Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated)

by Ann Radcliffe

  Nor give to the dead a hallowed cell,

  Nor in wedlock-bonds unite a pair,

  Nor sound one merry peal through the air?

  All this and much more would you know? And why,

  And how, Salisbury spire was built so high,

  As fairies had meant it to prop the sky?

  Then listen and watch, and you soon shall hear

  What never till now hath met mortal ear!

  VII.

  It was for, for back in the dusky time,

  Before Church-bells had learnt to chime,

  That a Sorcerer ruled these gloomy lands

  Far as old Ocean’s southern sands.

  He lived under oaks of a thousand years,

  Where now not the root of an oak appears!

  On each high bough a dark fiend dwelt,

  Ready to go, when his name was spelt,

  Down, down to the caves where the Earthquake slept,

  Or up to the clouds, where the whirlwind swept.

  VIII.

  The Sorcerer never knew joy, or peace.

  For still with his power did pride increase.

  He could ride on a wolf from the North to South,

  With a bridle of serpents held fast by the mouth;

  And he minded no more the glare of his eyes,

  That flashed about as the lightning flies,

  Than the red darting tongue of the snake, that coil’d

  Round his bridling hand, and for liberty toil’d.

  He could sail on the clouds from East to West,

  He rested not, he I nor let others rest;

  And evil he wrought, wherever he went,

  For, he worked, with Hela’s and Loke’s consent.

  The BRANCH of SPECTRES she gave for his wand,

  And nine hundred imps were at his command!

  He could call up a storm from the vast sea-wave,

  And, when ships were wrecked, not a man would he save!

  He could call a thunder-bolt down from a cloud,

  And wrap a whole town in a fiery shroud!

  IX.

  He could chase a ghost down the road of the dead,

  Through valleys of darkness, by snakes’ eyes shown,

  And pass o’er the bridge, that to Hela led,

  Where afar off was heard the wolf Fenris’ groan,

  While it guarded her halls of pain and grief,

  Where she nursed her children — Famine and Fear;

  He could follow a spectre, even here,

  With the dauntless eye of a Wizard-chief.

  He could chase a ghost down the road of the dead,

  Till it passed the halls of Hela the dread.

  He could chase a ghost down the road of the dead,

  Till it came where the northern lights flash red.

  Then the ghost would vanish amid their glow,

  But the Wizard’s bold steps could no farther go!

  And whether those lights were weal, or woe,

  The Sorcerer’s self might never know.

  All this and more he full often had done,

  And changed to an ice-ball the flaming Sun!

  X.

  Now Odin had watched from his halls of light

  This dark Wizard’s fell and increasing might;

  And clearly he knew, that his craft he drew

  From the Witch of Death and the Evil Sprite,

  Who, though chain’d in darkness, and far below,

  Sent his shadows on earth, to work it woe.

  This Wizard had even defied his power,

  For once, in the dim and lonely hour,

  When Odin had seen him riding the air,

  And bid him with his bright glance forbear,

  Great Odin’s look he would not obey,

  But went, on his cloud, his evil way!

  He had dared to usurp, when invoking a storm,

  The likeness of Odin’s shadowy form,

  And, when Odin sang his fomed song of Peace,

  That hushes and bids the wild winds cease,

  While it died the sleepy woods among,

  And the moonlight vale had owned the song,

  The Wizard called back the stormy gust,

  O’er the spell-struck vale, and bade it burst!

  The woods their murmuring branches tossed;

  And the song — the song of Peace — was lost —

  Then Odin heard the groan of thrilling Fear

  Ascend from all the region, for and near,

  And, as it slowly gained upon the skies,

  He heard the solemn call of Pity rise!

  XI.

  Then Odin swore,

  By the hour that is no more!

  By the twilight hour to come!

  By the darkness of the tomb!

  By the flying warrior’s doom!

  Then Odin swore,

  By the storm-light’s lurid glare!

  By the shape, that watches there!

  By the battle’s deadly field!

  By his terrible sword and snow-white shield,

  The Sorcerer’s might to his might should yield.

  XII.

  While Odin spoke, the clouds were furled,

  And those beneath, as stories say,

  Lost the sight

  Of our earthly light,

  And caught a glimpse above the world?

  But the phantasma did not stay:

  It passed in the growing gloom away!

  And from that hour these stories date

  The fateful strife we now relate.

  XIII.

  Now, there was a Hermit, an ancient man,

  Who oft lay deep in solemn trance,

  Watching bright dreams of bliss advance;

  And marvellous things of him there ran;

  He had lived almost since the world began!

  The people feared him, day and night,

  And loved him, too, for they knew that he

  Abhorred their wizard-enemy,

  And wished and hoped to do them right.

  He OWNED THE SPELL OF MINSTRELSY!

  And in the hour of deepest shade,

  When he would seek his forest-glade,

  (It was of grey oaks in a gloomy hollow

  Where never footsteps dared to follow,)

  And called from his harp a certain sound,

  Pale shadows would stand in his presence ‘round!

  How this could be known, without a spell,

  I must briefly own I never could tell.

  — But, be that as it may — on that note’s swell,

  Whether they sleeping were in halls of light,

  Or followed the stars down the deeps of night,

  Or watched the wounded Warrior’s mortal sigh,

  Or after some ill-doing Sprite did fly,

  On that note’s swell they to the Hermit hie;

  And heed his questions, wait on his command;

  These were the Spirits white of Odin’s band.

  XIV.

  Odin had marked this renowned old Seer,

  And to him, at times, his favour lent;

  He was the first of the Druids here;

  And did all their laws and rites invent.

  Some stories say a Druid never bent

  At Odin’s shrine; and others may have told

  The self-same tale, that here for truth I hold;

  He was the first of all the Druid race:

  Owning the spell serene of Minstrelsy!

  But though he oft the Runic rhyme did trace,

  No wizard he!

  No fiend he called, no fiend he served,

  And never had from justice swerved.

  From mystic learning came his power,

  His name was from his oaken-bower,

  He was the first of ALL the Druid rage!

  XV.

  And Odin had marked this renowned old Seer,

  And, when the solemn call for pity rose,

  This goodly man to do his bidding chose,

 
A sage like whom was found not far or near:

  Upon his head the snows of ages lay,

  Hung o’er his glowing eyes and waving beard,

  Touched every wrinkle with a paler grey,

  And made him marvelled at, and shunned, and feared;

  Yet, with this awe, love, as I said, appeared.

  XVI.

  He was gone to his home of oak;

  Starlight ‘twas and midnight nigh;

  Not one wistful word he spoke,

  But his magic harp strung high;

  As he touched the calling string,

  Hear it through the branches ring,

  Till on lower clouds it broke.

  Straight in his bower dim shapes were seen

  By the fitful light, that rose within,

  And reddened the dark boughs above,

  And chequered all the shadowy grove,

  And tinged his robe and his beard of snow,

  And waked in his eyes their early glow!

  While, as alternate rose and sunk the gleam,

  The tree itself a bower or cave would seem!

  XVII.

  The Druid, wrapt in silence, lay;

  No need of words; his thoughts were known;

  “Odin has heard his people’s groan,”

  Spoke a loud voice and passed away.

  Another rose, of milder tone!

  “The mighty task is now thine own,

  To free the land from wizard-guile;

  If thou hast wisdom to obey,

  And courage to fulfil the toil,

  Odin, for ages, to thy sway

  Gives each long plain and every sloping dell,

  Now suffering by the sinful Sorcerer’s spell.”

  XVIII.

  A third voice spoke, and thus it said —

  “Listen and watch! for thou must brave

  The wily Wizard’s inmost cave;

  And, while he sleeps, around his head

  Bind a charm, that shall help thee draw

  Each fang from his enormous jaw;

  There lies the force of all his spells.

  Hundred and forty teeth are there

  In triple rows; his art they share.

  Hundred and forty thou must draw,

  From upper and from under jaw.

  Quick must thou be; for, if the charm

  Break, and his bond of sleep is o’er,

  Ere yet thy task is done, no power

  Can save thee from his vengeful arm.

  Thence from his cave, at magic’s hour,

  Speed thou; and close beneath his bower

  Bury the fangs nine fathom deep,

  Or ere thine eyelids close in sleep:

  With them his guile for ever laid.

  Thine is the land, which late he swayed.”

  XIX.

  The voice is passed, and once more stillness reigns

  The Druid’s trance is o’er; yet he retains

  A wildered and a haggard look.

  As pondering still the urgent word,

  And wonderous call he just had heard.

  And sure instruction from that call he took!

  xx.

  And from this hour he was not seen,

  Neither on hill, nor yet in dale;

  By the brown heath, nor forest green,

  Nor by the rills, where waters wail;

  By sun-light, nor by moonbeam pale.

  But his shape was seen, by starlight sheen;

  Or so the carle dreamt, who thus told the tale!

  XXI.

  For many a night and many a day,

  Close within his bower he lay,

  For many a day and many a night,

  Hid from sight, and hid from light,

  Trying the force of his mystic might;

  Working the charm should shield him from harm,

  When he in the Wizard’s cave should be,

  To set the wretched country free.

  HE owned the spell of Minstrelsy.

  XXII.

  It boots not that I here should say

  What arts the Druid did essay:

  How with the misletoe he wrought,

  That twined upon his oldest oak,

  How midnight dew he careful caught

  From nightshade, nor the words he spoke,

  When he mixed the charm with a moonbeam cold,

  To form a web, that should fast enfold

  The Sorcerer’s eyes — vast Warwolf the bold.

  Nor boots it, that I here should say

  The dangers and changes, that him befell

  On his murky course to War wolfs cell; —

  For, circled safe with many a subtle charm,

  Was his dark path along the forest-way;

  The lamp he bore sent forth its little ray,

  And sometimes showed around strange shapes of harm

  Gliding beneath the trees, now close beside;

  Now distant they would stand, obscurely seen

  Among the old oaks’ deep-withdrawing green.

  XXIII.

  But the calm Druid touched th’ according string

  Of the small harp he bore, with skill so true

  That straight they left their shape and faithless hue!

  Then voices strange would in the tempest sing,

  Calling along the wind, now loud, now low,

  And now, far off, would into silence go:

  Seeming the very fiends of wail and woe!

  Again th’ enchanting chord the Druid woke,

  (‘Twas as the seraph Peace herself had spoke,)

  And hushed to silence every wizard-foe.

  XXIV.

  The story could unfold much more,

  That the daring wanderer bore,

  O’er valley and rock and starless wood,

  Ere at the Sorcerer’s cave he stood.

  There come,’ he paused; for even he, I ween,

  Confessed the secret horrors of the scene.

  A place like this in all the spreading bound

  Of these low plains can nowhere now be found

  And scarcely will it be, I fear, believed

  That beetling cliffs did ever rear the head

  O’er lands as wavy now as ocean’s bed.

  Bnt these huge rocks on rocks by might extinct were heaved.

  XXV.

  It was where the high trees withdrew their boughs,

  And let the midnight-moon behold the scene,

  That hoary cliffs unlocked their marble jaws,

  And showed a melancholy cave between,

  With deadly nightshade hung and aconite,

  And every plant and shrub, that worketh spite;

  Upon their shuddering leaves the moonlight fell

  But left no silver tinges there to tell

  The winning power of simple Beauty’s spell;

  Nor touched the rocks, that hung in air,

  With glimpse of lustre, passing fair;

  A dull and dismal tinge it shed,

  Such as might gleam on buried dead!

  And led, as with a harbingering ray,

  The Druid’s steps, where the grim Wizard lay.

  XXVI.

  It led his steps; but he, in silent thought,

  Stood long before th’ expected cave;

  For he beheld what none could brave,

  Who had not yet with magic weapon fought;

  He stood, the unknown cave before;

  High shot the little flame he bore,

  Then sunk as low, then spired again,

  And gleamed throughout the Warwolf’s den;

  It glanced on the harp at the Druid’s breast;

  It brightened the folds of his gathered vest!

  And chased the shade, that hung o’er his brow,

  Bound with the sacred misletoe;

  It silvered the snow of his wavy beard,

  It showed the strong lines of age and care,

  But the lines of Virtue mingled there,

  And wisdom benignant, yet stern,
appeared.

  XXVII.

  Long before that cave he stood,

  For, hovering near,

  Dark shapes of fear

  Among the nightshade seemed to brood,

  And watchful eyes, between the leaves

  Now here, now there, portentous glare,

  Direful to him, who fears and grieves,

  As meteors fly

  Through a troubled sky,

  When the autumn thunder-storm is near.

  XXVIII.

  And thrice he turned him to the east,

  And sprinkled the juice of the misletoe;

  And thrice he turned him to the east,

  And the flame he bore then changed it’s glow;

  And thrice he turned him to the east,

  And the flame he bore burned high, burned low.

  Then a solemn strain from his harp arose;

  ‘Mong the leaves the watching eyes ‘gan close;

  One by one, they were closed in night,

  Till sunk in sleep was the Wizard’s might.

  For, by his art, the Druid knew,

  That Warwolf, though he lay unseen,

  His deepest, darkest cave within,

  Closed his eyes, when these eyes closed,

  And now in deathlike swoon reposed.

  And the Druid knew, that hitherto

  The spell of Minstrelsy was true

  But the Druid knew, that he must rue,

  If the magic sound of his harping ceased

  Ere his terrible task was fully done;

  For Warwolf would wake, and, from spell released,

  Call from their slumber the fiends it had won.

  XXIX.

  The Druid knew this; and he knew moreo’er,

  That, the moment he trod in the Wizard’s den,

  Other fiends would spring from their sleep within,

  To clamour and curse, with a horrible din,

  If he left not his harp at the cave’s door;

  If he left it there, and the winds should deign

  To call out it’s sweet and magic strain,

  The strain of his harp would with theirs contend;

  And if theirs were baffled, his toil would end;

  If their’s should triumph, his life was o’er.

  Yet he left his harp at the cavern door;

  But he traced a just circle where it hung,

  And high in an oak’s green branches swung.