Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated)

by Ann Radcliffe

  XXX.

  As now the Druid took his way

  In the untried cave, where the Wizard lay,

  Often he lingered and listened oft,

  Still the distant harp was swelling soft;

  And he paced up the cave, without dismay,

  Under scowling rocks, between shaggy wails,

  Where the gleam of his lamp, as it faintly falls.

  Shows a frowning face, or a beckoning hand,

  Or a gliding foot, or the glance of a wand.

  Yet oft at a distance he sweetly hears

  The joy of his harp, and he nothing fears,

  Till he comes, where a light now flashed and fled,

  Which darted, he knew, from the Wizard’s bed.

  There opened the wall to a lofty hall,

  And he viewed what must mortal heart appal.

  XXXI.

  Outstretched and grim on his stony bed,

  All ghastly-pale, like a giant dead,

  With eyes half closed the Wizard lay,

  His half-shut mouth his fangs display.

  The skin of a dragon unsealed was his shroud;

  A rock was his bier; his watcher was Fear,

  And the winds were his mourners shrill and loud,

  And the caverns groaned their echoes severe.

  At his couch’s foot lay a wolf at length,

  But harmless in sleep was his sinewy strength,

  ‘Twas the wolf he had ridden from north to south;

  All uncurled were the serpents, that bridled his mouth,

  And the black, clotted stains might yet be seen

  Of his yesterday’s prey the teeth between.

  XXXII.

  The Druid approached, with caution and dread;

  The Wizard was pale; but, was he dead?

  Here waited the Druid his harp’s sweet sound.

  It’s note was now changed; like a deep-drawn sigh,

  He heard it’s faint swell, and he heard it die;

  Then knew he full well, that danger was nigh.

  He often and steadfastly looked around:

  No spectre appeared in the dim-seen bound!

  The Druid approached, with caution and dread;

  The Wizard was pale; but, was he dead?

  As the Druid bent o’er that giant form,

  While his lamp glared pale on the haggard brow,

  And showed the huge teeth in a triple row,

  He muttered the words, that will still a storm,

  That can struggle with Loke and all his swarm.

  XXXIII.

  The mourning winds o’er vast Warwolf were still;

  No breath from the Wizard’s pale lips bodes ill,

  Yet could not the Druid those fangs once view,

  And know the task he was bidden to do,

  Without feeling his very heart-blood chill.

  He hung his lamp on a sharp rock near.

  He bent again o’er vast Warwolf’s bier,

  And he touched one fang, with prudent fear,

  XXXIV.

  But, why does he start, and why does he stand

  As though he saw Hela’s shadowy hand?

  He has heard the shriek of his harp afar!

  He has felt the glance of his evil star!

  And he hastens to fold his charmed band

  Round the cold damp brows of his foe.

  But not all the strength of his magic might

  Gan lift the head from its stony bed,

  Or the strong bandage pass below,

  To press the Wizard’s forehead tight;

  So he laid it loosely on the brow.

  XXXV.

  Then he took from the rock his faithful lamp,

  And sprinkled the flame on the forehead damp.

  Straight the head uprose, and the lips unclosed,

  And each of the terrible fangs exposed.

  And now he hastened to pass the band;

  He tied the knot with a shaking hand,

  But tied it firm — he tied it fast,

  That it might well and sure outlast

  The struggle of every mighty pang.

  And then he seized one hideous fang,

  And threw it on the ground!

  No blood escaped the wound.

  Hark, to the harp’s now rising sound!

  He knew the fiends were fighting round it,

  But he knew that his charmed circle bound it.

  XXXVI.

  And when he had seized the second tooth,

  He thought that he heard the Wizard sigh!

  The third required the strength of youth,

  But he won it, and the Wizard unclosed an eye

  Senseless and dim, at first, it showed,

  But quickly a livid glare outspread,

  Which changed to a light of enraged red,

  And strongly as a furnace glowed.

  But the glow died away in the livid ray;

  And, touched by the spell, the eyelid fell,

  Like a storm-cloud over the setting day.

  XXXVII.

  At the ninth drawn fang, the Wizard’s hair

  Rose up and began to twine and twist,

  Like serpents, and like to serpents hissed!

  Till it curled all on fire,

  In many a spire,

  And the bridle-snakes, that lay on the ground,

  Began to stir, and to coil them around;

  And the wolf reared up his grisly head,

  And fiercely bristled his watchful ears;

  His foamy jaws grinned close and red,

  And a rolling fire in his eye appears,

  As he looks back o’er the Wizard’s bed.

  XXXVIII.

  Is that the harp? or is it the wind,

  Murmuring from the cave behind?

  It is the wind! ‘tis not the harp!

  See! Warwolf’s face grows long and sharp;

  About his mouth a grim smile draws,

  And the fiends know well his dire applause!

  The charmed band can scarcely bear

  The struggling of his writhing brow.

  Watching that horrid strife, the Druid stood,

  His harp’s tones answered to his fearful mood;

  Then he thought of the deeds of Balder good;

  He muttered the Helper song of Odin;

  He faced to the frost, that has fire within;

  And thrice he bowed him o’er the bier,

  Sprinkling the mystic misletoe.

  Now Warwolf’s fiendly smile is gone,

  His brow is steadfast and severe;

  Slow falls each hair to it’s dark lair,

  Quenched are the fire-snakes every one.

  The wolf, half-raised on his worn daws,

  Stands fixed as stone, with grinning jaws

  And upward eyes, as watchful still

  To do his Wizard’s vengeful will;

  His bridle of serpents, coiled o’er his head,

  Remains, and their tongues are yet living-red;

  But they dart no death, and no malice they shed;

  And their hisses have ceased; for their venom is dead!

  XXXIX.

  Hark! hark! afar what feeble note

  Begins, like dawn of day, to float?

  Hark! it is the rejoicing string,

  Sounding sweetly along the wind!

  Never did mortal music fling

  Notes so cheering, notes so kind.

  The Druid hoped, yet feared and sighed,

  And then again his task he plied.

  XL.

  Three times nine of the fangs he drew,

  And the Wizard did not change his hue!

  Three times three and three times nine,

  And his lamp more dimly ‘gan to shine.

  When he tried the very last fang of all,

  Warwolf lifted an arm on high;

  And faintly waved the hand,

  That held the SPECTRE-WAND,

  As though he would some evil Spirit call.

&
nbsp; His arm he did but feebly ply,

  Like one, who, in an agitating dream,

  Mimicks some action of his waking hour,

  Pursuing still his often-baffled aim,

  And struggling with the wish, without the power

  To chase the phantoms, that all living seem!

  XLI.

  The SPECTRE-WAND had lurked within

  The dragon’s many-folded skin,

  That was the Wizard’s shroud.

  Now, firmly grasping that dread wand,

  Which ne’er disowned its master’s hand,

  He called on Hela loud! —

  But he called Hela! once alone.

  Low sunk the muttered spell;

  No fiends th’ imperfect summons own,

  His lifted arm down fell.

  Now tried the Seer, but tried in vain,

  The hateful SPECTRE-WAND to gain;

  Which still vast Warwolf s fingers grasped,

  As though his only hope they clasped, ‘

  Till every tendon seemed to strain.

  XLII.

  The Druid tried to break the wand,

  But, by its forceful charm secured,

  And held, as if by iron hand,

  The mighty struggle it endured.

  In the long strife the Druid turned,

  And spoke again dread Hela’s name;

  The Druid’s lamp then faintly burned,

  Quivered again the failing flame.

  He, by the signal undismayed,

  Another daring effort made:

  He tried again the last strong fang:

  The Wizard started at the pang,

  But, though his lips moved at his will,

  His wish they could not now fulfill.

  The wolf, though standing fixed as stone.

  Uttered one long and yelling groan;

  And his kindling eyes began to stream;

  Then sunk the Druid’s lamp’s last gleam!

  XLIII.

  Oh! what is become of the harp’s far sound?

  Sadder it mourns, and yet more weak;

  I hear it but faintly, faintly speak;

  And I see the Druid upon the ground

  In speechless alarm,

  Despairing his charm; —

  The last of his spells had the fiends now found?

  XLIV.

  Whence is the light, that ‘gins to wave?

  Tis not his lamp, it’s beams are shorn.

  Nor fire, nor flame, through all the cave

  The Druid sees, aghast, forlorn.

  But look not on the Wizard’s bier.

  For, the red light is streaming there,

  That threatens unknown ill;

  Both, both his glaring eyes unclose!

  The-hall with lurid lightning glows;

  As if at Warwolf s will.

  The harp, the harp! where is it’s note?

  I hear no distant music float!

  He tried to lift his head

  From off his rocky bed,

  But the charmed band was true and strong;

  Vast Warwolf’s groans were loud and long,

  And every mighty limb convulsive heaved.

  Could I have told the horrors of his face,

  The tale, too fearful, would not be believed.

  Th’ astonished Druid stood some little space;

  So hideous and so ghastly was the sight,

  That e’en his firmness viewed it with affright;

  What then he thought may ne’er be told;

  But what his fate this story may unfold.

  XLV.

  Then lifting his eyes from off the bier,

  A pallid shade confronts him near.

  It surely is the form of Fear!

  It has her wild red look, her spectre-eye,

  Her attitude, as in the act to fly;

  Her backward glance, her face of livid hue,

  Her quivering lip, dropping with coldest dew;

  Her breathless pause, as waiting to descry

  The nameless, shapeless, harm, that must be nigh!

  He waved the BRANCH of SPECTRES o’er the bier;

  ‘Twas Hela’s self — the mother of wan Fear!

  The Druid knew her by that dreadful wand

  And by the glimpses of her flitting band.

  When he saw the berried misletoe,

  Profaned to conjure deeds of woe,

  Fear was subdued, indignant ire arose,

  The Druid-soul, disdainful of repose,

  Knew not to tamper with his Order’s foes.

  XLVI.

  She waved it o’er the half-gone Wizard’s head;

  A tremour crept upon his bloodless cheek;

  And see! he turns upon his rocky bed,

  He moves his lips, that have not strength to speak.

  She spoke: “ Wake, Warwolf, from thy trance;

  The phantoms of thy fate advance;

  Or wake not; th’ abject plain shall tell

  The change, that still awaits thy spell.

  The sun shall set, the moon shall rise;

  Four Mid twenty hours shall go;

  The sun shall set, the moon shall rise;

  Then each oak of the forest dies!

  For thy bones shall have rule below,”

  XLVII.

  With shaded eyes the Druid stood,

  Wrapt in dismay and fearful thought;

  But now, awaking from his mood,

  The last of all his spells he wrought.

  Three bands he tore from his night-woven vest,

  And sprinkled the oil of his failing lamp.

  The Wizard sunk on his bed in rest!

  Thrice on the ground did the Prophetess stamp,

  And shook her streaming hair

  In dæmon-like despair,

  And stretched athwart the bier her withering hand,

  And, shrieking, waved three times the SPECTRE WAND.

  XLVIII.

  At the first shriek, dark spreading mists appear;

  And, in the midst, a Spectre, trembling Fear;

  A wreath of aspin quivered round her hair.

  More grisly pale than the Prophetess she;

  More wild and haggard face could never be.

  At the next shriek, distorted Pain,

  With rolling eyes, that seemed to strain,

  Started along th’ affrighted ground,

  With dreadful yell and fitful bound;

  Even dark Hela shuddered, as he rose,

  For Hela could not grant him short repose.

  To the third shriek the SPECTRE-BRANOH waved high.

  A dim Shape came more dread than Pain or Fear;

  Fell woe was in her eye, but not one tear!

  A poniard in her breast, but not one sigh!

  All ghastly was her face, and yet a smile

  Was wandering on, but owned no thought, the while;

  Unnoticed blood distilled from her loose hair!

  She spoke not, wept not, looked not— ‘twas Despair!

  XLIX.

  Hela, as touched by her cold hand,

  Stood, when she saw these shadows rise

  To the false summons of her wand,

  Stood, like a wretch, who guilty dies.

  “Ye come uncalled. Why are ye here?”

  “We wait around vast War wolf’s bier.”

  “Ye come unwelcomed. Hence, away!”

  But Hela saw, with dire dismay,

  Her children would no more obey.

  They gathered round the Wizard’s bed,

  Despair drooped mutely o’er his head,

  And Hela sunk, in mist, down to the dead!

  L.

  Then the flame of the Druid’s lamp returned,

  And as clear as the morning-light it burned,

  And the harp’s triumphant sound

  Lightly danced the cavern round,

  And filled the vaulted roof, on high,

  With the loud song of truth and joy;

  Through every hollow ro
ck it rung;

  The Echoes tell not all the notes,

  For ne’er before had they heard sung

  Such song as now around them floats.

  LI.

  At the first note, round Warwolf’s bier,

  The ghastly shadows disappear,

  And a dark cloud began to rise,

  That wrapt him from the Druid’s eyes,

  Who gathered and counted the conquered fangs;

  Then, thankful, from the cave he hies,

  To seek the lorn place, where the cymbal clangs

  Of the Wizard’s imp, as it watches his bower;

  There to bury the teeth, at the magic hour.

  LII.

  From the mouth of the cave his harp he took,

  And hung it near his grateful heart;

  The wires with answering rapture shook,

  And hope and courage did impart.

  But its cautious master, true

  To the whole task he had to do,

  Bent, with tempered mind, his way,

  Whither the Sorcerer’s bower lay.

  Through the forest he heard afar

  The cymbal’s hoarsely-clanging jar,

  Till he came to a widely-spreading plain,

  Then ceased the Wizard’s threatening strain;

  All was still as yon setting star.

  But, for the bower he looked around in vain,

  Unless that giant-tree be his strange bower,

  A ruin now like him, and ‘reft of power.

  LIII.

  In the centre it stood — a withered oak;

  It’s shadow was gone, and it’s branches broke;

  It’s mighty trunk, knotted all round and round.

  And gnarled roots, o’erspreading the ground,

  Were proofs of summers that on it had shone,

  And honours of old from the tempests won,

  In generations all past and gone.

  And a scant foliage yet was seen,

  Wreathing it’s hoary brows with green;

  Like to a crown of victory,

  On some old Warrior’s forehead grey.

  So reverend was it’s look, it seemed to speak

  Of times long buried, that had passed it by

  And left it there thus desolate to sigh

  To the wild winter-winds, in murmurs weak;