive as hope, and honeyless leaving 
 
 Its form with the flower, and a lesson^for me. 
 
 No more in the hedgerow shall I, when returning 
 
 From the heather-clad hills where I wandered afar. 
 Discern the soft lamp of the glow-worm still burning 
 
 To rival on earth evening's crystalline star. 
 
 ,■.■','' ' ' ' '■'". ■ 
 For I, with a heart that could love, and for ever. 
 
 The joys that a home of retirement can biing. 
 From such, ere scarce found, am still destined to sever. 
 
 And the flower that I plant ne'er to witness its spring. 
 
 Yes, such is my fate ; with the stranger cold-hearted 
 Alone must I sojourn, unloved and forlorn, 
 
 Where the soul-springing thought, irora the lip ere 'tis parted. 
 Is chilled by the look of indifl'erence or scorn.
 
 186 STANZAS. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 1 HE raoruing smiled serene and gay. 
 The night and storm had passed away ; 
 But iu the channelled walks was seen 
 What the torrent's rage had been ; 
 And one poor holly-hock that stood 
 
 The pride of all around it. 
 The tempest in its blustering mood 
 
 So round and round had wound it. 
 Its golden roses, soiled and wet. 
 The splashed and pebbly ground had met ; 
 A single fibre, and no other. 
 Now held it to its earthy mother. 
 A stake was fixed to prop the flower 
 
 That it might bloom again. 
 And grace as heretofore the bower. 
 
 But it was all in vain ; 
 For every idle breeze that rose 
 Both prop and flower would discompose.
 
 STANZAS. 187 
 
 I wept, and 'twas a selfish tear, 
 
 To tliink my lot for many a year 
 
 Had been the same ; by every wind 
 
 Uprooted when I hoped to find 
 
 Affection and a place of rest : 
 
 But I must never so be blest. 
 
 My withered heart is leafless now : 
 
 No spring can clothe the blighted bough ; 
 
 No hold have I on any one ; 
 
 No soil to root ray heart upon.
 
 188 THE SLAVE. 
 
 THE SLAVE. * 
 
 Oh, Kaba, wretched Kaba! when will thy torments end? 
 O Kaba, wretched Kaba ! thus torn from every friend ; 
 Torn from thy Zinga's arms, and from thy children dear. 
 And left in chains and misery within a dungeon drear. 
 
 Oh, Zinga, dearest Zinga! and whither dost thou stray t 
 In search of thy poor Kaba dost thou take thy devious way. 
 Or through the tangled wild wood, or o'er the desert drear. 
 While in misery and chains thy Kaba lingers here ? 
 
 No more for my Zinga shall I dare the ambushed fray. 
 And wield the club high-brandished or launch theassaygay ; 
 No more in thy cabin shall lay me by thy side ; 
 Or kiss my smiling infants, my glory and my pride. 
 
 Who now for my Zinga the buifalo shall pierce ; 
 Or take in the trammels the roaring tiger fierce; 
 Or spread his skin for Zinga when she lies down to rest ; 
 Or who for Kaba's absence speak peace to her wild breast? 
 
 • Founded on Fact.
 
 THE SLAVE. 189 
 
 Who now will teach my boys the bending bow to strain ; 
 Or who to throw the spear their infant arms will train ; 
 Or with the cunning snare the leopard to destroy ; 
 Or wreathe the hut of bending cane when burning heats 
 annoy t 
 
 Ah, cruel are the waves that bear me from my dear; 
 And cruel is the iron that this wasted form must bear ; 
 But more cruel than the wave, and more cruel than my chains 
 Is the wretch who bore me from thee and from my native 
 plains. 
 
 Ah Zinga, couldst thou see me in this floating dungeon pent. 
 Midst suffbcating hundreds, and my breath now almost spent I 
 The craving thirst and hunger will soon set my spirit free 
 And then, dearest Zinga, shall I fly to home and thee. 
 
 But see our cruel chief, with heart intent on gains. 
 
 To restore our wasted strength hath released us from our 
 
 chains : 
 Now, my dearest Zinga, once more thy Kaba's free. 
 And his spirit shall revisit once more his babes and thee.
 
 190 THE SLAVIJ. 
 
 With smile of expectation and hope within his eyes. 
 Like lightning to the vessel's side he in an instant flies ; 
 Without a pause or lingering look he plunged into the tide, 
 Secure in death again to see his country and his bride. 
 
 A sailor on the deck, too cruelly humane. 
 
 Strove to snatch the wretched slave from out the whirlpool 
 
 main; 
 His purpose too well guessing, the wave he sank below. 
 And over Kaba closing the tides now tranquil flow.
 
 TO E. W. E. 191 
 
 To E. W. E. 
 
 ^WEET baby-boy, I love thee dearly ; 
 I love thee as a mother nearly : 
 Can any heart indifterent be 
 To fond confiding infancy ; 
 Strong in its helplessness, inspiring 
 Love in all — from all requiring. 
 
 Dear baby, when I follow thee 
 Thy tottering form to guard from fall, 
 
 And hear the chuckle of thy glee 
 
 When thou dost launch the bounding ball 
 
 With powerless arm and aimless throw ; 
 Thy brimming spirits, as they rise. 
 Come pouring from thy laughing eyes ; 
 
 When stammering too thy playful " boh ! " 
 Thy round face from the curtain peeping. 
 
 Oh, then I feel I love thee so— 
 
 I love thee, yes, almost to weeping.
 
 192 TO E. W. E. 
 
 And when thine outstretched arms caressing. 
 Confiding, round my neck thou throwest. 
 
 Thy blooming cheek my shoulder pressing. 
 That thou dost love me too thou shewest : 
 
 I know thou lovest me when I'm feeling 
 
 Thy soft hand o'er ray bosom stealing. 
 
 But baby, there will come a day, 
 
 I sigh to think that it must come. 
 When thy young love will pass away ; 
 
 For thou wilt leave thy earliest home ; 
 Thy love, the world, its pleasures gay 
 Will sweep thy firstling loves away. 
 Will soon thine infant fondness smother ; 
 
 And I to thee, and thou to me. 
 
 In time may as indiflferent be 
 As though we ne'er had loved each other.
 
 ON A SUICIDE. lOa 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN ON A SEAT IN BRYANSTON CLIFF, 
 
 A feiv iveeks after the body of an unfortunate Suicide had 
 
 Veen found near the spot. 
 
 Jr AUSE here awhile ; nor haste with thoughtless speed 
 To yon green bank ; but let thy step be slow 
 
 As is the tide, and solemn as the deed 
 Its waters covered in their silent flow. 
 
 For here it was, upon this shelving strand, 
 The suicide, by wild presumption driven. 
 
 Unbidden came, to lift with daring hand 
 The veil drawn o'er eternity by Heaven. 
 
 Doth the wind howl in solemn gusts among 
 
 The bending branches, groaning as in fear ? 
 Shrieks the hoarse raven his ill-omened song ? 
 
 Sheds the dank yew its rain-drop like a tear ? 
 
 N
 
 194 ON A SUICIDE. 
 
 Not so the fateful morning lowered when he. 
 
 The wretched youth, paced here with frenzied eye. 
 
 For on the flood's blue bosom could he see. 
 Reflected, clear heaven's cloudless canopy. 
 
 Flowers to the sun then oped their bosoms glowing 
 And sent their sweets exhaling in his ray; 
 
 From every tree the bird's free chant was flowing ; 
 Teeming with insect life each pendant spray. 
 
 Enjoyment, hope, and love were smiling round 
 As though 'twere bliss enough alive to be; 
 
 No sympathy the mourning lost one found, 
 It seemed that all things mocked his misery. 
 
 Perhaps on this dark seat, beneath this yew. 
 He threw himself in cold abandonment. 
 
 While in his heart the deadly purpose grew. 
 Sad sophistry defending the intent. 
 
 Had this poor child of sorrow learnt the lore 
 Early to curb his wayward will, subdue
 
 ON A SUICIDE. 105 
 
 The wild controul of passion, and adore 
 
 The power that chastened while it loved him too ; 
 
 The drear delirium of the heart unreined 
 
 He ne'er had felt, which led him, senseless, where 
 
 The verge of mortal life he madly gained. 
 In wilful daring of his blind despair. 
 
 He plunged — the waters eddied to the land, 
 But soon in placid smoothness on they flowed ; 
 
 Reflected fair the heavens so blue and bland. 
 Again beneath the tremulous sun-beams glowed. 
 
 Scared by the plunge the birds awhile were stili'd. 
 No second sound disturbed the rising strain ; 
 
 Once more their carols to the breezes triil'd. 
 And all around was life and joy again. 
 
 And thou, poor wretch, eternity is thine; 
 
 But how, and where ? — no more — it is not given 
 
 To man to judge of mercy's scale divine. 
 
 And who shall circumscribe the love of heaven ? 
 
 N 2
 
 190 ADDRESS TO A VIOLET, 
 
 ADDRESS TO A VIOLET. 
 
 Sweet flower of the vale, in the hedge-row soft blooming, 
 Let me pluck thy small blossom my breast to adorn : 
 
 Though hid in the folds of my garment, perfuming. 
 With odour the mildest, the breath of the morn. 
 
 But more meet for my bosom the night-shade's dark foliage 
 That buds when the promise of Spring is all o'er ; 
 
 More truly 'twill emblem my sorrow's sad knowledge 
 Which tells me the season of hope is no more. 
 
 But thou, lovely flow'ret, thy cheering hue wearing, 
 
 Canst point to the place where these hopes ought to rise ; 
 For I've found how fallacious they end in despairing. 
 When fixed upon ought 'neath thine own colored skies. 
 
 Then come from thy bed of green moss where thou'rt 
 blooming. 
 Let me pluck thy blue blossom my breast to adorn ;
 
 ADDRESS TO A VIOLET. 197 
 
 Though hid in my 'kerchief, thy sweet breath pcrfuuiiug 
 With odour the softest the breeze of the morn. 
 
 And thus may the friends, I sliall leave far behind nic, 
 
 Thy sweetness unseen as an emblem apply 
 To the very few graces by nature assigned me. 
 
 Rather felt by the heart than approved by the eye. 
 
 When far from thy dear native bed I'm sojourning, 
 The firstling of spring I'll ne'er place in my breast. 
 
 But I'll think on those shades which received me when 
 mourning. 
 And hushed all my cares in their bosom of rest. 
 
 For dear is the vale where the wild flowers arc blowing, 
 And dear where the ivy-wreaths wantonly play, 
 
 Their drapery of green in dark luxury throwing 
 O'er the caverned recess in the deep hollow way. 
 
 But ere the wild rose, sweetest flower of aflcction, 
 Shall hang in gay garlands these steeps to adorn. 
 
 Far, far from thee Compton, how sad the reflection ! 
 I shall wander unnoted, unloved, and forlorn.
 
 198 SOLITUDE. 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 1 IS sweet, sometimes, beneath the beech-tree bower 
 To muse in silence on the parted hour. 
 And in deep glen, remote from every one. 
 To hokl communion with the heart alone; 
 In secret to unlock the bosom's store. 
 And each endearing epithet count o'er ; 
 Smile o'er the treasure of each tender word 
 That late from lips, too well beloved, was heard ; 
 Recall each look by fancy's magic wile. 
 And dwell uncensured on each radiant smile ; 
 Thus make the pleasures past again our own. 
 And double every happy moment flown. 
 
 And solitude hath charms for him who flics 
 To shun the hated gaze of human eyes ; 
 Who in the busy world hath sadly found 
 The friend, in whom his every wish was bound.
 
 SOLITUDE. 199 
 
 On wliom hope placed his heart in hour of pain. 
 He now can never love nor trust again : 
 And in the loneliness of bliglited love 
 'Tis sweet amidst the forest brakes to rove. 
 Sigh with the gust, and watch the eddying leaf; 
 Or listen to the rain-drops tinkling brief 
 On the heaped autumn foliage, or the sound 
 Of all the mighty branches mingling round.
 
 NOTE S.
 
 NOTES TO MINOR PIECES. 
 
 NOTE I. 
 
 THE TALE OF THE MERMAID. 
 
 There is a tradition current in the North-west of Ireland, 
 which says that a powerful Chief, called O'Doud, once caught 
 one of those mysterious beings; and that she became his wife, 
 and bore him several children, but that being incautiously left 
 one fine day near an open window that overlooked the sea, she 
 bounded into the water and was never seen after. 
 
 To those who love to trace a reasonable foundation for the 
 superstructure of traditionary wonders, it may be suggested 
 that this sea nymph was nothing more nor less than a terres- 
 trial damsel who came over the ocean from some strange 
 country, and by her beauty captivated the gigantic prince, who 
 is said to have belonged to a family far surpassing the present 
 race of men in stature ; some thigh bones, certainly of a very 
 large size, may still be seen in a nitch in the ruins of Moyn 
 Abbey, that are called the bones of the O'Douds. 
 
 NOTE II. 
 GALIOGEE. 
 
 The simple fact recorded in this poem was the act of a poor 
 idiot, who had acquired the name of Galiogcc from the circum- 
 stance of his shewing some sort of intelligence when employed 
 in a boat, though on shore he was perfectly imbecile. Those
 
 204 NOTES TO MINOR PIECES. 
 
 who wish to trace the Irish language hack to an eastern origin, 
 may compare this name with the following extract from Lord 
 Byron's " Bride of Abydos." The note says, " Galiongce or 
 Galiongi, a sailor, that is a Turkish sailor ; the Greeks navigate, 
 the Turks work the guns." — See JVoies to Elgiva, Canto 3, 
 J^ote 4. 
 
 NOTE III. 
 CORFE CASTLE. 
 
 Corfe Castle seems to have been a favourite place of punish- 
 ment with the weak and tyrannical John. Here it was he con- 
 fined two and twenty prisoners, amongst whom were some of the 
 first of the Poiteven nobility, who were all starved to death in 
 the dungeons of the castle ; and here too, Peter of Pontefract, 
 a poor hermit, was imprisoned for prophesying the deposition of 
 John. 
 
 Lady Banks successfully defended the castle for some time 
 against the Parliament forces in the absence of her husband, but 
 was at last overcome by treachery. — (See " Walks round Dor- 
 chester.'''') — The manner in which the castle was destroyed was 
 by undermining the towers and walls, the men propping them 
 up by large blocks of wood as they worked ; when the work was 
 thus prepared, a quantity of brush-wood was laid amongst the 
 piles, and then set on fire, which consuming the props, the 
 towers gave way, and fell, some of them nearly entire, others 
 almost turned over in falling down the hill, yet still held to- 
 gether by their solid masonry, and altogether presenting a scene 
 of stupendous devastation that can scarcely be equalled. Bills 
 for fetching the wood for the destruction of the Castle, from 
 Grange, arc still extant.
 
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