By the stream doth linger,
In the hope that ‘eve
Will her lover bring her.
II.
See, the sun is sinking;
All grows dim, and dies;
See, the waves are drinking
Glories of the skies.
Day’s last lustre playeth
On that current dark;
Yet no speck betrayeth
His long looked-for bark.
’Tis the hour of meeting!
Nay, the hour is past;
Swift the time is fleeting!
Fleeteth hope as fast?
Still the Gitanilla
By the stream doth linger,
In the hope that night
Will her lover bring her.
III.
Swift that stream flows on,
Swift the night is wearing, —
Yet she is not gone,
Though with heart despairing.
Dips an oar-plash — hark! —
Gently on the river;
’Tis her lover’s bark,
On the Guadalquivir.
Hark! a song she hears!
Every note she snatches.
As the singer nears,
Her own name she catches.
Now the Gitanilla
Stays not by the water,
For the midnight hour
Hath her lover brought her.
THE TWICE-USED RING.
“BEWARE thy bridal day!”
On her deathbed sighed my mother;
“Beware, beware, I say,
Death shall wed thee, and no other.
Cold the hand shall grasp thee,
Cold the arms shall clasp thee,
Colder lips thy kiss shall smother!
Beware thy bridal kiss!
“Thy wedding-ring shall be
From a clay-cold finger taken
From one that, like to thee,
Was by her love forsaken.
For a twice-used ring
Is a fatal thing;
Her griefs who wore it are partaken —
Beware that fatal ring!
“The altar and the grave
Many steps are not asunder;
Bright banners o’er thee wave,
Shrouded horror lieth under.
Blithe may sound the bell,
Yet ‘twill toll thy knell;
Scathed thy chaplet by the thunder —
Beware thy blighted wreath!”
Beware my bridal day!
Dying lips my doom have spoken;
Deep tones call me away;
From the grave is sent a token.
Cold, cold fingers bring.
That ill-omened ring;
Soon will a second heart be broken!
This is my bridal day!
THE SOUL-BELL.
EAST the sand of life is failing,
East her latest sigh exhaling,
East, fast, is she dying.
With death’s chills her limbs are shivering,
With death’s gasp her lips are quivering,
East her soul away is flying.
O’er the mountain-top it fleetet’n,
And the skiey wonders greeteth,
Singing loud as stars it meeteth
On its way.
Hark! the sullen Soul-bell tolling,
Hollowly in echoes rolling,
Seems to say —
“She will ope her eyes — oh, never!
Quenched their dark light — gone for ever!
She is dead.”
HYMN TO SAINT THECLA.
IN my trouble, in my anguish,
In the depths of my despair,
As in grief and pain I languish,
Unto thee I raise my prayer.
Sainted virgin! martyr’d maiden!
Let thy countenance incline
Upon one with woes o’erladen,
Kneeling lowly at thy shrine;
That in agony, in terror,
In her blind perplexity,
Wandering weak in doubt and error,
Calleth feebly upon thee.
Sinful thoughts, sweet saint, oppress me,
Thoughts that will not be dismissed;
Temptations dark possess me,
Which my strength may not resist.
I am full of pain, and weary
Of my life; I fain would die;
Unto me the world is dreary;
To the grave for rest I fly.
For rest! — oh! could I borrow
Thy bright wings, celestial Dove!
They should waft me from my sorrow,
Where Peace dwells in bowers above.
Upon one with woes o’erladen,
Kneeling lowly at thy shrine;
Sainted virgin! martyr’d maiden!
Let thy countenance incline!
Mei miserere Virgo,
Requiem oeternam dona!
By thy loveliness, thy purity,
By thy spirit undefiled,
That in serene security
Upon earth’s temptations smiled; —
By the fetters that constrain’d thee,
By thy flame-attested faith,
By the fervour that sustain’d thee,
By thine angel-ushered death; —
By thy soul’s divine elation,
‘Mid thine agonies assuring
Of thy sanctified translation
To beatitude enduring; —
By the mystic interfusion
Of thy spirit with the rays,
That in ever-bright profusion
Round the Throne Eternal blaze; —
By thy portion now partaken,
With the pain-perfected Just;
Look on one of hope forsaken,
From the gates of mercy thrust.
Upon one with woes o’erladen,
Kneeling lowly at thy shrine,
Sainted virgin! martyr’d maiden!
Let thy countenance incline!
Ora pro me mortis hora!
Sancta Virgo, oro te!
Kyrie Eleison!
HYMN TO SAINT CYPRIAN.
HEAR! oh! hear me, sufferer holy,
Who didst make thine habitation
‘Mid these rocks, devoting wholly
Life to one long expiation
Of thy guiltiness, and solely
By severe mortification
Didst deliver thee. Oh! hear me!
In my dying moments cheer me.
By thy penance, self-denial,
Aid me in the hour of trial.
May, through thee, my prayers prevailing
On the Majesty of Heaven,
O’er the hosts of hell, assailing
My soul, in this dark hour be driven!
So my spirit, when exhaling,
May of sinfulness be shriven,
And his gift unto the Giver
May be rendered pure as ever!
By thy own dark, dread possession.
Aid me with thine intercession!
THE CHURCHYARD YEW.
Metuendaque succo
Taxus.
A NOXIOUS tree is the churchyard Yew,
As if from the dead its sap it drew;
Dark are its branches, and dismal to see,
Like plumes at Death’s latest solemnity.
Spectral and jagged, and black as the wings
Which some spirit of ill o’er a sepulchre flings
Oh! a terrible tree is the churchyard yew;
Like it is nothing so dreary to view.
Yet this baleful tree hath a core so sound,
Can nought so tough in the grove be found:
From it were fashioned brave English bows,
The boast of our isle, and the dread of its foes.
For our sturdy sires cut their stoutest staves
From the branch that hung o’er their father’s graves
And though it be dreary and dismal to view,
Stanch at
the heart is the churchyard yew.
BLACK BESS.
I.
Let the lover his mistress’s beauty rehearse,
And laud her attractions in languishing verse;
Be it mine in rude strains, but with truth to express,
The love that I bear to my bonny Black Bess.
II.
From the West was her dam, from the East was her sire,
From the one came her swiftness, the other her fire;
No peer of the realm better blood can possess
Than flows in the veins of my bonny Black Bess.
III.
Look! look! how that eyeball glows bright as a brand!
That neck proudly arches, those nostrils expand!
Mark that wide-flowing mane! of which each silky tress
Might adorn prouder beauties — though none like Black Bess.
IV.
Mark that skin sleek as velvet, and dusky as night,
With its jet undisfigured by one lock of white;
That throat branched with veins, prompt to charge or caress
Now is she not beautiful? — bonny Black Bess!
V.
Over highway and by-way, in rough and smooth weather,
Some thousands of miles have we journeyed together;
Our couch the same straw, and our meal the same mess:
No couple more constant than I and Black Bess!
VI.
By moonlight, in darkness, by night, or by day,
Her headlong career there is nothing can stay;
She cares not for distance, she knows not distress:
Can you show me a courser to match with Black Bess?
VII.
Once it happened in Cheshire, near Dunham, I popped
On a horseman alone, whom I suddenly stopped;
That I lightened his pockets you’ll readily guess —
Quick work makes Dick Turpin when mounted on Bess.
VIII.
Now it seems the man knew me; “Dick Turpin,” said he,
“You shall swing for this job, as you live, d’ye see
I laughed at his threats and his vows of redress;
I was sure of an alibi then with Black Bess.
IX.
The road was a hollow, a sunken ravine,
Overshadowed completely by wood like a screen;
I clambered the bank, and I needs must confess
That one touch of the spur grazed the side of Black Bess.
X.
Brake, brook, meadow, and ploughed field, Bess fleetly bestrode,
As the crow wings her flight we selected our road;
We arrived at Hough Green in five minutes, or less —
My neck it was saved by the speed of Black Bess.
XI.
Stepping carelessly forward, I lounge on the green,
Taking excellent care that by all I am seen;
Some remarks on time’s flight to the squires I address,
But I say not a word of the flight of Black Bess.
XII.
I mention the hour — it was just about four —
Play a rubber at bowls — think the danger is o’er;
When athwart my next game, like a checkmate at chess,
Comes the horseman in search of the rider of Bess.
XIII.
What matter details? Off with triumph I came;
He swears to the hour, and the squires swear the same;
I had robbed him at four! — while at four they profess
I was quietly bowling — all thanks to Black Bess!
XIV.
Then one halloo, boys, one loud cheering halloo!
To the swiftest of coursers, the gallant, the true!
For the sportsman unborn shall the memory bless
Of the horse of the highwayman — bonny Black Bess!
THE OLD OAK COFFIN.
Sic ego componi versus in ossa velim. — TIBULLUS.
IN a churchyard, upon the sward, a coffin there was laid,
And leaning stood, beside the wood, a sexton on his spade.
A coffin old and black it was, and fashioned curiously,
With quaint device of carved oak, in hideous fantasie.
For here was wrought the sculptured thought of a tormented face,
With serpents lithe that round it writhe, in folded strict embrace.
Grim visages of grinning fiends were at each corner set,
And emblematic scrolls, mort-heads, and bones together met.
“Ah, well-a-day!” that sexton grey unto himself did cry,
“Beneath that lid much lieth hid — much awful mystery.
It is an ancient coffin from the abbey that stood here;
Perchance it holds an abbot’s bones, perchance those of a frere.
“In digging deep, where monks do sleep, beneath you cloister shrined,
That coffin old, within the mould, it was my chance to find;
The costly carvings of the lid I scraped full carefully,
In hope to get at name or date, yet nothing could I see.
“With pick and spade I’ve plied my trade for sixty years and more,
Yet never found, beneath the ground, shell strange as that before;
Full many coffins have I seen — have seen them deep or flat,
Fantastical in fashion — none fantastical as that.”
And saying so, with heavy blow, the lid he shattered wide,
And, pale with fright, a ghastly sight that sexton grey espied;
A miserable sight it was, that loathsome corpse to see,
The last, last, dreary, darksome stage of fall’n humanity.
Though all was gone, save reeky bone, a green and grisly heap,
With scarce a trace of fleshy face, strange posture did it keep.
The hands were clench’d, the teeth were wrench’d, as if the wretch had risen,
E’en after death had ta’en his breath, to strive and burst his prison.
The neck was bent, the nails were rent, no limb or joint was straight;
Together glued, with blood imbued, black and coagulate.
And, as the sexton stooped him down to lift the coffin plank,
His fingers were defiled all o’er with slimy substance dank.
“Ah, well-a-day!” that sexton grey unto himself did cry,
“Full well I see how Fate’s decree foredoomed this wretch to die;
A living man, a breathing man, within the coffin thrust,
Alack! alack! the agony ere he returned to dust.”
A vision drear did then appear unto that sexton’s eyes;
Like that poor wight before him straight he in a coffin lies.
He lieth in a trance within that coffin close and fast;
Yet though he sleepeth now, he feels he shall awake at last.
The coffin then, by reverend men, is borne with footsteps slow,
Where tapers shine before the shrine, where breathes the requiem low;
And for the dead the prayer is said, for the soul that is not flown —
Then all is drown’d in hollow sound, the earth is o’er him thrown!
He draweth breath — he wakes from death to life more horrible;
To agony! such agony! no living tongue may tell.
Die! die he must, that wretched one! he struggles — strives in vain;
No more heaven’s light, nor sunshine bright, shall he behold again.
“Gramercy, Lord!” the sexton roar’d, awakening suddenly,
“If this be dream, yet doth it seem most dreadful so to die.
Oh, cast my body in the sea! or hurl it on the shore!
But nail me not in coffin fast — no grave will I dig more.”
Fantastical Ballads
THE SORCERERS’ SABBATH.
I.
AROUND Montfaucon’s mouldering stones,
The wizard crew is flitting;
And ‘neath a Jew’s unhallowed bones,
Man’s enemy
is sitting.
Terrible it is to see
Such fantastic revelry!
Terrible it is to bear
Sounds that shake the soul with fear!
Like the chariot wheels of Night,
Swiftly round about they go;
Scarce the eye can track their flight,
As the mazy measures flow.
Now they form a ring of fire;
Now a spiral, funeral pyre: —
Mounting now, and now descending,
In a circle never ending.
As the clouds the storm-blast scatters —
As the oak the thunder shatters —
As scared fowl in wintry weather —
They huddle, groan, and scream together.
Strains unearthly and forlorn
Issue from you wrinkled horn;
By the bearded Demon blown,
Sitting on that great gray stone.
Round with whistle and with whoop,
Sweep the ever-whirling troop:
Streams of light their footsteps trail,
Forked as a comet’s tail.
“Her Sabat! — Sabat! “ — they cry —
An abbess joins their company.
II.
Sullenly resounds the roof,
With the tramp of horned hoof, —
Rings each iron-girdled rafter
With intolerable laughter:
Shaken by the stunning peal,
The chain-hung corses swing and reel.
From its perch on a dead-man’s bone,
Wild with fright; hath the raven flown;
Fled from its feast hath the flesh-gorged rat:
Gone from its roost is the vampire bat;
Stareth and screameth the screech-owl old,
As he wheeleth his flight through the moonlit wold;
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 843
