A Tale of the Fourteenth Century: A Fragment

The moonbeam, quivering o’er the wave,Sleeps in pale gold on wood and hill,The wild wind slumbers in its cave,And heaven is cloudless--earth is still!The pile that crowns yon savage heightWith battlements of Gothic might,Rises in softer pomp array’d,Its massy towers half lost in shade,Half touch’d with mellowing light!The rays of night, the tints of time,Soft-mingling on its dark-gray stone,O’er its rude strength and mien sublime,A placid smile have thrown.And far beyond, where wild and high,Bounding the pale blue summer sky,A mountain vista meets the eye,Its dark, luxuriant woods assumeA pencil’d shade, a softer gloom:Its jutting cliffs have caught the light,Its torrents glitter through the night,While every cave and deep recessFrowns in more shadowy awfulness.Scarce moving on the glassy deepYon gallant vessel seems to sleep;But darting from its side,How swiftly does its boat designA slender, silvery, waving lineOf radiance o’er the tide!No sound is on the summer seas,But the low dashing of the oar,And faintly sighs the midnight breezeThrough woods that fringe the rocky shore.That boat has reach’d the silent bay--The dashing oar has ceased to play;The breeze has murmur’d and has diedIn forest shades, on ocean’s tide.No step, no tone, no breath of soundDisturbs the loneliness profound;And midnight spreads o’er earth and mainA calm so holy and so deep,That voice of mortal were profaneTo break on nature’s sleep!It is the hour for thought to soarHigh o’er the cloud of earthly woes;For rapt devotion to adore--For passion to repose;And virtue to forget her tears,In visions of sublimer spheres!For oh! those transient gleams of heaven,To calmer, purer spirits given,Children of hallow’d peace, are knownIn solitude and shade alone!Like flowers that shun the blaze of noon,To blow beneath the midnight moon,The garish world they will not bless,But only live in loneliness!

Hark! did some note of plaintive swellMelt on the stillness of the air?Or was it fancy’s powerful spellThat woke such sweetness there?For wild and distant it arose,Like sounds that bless the bard’s repose,When in lone wood, or mossy cave,He dreams beside some fountain wave,And fairy worlds delight the eyesWearied with life’s realities.

Was it illusion? Yet againRises and falls th’ enchanted strain,Mellow, and sweet, and faint--As if some spirit’s touch had givenThe soul of sound to harp of heavenTo soothe a dying saint!Is it the mermaid’s distant shell,Warbling beneath the moonlit wave?--Such witching tones might lure full wellThe seaman to his grave!Sure from no mortal touch ye rise,Wild, soft, aërial melodies!--Is it the song of woodland-fayFrom sparry grot, or haunted bower?Hark! floating on, the magic layDraws near yon ivied tower!Now nearer still, the listening earMay catch sweet harp-notes, faint yet clear;And accents low, as if in fear,Thus murmur, half suppress’d:--“Awake! the moon is bright on high,The sea is calm, the bark is nigh,The world is hush’d to rest!”Then sinks the voice--the strain is o’er,Its last low cadence dies along the shore.

Fair Bertha hears th’ expected song,Swift from her tower she glides along;No echo to her tread awakes,Her fairy step no slumber breaks;And, in that hour of silence deep,While all around the dews of sleepO’erpower each sense, each eyelid steep,Quick throbs her heart with hope and fear,Her dark eye glistens with a tear.Half-wavering now, the varying cheekAnd sudden pause her doubts bespeak,The lip now flush’d, now pale as death,The trembling frame, the fluttering breath!Oh! in that moment, o’er her soulWhat struggling passions claim control!Fear, duty, love, in conflict high,By turns have won th’ ascendency;And as, all tremulously bright,Streams o’er her face the beam of night,What thousand mix’d emotions playO’er that fair face, and melt away.Like forms whose quick succession gleamsO’er fancy’s rainbow-tinted dreams;Like the swift glancing lights that riseMidst the wild cloud of stormy skies,And traverse ocean o’er;So in that full, impassion’d eyeThe changeful meanings rise and die,Just seen--and then no more!But oh! too short that pause. AgainThrills to her heart that witching strain:--“Awake! the midnight moon is bright:Awake! the moments wing their flight;Haste! or they speed in vain!”----O call of Love! thy potent spellO’er that weak heart prevails too well;The “still small voice” is heard no moreThat pleaded duty’s cause before,And fear is hush’d, and doubt is gone,And pride forgot, and reason flown!Her cheek, whose colour came and fled,Resumes its warmest, brightest red,Her step its quick elastic tread,Her eye its beaming smile!Through lonely court and silent hall,Flits her light shadow o’er the wall;And still that low, harmonious callMelts on her ear the while!Though love’s quick ear alone could tellThe words its accents faintly swell:--“Awake! while yet the lingering nightAnd stars and seas befriend our flight:Oh! haste, while all is well!”----The halls, the courts, the gates, are past,She gains the moonlit beach at last.Who waits to guide her trembling feet?Who flies the fugitive to greet?He, to her youthful heart endear’dBy all it e’er had hoped and fear’d,Twined with each wish, with every thoughtEach day-dream fancy e’er had wrought,Whose tints portray with flattering skillWhat brighter worlds alone fulfil!--Alas! that aught so fair should flyThy blighting wand, Reality!

A chieftain’s mien her Osbert bore,A pilgrim’s lowly robes he wore--Disguise that vainly strove to hideBearing and glance of martial pride;For he in many a battle-scene,On many a rampart breach had been;Had sternly smiled at danger nigh,Had seen the valiant bleed and die,And proudly rear’d on hostile tower,Midst falchion clash and arrowy shower,Britannia’s banner high!And though some ancient feud had taughtHis Bertha’s sire to loathe his name,More noble warrior never foughtFor glory’s prize or England’s fame.And well his dark, commanding eye,And form and step of stately grace,Accorded with achievements high,Soul of emprise and chivalry,Bright name, and generous race!His cheek, embrown’d by many a sun,Tells a proud tale of glory won,Of vigil, march, and combat rude,Valour, and toil, and fortitude!E’en while youth’s earliest blushes threwWarm o’er that cheek their vivid hue,His gallant soul, his stripling form,Had braved the battle’s rudest storm;When England’s conquering archers stood,And dyed thy plain, Poitiers! with blood,When shiver’d axe, and cloven shield,And shatter’d helmet, strew’d the field,And France around her king in vainHad marshall’d valour’s noblest train--In that dread strife his lightning eyeHad flash’d with transport keen and high,And midst the battle’s wildest tide,Throbb’d his young heart with hope and pride.

Alike that fearless heart could braveDeath on the war-field or the wave;Alike in tournament or fight,That ardent spirit found delight!Yet oft, midst hostile scenes afar,Bright o’er his soul a vision came,Rising like some benignant star,On stormy seas or plains of war,To soothe, with hopes more dear than fame,The heart that throbb’d to Bertha’s name!And midst the wildest rage of fight,And in the deepest calm of night,To her his thoughts would wing their flightWith fond devotion warm;Oft would those glowing thoughts portraySome home, from tumults far away,Graced with that angel form!And now his spirit fondly deemsFulfill’d its loveliest, dearest dreams!

Who, with pale cheek, and locks of snow,In minstrel garb attends the chief?The moonbeam on his thoughtful browReveals a shade of grief.Sorrow and time have touch’d his faceWith mournful yet majestic grace,Soft as the melancholy smileOf sunset on some ruin’d pile!--It is the bard, whose song had powerTo lure the maiden from her tower--The bard, whose wild inspiring lays,E’en in gay childhood’s earliest days,First woke, in Osbert’s kindling breast,The flame that will not be represt,The pulse that throbs for praise!Those lays had banish’d from his eyeThe bright soft tears of infancy,Had soothed the boy to calm repose,Had hush’d his bosom’s earliest woes;And when the light of thought awoke,When first young reason’s day-spring broke,More powerful still, they bade ariseHis spirit’s burning energies!Then the bright dream of glory warm’d,Then the loud pealing war-song charm’d,The legends of each martial line,The battle-tales of Palestine:And oft, since then, his deeds had provedThemes of the lofty lays he loved!Now, at triumphant love’s command,Since Osbert leaves his native land,Forsaking glory’s high careerFor her than glory far more dear;Since hope’s gay dream and meteor rayTo distant regions point his way,That there Affection’s hands may dressA fairy bower for happiness;That fond devoted bard, though nowTime’s wintery garland wreathes his brow,Though quench’d the sunbeam of his eye,And fled his spirit’s buoyancy,And strength and enterprise are past,Still follows constant to the last!Though his sole wish was but to dieMidst the calm scenes of days gone by,And all that hallows and endearsThe memory of departed years--Sorrow, and joy, and time, have twinedTo those loved scenes his pensive mind;Ah! what can tear the links apartThat bind his chieftain to his heart?What smile but his with joy can lightThe eye obscured by age’s night?Last of a loved and honour’d line,Last tie to earth in life’s decline,Till death its lingering spark shall dim,That faithful eye must gaze on him!

Silent and swift, with footstep light,Haste on those fugitives of night.They reach the boat--the rapid oarSoon wafts them from the wooded shore:The bark is gain’d! A gallant few,Vassals of Osbert, form its crew;The pennant, in the moonlight beam,With soft suffusion glows;From the white sail a silvery gleamFalls on the wave’s repose;Long shadows undulating play,From mast and streamer, o’er the bay;But still so hush’d the summer air,They tremble, midst that scene so fair,Lest morn’s first beam behold them there.--Wake, viewless wanderer! breeze of night!From river wave, or mountain height,Or dew-bright couch of moss and flowers,By haunted spring in forest bowers;Or dost thou lurk in pearly cell,In amber grot, where mermaids dwell,And cavern’d gems their lustre throwO’er the red sea-flowers’ vivid glow?Where treasures, not for mortal gaze,In solitary splendour blaze,And sounds, ne’er heard by mortal ear,Swell through the deep’s unfathom’d sphere?What grove of that mysterious worldHolds thy light wing in slumber furl’d?Awake! o’er glittering seas to rove:Awake! to guide the bark of love!Swift fly the midnight hours, and soonShall fade the bright propitious moon;Soon shall the waning stars grow pale,E’en now--but lo! the rustling sailSwells to the new-sprung ocean gale!The bark glides on--their fears are o’er;Recedes the bold romantic shore,Its features mingling fast.Gaze, Bertha! gaze: thy lingering eyeMay still each lovely scene descryOf years for ever past!There wave the woods, beneath whose shadeWith bounding step thy childhood play’d,Midst ferny glades and mossy lawns,Free as their native birds and fawns;Listening the sylvan sounds, that floatOn each low breeze, midst dells remote--The ringdove’s deep melodious moan,The rustling deer in thickets lone;The wild-bee’s hum, the aspen’s sigh,The wood-stream’s plaintive harmony.Dear scenes of many a sportive hour,There thy own mountains darkly tower!Midst their gray rocks no glen so rudeBut thou hast loved its solitude!No path so wild but thou hast known,And traced its rugged course alone!The earliest wreath that bound thy hairWas twined of glowing heath-flowers there.There in the day-spring of thy years,Undimm’d by passions or by tears,Oft, while thy bright, enraptured eyeWander’d o’er ocean, earth, or sky,While the wild breeze that round thee blew,Tinged thy warm cheek with richer hue.Pure as the skies that o’er thy headTheir clear and cloudless azure spread,Pure as that gale whose light wing drewIts freshness from the mountain dew,Glow’d thy young heart with feelings high,A heaven of hallow’d ecstasy!Such days were thine! ere love had drawnA cloud o’er that celestial dawn!As the clear dews in morning’s beamWith soft reflected colouring stream,Catch every tint of eastern gemTo form the rose’s diadem,But vanish when the noontide hourGlows fiercely on the shrinking flower--Thus in thy soul each calm delight,Like morn’s first dew-drops, pure and bright,Fled swift from passion’s blighting fire,Or linger’d only to expire!Spring on thy native hills againShall bid neglected wild-flowers rise,And call forth, in each grassy glen,Her brightest emerald dyes!There shall the lonely mountain rose,Wreath of the cliffs, again disclose;Midst rocky dells, each well-known streamShall sparkle in the summer beam;The birch, o’er precipice and cave,Its feathery foliage still shall wave,The ash midst rugged clefts unveilIts coral clusters to the gale,And autumn shed a warmer bloomO’er the rich heath and glowing broom.But thy light footstep there no moreEach path, each dingle shall explore.In vain may smile each green recess,--Who now shall pierce its loneliness?The stream through shadowy glens may stray,--Who now shall trace its glistening way?In solitude, in silence deep,Shrined midst her rocks, shall Echo sleep,No lute’s wild swell again shall riseTo wake her mystic melodies.All soft may blow the mountain air,--It will not wave thy graceful hair!The mountain rose may bloom and die,--It will not meet thy smiling eye!But like those scenes of vanish’d days,Shall others ne’er delight;Far lovelier lands shall meet thy gaze,Yet seem not half so bright!O’er the dim woodlands’ fading hueStill gleams yon Gothic pile on high;Gaze on, while yet ’tis thine to viewThat home of infancy!Heed not the night-dew’s chilling power,Heed not the sea-wind’s coldest hour,But pause and linger on the deck,Till of those towers no trace, no speck,Is gleaming o’er the main;For when the mist of morn shall rise,Blending the sea, the shore, the skies,That home, once vanish’d from thine eyes,Shall bless them ne’er again!

There the dark tales and songs of yoreFirst with strange transport thrill’d thy soul,E’en while their fearful mystic loreFrom thy warm cheek the life-bloom stole.There, while thy father’s raptured earDwelt fondly on a strain so dear,And in his eye the trembling tearReveal’d his spirit’s trance;How oft, those echoing halls along,Thy thrilling voice has swell’d the song--Tradition wild of other days,Or troubadour’s heroic lays,Or legend of romance!Oh! many an hour has there been thine,That memory’s pencil oft shall dressIn softer shades, and tints that shineIn mellow’d loveliness!While thy sick heart, and fruitless tears,Shall mourn, with fond and deep regret,The sunshine of thine early years,Scarce deem’d so radiant--till it set!The cloudless peace, unprized till gone,The bliss, till vanish’d hardly known!

On rock and turret, wood and hill,The fading moonbeams linger still,Still, Bertha! gaze on yon gray tower,At evening’s last and sweetest hour,While varying still, the western skiesFlush’d the clear seas with rainbow dyes,Whose warm suffusions glow’d and pass’d,Each richer, lovelier, than the last.How oft, while gazing on the deep,That seem’d a heaven of peace to sleep,As if its wave, so still, so fair,More frowning mien might never wear,The twilight calm of mental restWould steal in silence o’er thy breast,And wake that dear and balmy sighThat softly breathes the spirit’s harmony!--Ah! ne’er again shall hours to thee be givenOf joy on earth--so near allied to heaven!

Why starts the tear to Bertha’s eye?Is not her long-loved Osbert nigh?Is there a grief his voice, his smile,His words, are fruitless to beguile?--Oh! bitter to the youthful heart,That scarce a pang, a care has known,The hour when first from scenes we part,Where life’s bright spring has flown!Forsaking, o’er the world to roam,That little shrine of peace--our home!E’en if delighted fancy throwO’er that cold world, her brightest glow,Painting its untried paths with flowers,That will not live in earthly bowers,(Too frail, too exquisite, to bearOne breath of life’s ungenial air;)E’en if such dreams of hope ariseAs heaven alone can realise,Cold were the breast that would not heaveOne sigh, the home of youth to leave;Stern were the heart that would not swellTo breathe life’s saddest word--farewell!Though earth has many a deeper woe,Though tears more bitter far must flow,That hour, whate’er our future lot,That first fond grief, is ne’er forgot!

Such was the pang of Bertha’s heart,The thought, that bade the tear-drop start;And Osbert by her sideHeard the deep sigh, whose bursting swellNature’s fond struggle told too well;And days of future bliss portray’d,And love’s own eloquence essay’d,To soothe his plighted bride!Of bright Arcadian scenes he tells,In that sweet land to which they fly;The vine-clad rocks, the fragrant dellsOf blooming Italy.For he had roved a pilgrim there,And gazed on many a spot so fairIt seem’d like some enchanted grove,Where only peace, and joy, and love,Those exiles of the world, might rove,And breathe its heavenly air;And, all unmix’d with ruder tone,Their “wood-notes wild” be heard alone!Far from the frown of stern control,That vainly would subdue the soul,There shall their long-affianced handsBe join’d in consecrated bands.And in some rich, romantic vale,Circled with heights of Alpine snow,Where citron-woods enrich the gale,And scented shrubs their balm exhale,And flowering myrtles blow;And midst the mulberry boughs on highWeaves the wild vine her tapestry;On some bright streamlet’s emerald side,Where cedars wave in graceful pride,Bosom’d in groves, their home shall rise,A shelter’d bower of paradise!Thus would the lover soothe to restWith tales of hope her anxious breast;Nor vain that dear enchanting loreHer soul’s bright visions to restore,And bid gay phantoms of delightFloat in soft colouring o’er her sight.----O Youth! sweet May-morn, fled so soon,Far brighter than life’s loveliest noon,How oft thy spirit’s buoyant powerWill triumph, e’en in sorrow’s hourPrevailing o’er regret!As rears its head th’ elastic flowerThough the dark tempest’s recent showerHang on its petals yet!

Ah! not so soon can hope’s gay smileThe aged bard to joy beguile;Those silent years that steal awayThe cheek’s warm rose, the eye’s bright ray,Win from the mind a nobler prize,E’en all its buoyant energies!For him the April days are past,When grief was but a fleeting cloud;No transient shade will sorrow cast,When age the spirit’s might has bow’d!And, as he sees the land grow dim,That native land now lost to him,Fix’d are his eyes, and clasp’d his hands,And long in speechless grief he stands:So desolately calm his air,He seems an image wrought to bearThe stamp of deep, though hush’d despair.Motion and life no sign bespeaks,Save that the night-breeze, o’er his cheeks,Just waves his silvery hair!Nought else could teach the eye to knowHe was no sculptured form of woe!Long gazing o’er the dark’ning flood,Pale in that silent grief he stood,Till the cold moon was waning fast,And many a lovely star had died,And the gray heavens deep shadows castFar o’er the slumbering tide;And, robed in one dark solemn hue,Arose the distant shore to view.Then, starting from his trance of woe,Tears, long suppress’d, in freedom flow,While thus his wild and plaintive strainBlends with the murmur of the main.