The First BookOrleans was hush’d in sleep. Stretch’d on her couchThe delegated Maiden lay: with toilExhausted and sore anguish, soon she closedHer heavy eye-lids; not reposing then,For busy Phantasy, in other scenesAwakened. Whether that superior powers,By wise permission, prompt the midnight dream,Instructing so the passive faculty;[1]Or that the soul, escaped its fleshly clog,Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world,And all thingsarethatseem.[2]Along a moor,Barren, and wide, and drear, and desolate,She roam’d a wanderer thro’ the cheerless night.Far thro’ the silence of the unbroken plainThe bittern’s boom was heard, hoarse, heavy, deep,It made most fitting music to the scene.Black clouds, driven fast before the stormy wind,Swept shadowing; thro’ their broken folds the moonStruggled sometimes with transitory ray,And made the moving darkness visible.And now arrived beside a fenny lakeShe stands: amid its stagnate waters, hoarseThe long sedge rustled to the gales of night.An age-worn bark receives the Maid, impell’dBy powers unseen; then did the moon displayWhere thro’ the crazy vessel’s yawning sideThe muddy wave oozed in: a female guides,And spreads the sail before the wind, that moan’dAs melancholy mournful to her ear,As ever by the dungeon’d wretch was heardHowling at evening round the embattled towersOf that hell-house[3]of France, ere yet sublimeThe almighty people from their tyrant’s handDash’d down the iron rod.Intent the MaidGazed on the pilot’s form, and as she gazedShiver’d, for wan her face was, and her eyesHollow, and her sunk cheeks were furrowed deep,Channell’d by tears; a few grey locks hung downBeneath her hood: then thro’ the Maiden’s veinsChill crept the blood, for, as the night-breeze pass’d,Lifting her tattcr’d mantle, coil’d aroundShe saw a serpent gnawing at her heart.The plumeless bat with short shrill note flits by,And the night-raven’s scream came fitfully,Borne on the hollow blast. Eager the MaidLook’d to the shore, and now upon the bankLeaps, joyful to escape, yet trembling stillIn recollection.There, a mouldering pileStretch’d its wide ruins, o’er the plain belowCasting a gloomy shade, save where the moonShone thro’ its fretted windows: the dark Yew,Withering with age, branched there its naked roots,And there the melancholy Cypress rear’dIts head; the earth was heav’d with many a mound,And here and there a half-demolish’d tomb.And now, amid the ruin’s darkest shade,The Virgin’s eye beheld where pale blue flamesRose wavering, now just gleaming from the earth,And now in darkness drown’d. An aged manSat near, seated on what in long-past daysHad been some sculptur’d monument, now fallenAnd half-obscured by moss, and gathered heapsOf withered yew-leaves and earth-mouldering bones;And shining in the ray was seen the trackOf slimy snail obscene. Composed his look,His eye was large and rayless, and fix’d fullUpon the Maid; the blue flames on his faceStream’d a pale light; his face was of the hueOf death; his limbs were mantled in a shroud.Then with a deep heart-terrifying voice,Exclaim’d the Spectre, “Welcome to these realms,These regions of Despair! O thou whose stepsBy Grief conducted to these sad abodesHave pierced; welcome, welcome to this gloomEternal, to this everlasting night,Where never morning darts the enlivening ray,Where never shines the sun, but all is dark,Dark as the bosom of their gloomy King.”So saying he arose, and by the handThe Virgin seized with such a death-cold touchAs froze her very heart; and drawing on,Her, to the abbey’s inner ruin, ledResistless. Thro’ the broken roof the moonGlimmer’d a scatter’d ray; the ivy twinedRound the dismantled column; imaged formsOf Saints and warlike Chiefs, moss-canker’d nowAnd mutilate, lay strewn upon the ground,With crumbled fragments, crucifixes fallen,And rusted trophies; and amid the heapSome monument’s defaced legend spakeAll human glory vain.The loud blast roar’dAmid the pile; and from the tower the owlScream’d as the tempest shook her secret nest.He, silent, led her on, and often paus’d,And pointed, that her eye might contemplateAt leisure the drear scene.He dragged her onThro’ a low iron door, down broken stairs;Then a cold horror thro’ the Maiden’s frameCrept, for she stood amid a vault, and saw,By the sepulchral lamp’s dim glaring light,The fragments of the dead.“Look here!” he cried,“Damsel, look here! survey this house of Death;O soon to tenant it! soon to increaseThese trophies of mortality! for henceIs no return. Gaze here! behold this skull,These eyeless sockets, and these unflesh’d jaws,That with their ghastly grinning, seem to mockThy perishable charms; for thus thy cheekMust moulder. Child of Grief! shrinks not thy soul,Viewing these horrors? trembles not thy heartAt the dread thought, that here its life’s-blood soonNow warm in life and feeling, mingle soonWith the cold clod? a thought most horrible!So only dreadful, for realityIs none of suffering here; here all is peace;No nerve will throb to anguish in the grave.Dreadful it is to think of losing life;But having lost, knowledge of loss is not,Therefore no ill. Haste, Maiden, to repose;Probe deep the seat of life.”So spake DespairThe vaulted roof echoed his hollow voice,And all again was silence. Quick her heartPanted. He drew a dagger from his breast,And cried again, “Haste Damsel to repose!One blow, and rest for ever!” On the FiendDark scowl’d the Virgin with indignant eye,And dash’d the dagger down. He next his heartReplaced the murderous steel, and drew the MaidAlong the downward vault.The damp earth gaveA dim sound as they pass’d: the tainted airWas cold, and heavy with unwholesome dews.“Behold!” the fiend exclaim’d, “how gradual hereThe fleshly burden of mortalityMoulders to clay!” then fixing his broad eyeFull on her face, he pointed where a corpseLay livid; she beheld with loathing look,The spectacle abhorr’d by living man.“Look here!” Despair pursued, “this loathsome massWas once as lovely, and as full of lifeAs, Damsel! thou art now. Those deep-sunk eyesOnce beam’d the mild light of intelligence,And where thou seest the pamper’d flesh-worm trail,Once the white bosom heaved. She fondly thoughtThat at the hallowed altar, soon the PriestShould bless her coming union, and the torchIts joyful lustre o’er the hall of joy,Cast on her nuptial evening: earth to earthThat Priest consign’d her, and the funeral lampGlares on her cold face; for her lover wentBy glory lur’d to war, and perish’d there;Nor she endur’d to live. Ha! fades thy cheek?Dost thou then, Maiden, tremble at the tale?Look here! behold the youthful paramour!The self-devoted hero!”FearfullyThe Maid look’d down, and saw the well known faceOf Theodore! in thoughts unspeakable,Convulsed with horror, o’er her face she clasp’dHer cold damp hands: “Shrink not,” the Phantom cried,“Gaze on! for ever gaze!” more firm he grasp’dHer quivering arm: “this lifeless mouldering clay,As well thou know’st, was warm with all the glowOf Youth and Love; this is the arm that cleavedSalisbury’s proud crest, now motionless in death,Unable to protect the ravaged frameFrom the foul Offspring of MortalityThat feed on heroes. Tho’ long years were thine,Yet never more would life reanimateThis murdered man; murdered by thee! for thouDidst lead him to the battle from his home,Else living there in peace to good old age:In thy defence he died: strike deep! destroyRemorse with Life.”The Maid stood motionless,And, wistless what she did, with trembling handReceived the dagger. Starting then, she cried,“Avaunt Despair! Eternal Wisdom dealsOr peace to man, or misery, for his goodAlike design’d; and shall the Creature cry,Why hast thou done this? and with impious prideDestroy the life God gave?”The Fiend rejoin’d,“And thou dost deem it impious to destroyThe life God gave? What, Maiden, is the lotAssigned to mortal man? born but to drag,Thro’ life’s long pilgrimage, the wearying loadOf being; care corroded at the heart;Assail’d by all the numerous train of illsThat flesh inherits; till at length worn out,This is his consummation!—think again!What, Maiden, canst thou hope from lengthen’d lifeBut lengthen’d sorrow? If protracted long,Till on the bed of death thy feeble limbsOutstretch their languid length, oh think what thoughts,What agonizing woes, in that dread hour,Assail the sinking heart! slow beats the pulse,Dim grows the eye, and clammy drops bedewThe shuddering frame; then in its mightiest force,Mightiest in impotence, the love of lifeSeizes the throbbing heart, the faltering lipsPour out the impious prayer, that fain would changeThe unchangeable’s decree, surrounding friendsSob round the sufferer, wet his cheek with tears,And all he loved in life embitters death!Such, Maiden, are the pangs that wait the hourOf calmest dissolution! yet weak manDares, in his timid piety, to live;And veiling Fear in Superstition’s garb,He calls her Resignation!Coward wretch!Fond Coward! thus to make his Reason warAgainst his Reason! Insect as he is,This sport of Chance, this being of a day,Whose whole existence the next cloud may blast,Believes himself the care of heavenly powers,That God regards Man, miserable Man,And preaching thus of Power and Providence,Will crush the reptile that may cross his path!Fool that thou art! the Being that permitsExistence,givesto man the worthless boon:A goodly gift to those who, fortune-blest,Bask in the sunshine of Prosperity,And such do well to keep it. But to oneSick at the heart with misery, and soreWith many a hard unmerited affliction,It is a hair that chains to wretchednessThe slave who dares not burst it!Thinkest thou,The parent, if his child should unrecall’dReturn and fall upon his neck, and cry,Oh! the wide world is comfortless, and fullOf vacant joys and heart-consuming cares,I can be only happy in my homeWith thee—my friend!—my father! Thinkest thou,That he would thrust him as an outcast forth?Oh I he would clasp the truant to his heart,And love the trespass.”Whilst he spake, his eyeDwelt on the Maiden’s cheek, and read her soulStruggling within. In trembling doubt she stood,Even as the wretch, whose famish’d entrails craveSupply, before him sees the poison’d foodIn greedy horror.Yet not long the MaidDebated, “Cease thy dangerous sophistry,Eloquent tempter!” cried she. “Gloomy one!What tho’ affliction be my portion here,Think’st thou I do not feel high thoughts of joy.Of heart-ennobling joy, when I look backUpon a life of duty well perform’d,Then lift mine eyes to Heaven, and there in faithKnow my reward? I grant, were this life all,Was there no morning to the tomb’s long night,If man did mingle with the senseless clod,Himself as senseless, then wert thou indeedA wise and friendly comforter! But, Fiend!There is a morning to the tomb’s long night,A dawn of glory, a reward in Heaven,He shall not gain who never merited.If thou didst know the worth of one good deedIn life’s last hour, thou would’st not bid me loseThe power to benefit; if I but saveA drowning fly, I shall not live in vain.I have great duties, Fiend! me France expects,Her heaven-doom’d Champion.”“Maiden, thou hast doneThy mission here,” the unbaffled Fiend replied:“The foes are fled from Orleans: thou, perchanceExulting in the pride of victory,Forgettest him who perish’d! yet albeitThy harden’d heart forget the gallant youth;That hour allotted canst thou not escape,That dreadful hour, when Contumely and ShameShall sojourn in thy dungeon. Wretched Maid!Destined to drain the cup of bitterness,Even to its dregs! England’s inhuman ChiefsShall scoff thy sorrows, black thy spotless fame,Wit-wanton it with lewd barbarity,And force such burning blushes to the cheekOf Virgin modesty, that thou shalt wishThe earth might cover thee! in that last hour,When thy bruis’d breast shall heave beneath the chainsThat link thee to the stake; when o’er thy form,Exposed unmantled, the brute multitudeShall gaze, and thou shalt hear the ribald taunt,More painful than the circling flames that scorchEach quivering member; wilt thou not in vainThen wish my friendly aid? then wish thine earHad drank my words of comfort? that thy handHad grasp’d the dagger, and in death preservedInsulted modesty?”Her glowing cheekBlush’d crimson; her wide eye on vacancyWas fix’d; her breath short panted. The cold Fiend,Grasping her hand, exclaim’d, “too-timid Maid,So long repugnant to the healing aidMy friendship proffers, now shalt thou beholdThe allotted length of life.”He stamp’d the earth,And dragging a huge coffin as his car,Two Gouls came on, of form more fearful-foulThan ever palsied in her wildest dreamHag-ridden Superstition. Then DespairSeiz’d on the Maid whose curdling blood stood still.And placed her in the seat; and on they pass’dAdown the deep descent. A meteor lightShot from the Daemons, as they dragg’d alongThe unwelcome load, and mark’d their brethren glutOn carcasses.Below the vault dilatesIts ample bulk. “Look here!”—Despair addrestThe shuddering Virgin, “see the dome of Death!”It was a spacious cavern, hewn amidThe entrails of the earth, as tho’ to formThe grave of all mankind: no eye could reach,Tho’ gifted with the Eagle’s ample ken,Its distant bounds. There, thron’d in darkness, dweltThe unseen Power of Death.Here stopt the Gouls,Reaching the destin’d spot. The Fiend leapt out,And from the coffin, as he led the Maid,Exclaim’d, “Where never yet stood mortal man,Thou standest: look around this boundless vault;Observe the dole that Nature deals to man,And learn to know thy friend.”She not replied,Observing where the Fates their several tasksPlied ceaseless. “Mark how short the longest webAllowed to man! he cried; observe how soon,Twin’d round yon never-resting wheel, they changeTheir snowy hue, darkening thro’ many a shade,Till Atropos relentless shuts the sheers!”Too true he spake, for of the countless threads,Drawn from the heap, as white as unsunn’d snow,Or as the lovely lilly of the vale,Was never one beyond the little spanOf infancy untainted: few there wereBut lightly tinged; more of deep crimson hue,Or deeper sable died.[4]Two Genii stood,Still as the web of Being was drawn forth,Sprinkling their powerful drops. From ebon urn,The one unsparing dash’d the bitter waveOf woe; and as he dash’d, his dark-brown browRelax’d to a hard smile. The milder formShed less profusely there his lesser store;Sometimes with tears increasing the scant boon,Mourning the lot of man; and happy heWho on his thread those precious drops receives;If it be happiness to have the pulseThrob fast with pity, and in such a worldOf wretchedness, the generous heart that achesWith anguish at the sight of human woe.To her the Fiend, well hoping now success,“This is thy thread! observe how short the span,And see how copious yonder Genius poursThe bitter stream of woe.” The Maiden sawFearless. “Now gaze!” the tempter Fiend exclaim’d,And placed again the poniard in her hand,For Superstition, with sulphureal torchStalk’d to the loom. “This, Damsel, is thy fate!The hour draws on—now drench the dagger deep!Now rush to happier worlds!”The Maid replied,“Or to prevent or change the will of Heaven,Impious I strive not: be that will perform’d!”[1]May says of Serapis,“Erudit at placide humanam per somnia mentem,Nocturnâque quiete docet; nulloque laboreHic tantum parta est pretiosa scientia, nulloExcutitur studio verum. Mortalia cordaTunc Deus iste docet, cum sunt minus apta doceri,Cum nullum obsequium præstant, meritisque fatenturNil sese debere suis; tunc recta scientesCum nil scire valent. Non illo tempore sensusHumanos forsan dignatur numen inire,Cum propriis possunt per se discursibus uti,Ne forte humanâ ratio divina coiret.”—Sup Lucani.[2]I have met with a singular tale to illustrate this spiritual theory of dreams.Guntram, King of the Franks, was liberal to the poor, and he himself experienced the wonderful effects of divine liberality. For one day as he was hunting in a forest he was separated from his companions and arrived at a little stream of water with only one comrade of tried and approved fidelity. Here he found himself opprest by drowsiness, and reclining his head upon the servant’s lap went to sleep. The servant witnessed a wonderful thing, for he saw a little beast (bestiolam) creep out of the mouth of his sleeping master, and go immediately to the streamlet, which it vainly attempted to cross. The servant drew his sword and laid it across the water, over which the little beast easily past and crept into a hole of a mountain on the opposite side; from whence it made its appearance again in an hour, and returned by the same means into the King’s mouth. The King then awakened, and told his companion that he had dreamt that he was arrived upon the bank of an immense river, which he had crossed by a bridge of iron, and from thence came to a mountain in which a great quantity of gold was concealed. When the King had concluded, the servant related what he had beheld, and they both went to examine the mountain, where upon digging they discovered an immense weight of gold.I stumbled upon this tale in a book entitled SPHINXTheologico-Philosophica. Authore Johanne Heidfeldio, Ecclesiaste Ebersbachiano.1621.The same story is in Matthew of Westminster; it is added that Guntram applied the treasures thus found to pious uses.For the truth of this theory there is the evidence of a Monkish miracle. When Thurcillus was about to follow St. Julian and visit the world of souls, his guide said to him, “let thy body rest in the bed for thy spirit only is about to depart with me; and lest the body should appear dead, I will send into it a vital breath.”The body however by a strange sympathy was affected like the spirit; for when the foul and fetid smoke that arose from tithes witheld, had nearly suffocated Thurcillus, and made him cough twice, those who were near his body said that it coughed twice about the same time.Matthew Paris[3]The Bastille. The expression is in one of Fuller’s works, an Author from whose quaintness and ingenuity I have always found amusement, and sometimes assistance[4]These lines strongly resemble a passage in thePharonnidaof William Chamberlayne, a Poet who has told an interesting story in uncouth rhymes, and mingled sublimity of thought and beauty of expression, with the quaintest conceits, and most awkward inversions.On a rock more highThan Nature’s common surface, she beholdsThe Mansion house of Fate, which thus unfoldsIts sacred mysteries. A trine withinA quadrate placed, both these encompast inA perfect circle was its form; but whatIts matter was, for us to wonder at,Is undiscovered left. A Tower there standsAt every angle, where Time’s fatal handsThe impartial Parcæ dwell; i’ the first she seesClotho the kindest of the Destinies,From immaterial essences to cullThe seeds of life, and of them frame the woolFor Lachesis to spin; about her flieMyriads of souls, that yet want flesh to lieWarm’d with their functions in, whose strength bestowsThat power by which man ripe for misery grows.Her next of objects was that glorious towerWhere that swift-fingered Nymph that spares no hourFrom mortals’ service, draws the various threadsOf life in several lengths; to weary bedsOf age extending some, whilst others inTheir infancy are broke:some blackt in sin,Others, the favorites of Heaven, from whenceTheir origin, candid with innocence;Some purpled in afflictions, others dyedIn sanguine pleasures: some in glittering prideSpun to adorn the earth, whilst others wearRags of deformity, but knots of careNo thread was wholly free from. Next to thisFair glorious tower, was placed that black abyssOf dreadful Atropos, the baleful seatOf death and horrour, in each room repleatWith lazy damps, loud groans, and the sad sightOf pale grim Ghosts, those terrours of the night.To this, the last stage that the winding clewOf Life can lead mortality unto,Fear was the dreadful Porter, which let inAll guests sent thither by destructive sin.It is possible that I may have written from the recollection of this passage. The conceit is the same, and I willingly attribute it to Chamberlayne, a Poet to whom I am indebted for many hours of delight, and whom I one day hope to rescue from undeserved oblivion.
Orleans was hush’d in sleep. Stretch’d on her couchThe delegated Maiden lay: with toilExhausted and sore anguish, soon she closedHer heavy eye-lids; not reposing then,For busy Phantasy, in other scenesAwakened. Whether that superior powers,By wise permission, prompt the midnight dream,Instructing so the passive faculty;[1]Or that the soul, escaped its fleshly clog,Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world,And all thingsarethatseem.[2]Along a moor,Barren, and wide, and drear, and desolate,She roam’d a wanderer thro’ the cheerless night.Far thro’ the silence of the unbroken plainThe bittern’s boom was heard, hoarse, heavy, deep,It made most fitting music to the scene.Black clouds, driven fast before the stormy wind,Swept shadowing; thro’ their broken folds the moonStruggled sometimes with transitory ray,And made the moving darkness visible.And now arrived beside a fenny lakeShe stands: amid its stagnate waters, hoarseThe long sedge rustled to the gales of night.An age-worn bark receives the Maid, impell’dBy powers unseen; then did the moon displayWhere thro’ the crazy vessel’s yawning sideThe muddy wave oozed in: a female guides,And spreads the sail before the wind, that moan’dAs melancholy mournful to her ear,As ever by the dungeon’d wretch was heardHowling at evening round the embattled towersOf that hell-house[3]of France, ere yet sublimeThe almighty people from their tyrant’s handDash’d down the iron rod.Intent the MaidGazed on the pilot’s form, and as she gazedShiver’d, for wan her face was, and her eyesHollow, and her sunk cheeks were furrowed deep,Channell’d by tears; a few grey locks hung downBeneath her hood: then thro’ the Maiden’s veinsChill crept the blood, for, as the night-breeze pass’d,Lifting her tattcr’d mantle, coil’d aroundShe saw a serpent gnawing at her heart.The plumeless bat with short shrill note flits by,And the night-raven’s scream came fitfully,Borne on the hollow blast. Eager the MaidLook’d to the shore, and now upon the bankLeaps, joyful to escape, yet trembling stillIn recollection.There, a mouldering pileStretch’d its wide ruins, o’er the plain belowCasting a gloomy shade, save where the moonShone thro’ its fretted windows: the dark Yew,Withering with age, branched there its naked roots,And there the melancholy Cypress rear’dIts head; the earth was heav’d with many a mound,And here and there a half-demolish’d tomb.And now, amid the ruin’s darkest shade,The Virgin’s eye beheld where pale blue flamesRose wavering, now just gleaming from the earth,And now in darkness drown’d. An aged manSat near, seated on what in long-past daysHad been some sculptur’d monument, now fallenAnd half-obscured by moss, and gathered heapsOf withered yew-leaves and earth-mouldering bones;And shining in the ray was seen the trackOf slimy snail obscene. Composed his look,His eye was large and rayless, and fix’d fullUpon the Maid; the blue flames on his faceStream’d a pale light; his face was of the hueOf death; his limbs were mantled in a shroud.Then with a deep heart-terrifying voice,Exclaim’d the Spectre, “Welcome to these realms,These regions of Despair! O thou whose stepsBy Grief conducted to these sad abodesHave pierced; welcome, welcome to this gloomEternal, to this everlasting night,Where never morning darts the enlivening ray,Where never shines the sun, but all is dark,Dark as the bosom of their gloomy King.”So saying he arose, and by the handThe Virgin seized with such a death-cold touchAs froze her very heart; and drawing on,Her, to the abbey’s inner ruin, ledResistless. Thro’ the broken roof the moonGlimmer’d a scatter’d ray; the ivy twinedRound the dismantled column; imaged formsOf Saints and warlike Chiefs, moss-canker’d nowAnd mutilate, lay strewn upon the ground,With crumbled fragments, crucifixes fallen,And rusted trophies; and amid the heapSome monument’s defaced legend spakeAll human glory vain.The loud blast roar’dAmid the pile; and from the tower the owlScream’d as the tempest shook her secret nest.He, silent, led her on, and often paus’d,And pointed, that her eye might contemplateAt leisure the drear scene.He dragged her onThro’ a low iron door, down broken stairs;Then a cold horror thro’ the Maiden’s frameCrept, for she stood amid a vault, and saw,By the sepulchral lamp’s dim glaring light,The fragments of the dead.“Look here!” he cried,“Damsel, look here! survey this house of Death;O soon to tenant it! soon to increaseThese trophies of mortality! for henceIs no return. Gaze here! behold this skull,These eyeless sockets, and these unflesh’d jaws,That with their ghastly grinning, seem to mockThy perishable charms; for thus thy cheekMust moulder. Child of Grief! shrinks not thy soul,Viewing these horrors? trembles not thy heartAt the dread thought, that here its life’s-blood soonNow warm in life and feeling, mingle soonWith the cold clod? a thought most horrible!So only dreadful, for realityIs none of suffering here; here all is peace;No nerve will throb to anguish in the grave.Dreadful it is to think of losing life;But having lost, knowledge of loss is not,Therefore no ill. Haste, Maiden, to repose;Probe deep the seat of life.”So spake DespairThe vaulted roof echoed his hollow voice,And all again was silence. Quick her heartPanted. He drew a dagger from his breast,And cried again, “Haste Damsel to repose!One blow, and rest for ever!” On the FiendDark scowl’d the Virgin with indignant eye,And dash’d the dagger down. He next his heartReplaced the murderous steel, and drew the MaidAlong the downward vault.The damp earth gaveA dim sound as they pass’d: the tainted airWas cold, and heavy with unwholesome dews.“Behold!” the fiend exclaim’d, “how gradual hereThe fleshly burden of mortalityMoulders to clay!” then fixing his broad eyeFull on her face, he pointed where a corpseLay livid; she beheld with loathing look,The spectacle abhorr’d by living man.“Look here!” Despair pursued, “this loathsome massWas once as lovely, and as full of lifeAs, Damsel! thou art now. Those deep-sunk eyesOnce beam’d the mild light of intelligence,And where thou seest the pamper’d flesh-worm trail,Once the white bosom heaved. She fondly thoughtThat at the hallowed altar, soon the PriestShould bless her coming union, and the torchIts joyful lustre o’er the hall of joy,Cast on her nuptial evening: earth to earthThat Priest consign’d her, and the funeral lampGlares on her cold face; for her lover wentBy glory lur’d to war, and perish’d there;Nor she endur’d to live. Ha! fades thy cheek?Dost thou then, Maiden, tremble at the tale?Look here! behold the youthful paramour!The self-devoted hero!”FearfullyThe Maid look’d down, and saw the well known faceOf Theodore! in thoughts unspeakable,Convulsed with horror, o’er her face she clasp’dHer cold damp hands: “Shrink not,” the Phantom cried,“Gaze on! for ever gaze!” more firm he grasp’dHer quivering arm: “this lifeless mouldering clay,As well thou know’st, was warm with all the glowOf Youth and Love; this is the arm that cleavedSalisbury’s proud crest, now motionless in death,Unable to protect the ravaged frameFrom the foul Offspring of MortalityThat feed on heroes. Tho’ long years were thine,Yet never more would life reanimateThis murdered man; murdered by thee! for thouDidst lead him to the battle from his home,Else living there in peace to good old age:In thy defence he died: strike deep! destroyRemorse with Life.”The Maid stood motionless,And, wistless what she did, with trembling handReceived the dagger. Starting then, she cried,“Avaunt Despair! Eternal Wisdom dealsOr peace to man, or misery, for his goodAlike design’d; and shall the Creature cry,Why hast thou done this? and with impious prideDestroy the life God gave?”The Fiend rejoin’d,“And thou dost deem it impious to destroyThe life God gave? What, Maiden, is the lotAssigned to mortal man? born but to drag,Thro’ life’s long pilgrimage, the wearying loadOf being; care corroded at the heart;Assail’d by all the numerous train of illsThat flesh inherits; till at length worn out,This is his consummation!—think again!What, Maiden, canst thou hope from lengthen’d lifeBut lengthen’d sorrow? If protracted long,Till on the bed of death thy feeble limbsOutstretch their languid length, oh think what thoughts,What agonizing woes, in that dread hour,Assail the sinking heart! slow beats the pulse,Dim grows the eye, and clammy drops bedewThe shuddering frame; then in its mightiest force,Mightiest in impotence, the love of lifeSeizes the throbbing heart, the faltering lipsPour out the impious prayer, that fain would changeThe unchangeable’s decree, surrounding friendsSob round the sufferer, wet his cheek with tears,And all he loved in life embitters death!Such, Maiden, are the pangs that wait the hourOf calmest dissolution! yet weak manDares, in his timid piety, to live;And veiling Fear in Superstition’s garb,He calls her Resignation!Coward wretch!Fond Coward! thus to make his Reason warAgainst his Reason! Insect as he is,This sport of Chance, this being of a day,Whose whole existence the next cloud may blast,Believes himself the care of heavenly powers,That God regards Man, miserable Man,And preaching thus of Power and Providence,Will crush the reptile that may cross his path!Fool that thou art! the Being that permitsExistence,givesto man the worthless boon:A goodly gift to those who, fortune-blest,Bask in the sunshine of Prosperity,And such do well to keep it. But to oneSick at the heart with misery, and soreWith many a hard unmerited affliction,It is a hair that chains to wretchednessThe slave who dares not burst it!Thinkest thou,The parent, if his child should unrecall’dReturn and fall upon his neck, and cry,Oh! the wide world is comfortless, and fullOf vacant joys and heart-consuming cares,I can be only happy in my homeWith thee—my friend!—my father! Thinkest thou,That he would thrust him as an outcast forth?Oh I he would clasp the truant to his heart,And love the trespass.”Whilst he spake, his eyeDwelt on the Maiden’s cheek, and read her soulStruggling within. In trembling doubt she stood,Even as the wretch, whose famish’d entrails craveSupply, before him sees the poison’d foodIn greedy horror.Yet not long the MaidDebated, “Cease thy dangerous sophistry,Eloquent tempter!” cried she. “Gloomy one!What tho’ affliction be my portion here,Think’st thou I do not feel high thoughts of joy.Of heart-ennobling joy, when I look backUpon a life of duty well perform’d,Then lift mine eyes to Heaven, and there in faithKnow my reward? I grant, were this life all,Was there no morning to the tomb’s long night,If man did mingle with the senseless clod,Himself as senseless, then wert thou indeedA wise and friendly comforter! But, Fiend!There is a morning to the tomb’s long night,A dawn of glory, a reward in Heaven,He shall not gain who never merited.If thou didst know the worth of one good deedIn life’s last hour, thou would’st not bid me loseThe power to benefit; if I but saveA drowning fly, I shall not live in vain.I have great duties, Fiend! me France expects,Her heaven-doom’d Champion.”“Maiden, thou hast doneThy mission here,” the unbaffled Fiend replied:“The foes are fled from Orleans: thou, perchanceExulting in the pride of victory,Forgettest him who perish’d! yet albeitThy harden’d heart forget the gallant youth;That hour allotted canst thou not escape,That dreadful hour, when Contumely and ShameShall sojourn in thy dungeon. Wretched Maid!Destined to drain the cup of bitterness,Even to its dregs! England’s inhuman ChiefsShall scoff thy sorrows, black thy spotless fame,Wit-wanton it with lewd barbarity,And force such burning blushes to the cheekOf Virgin modesty, that thou shalt wishThe earth might cover thee! in that last hour,When thy bruis’d breast shall heave beneath the chainsThat link thee to the stake; when o’er thy form,Exposed unmantled, the brute multitudeShall gaze, and thou shalt hear the ribald taunt,More painful than the circling flames that scorchEach quivering member; wilt thou not in vainThen wish my friendly aid? then wish thine earHad drank my words of comfort? that thy handHad grasp’d the dagger, and in death preservedInsulted modesty?”Her glowing cheekBlush’d crimson; her wide eye on vacancyWas fix’d; her breath short panted. The cold Fiend,Grasping her hand, exclaim’d, “too-timid Maid,So long repugnant to the healing aidMy friendship proffers, now shalt thou beholdThe allotted length of life.”He stamp’d the earth,And dragging a huge coffin as his car,Two Gouls came on, of form more fearful-foulThan ever palsied in her wildest dreamHag-ridden Superstition. Then DespairSeiz’d on the Maid whose curdling blood stood still.And placed her in the seat; and on they pass’dAdown the deep descent. A meteor lightShot from the Daemons, as they dragg’d alongThe unwelcome load, and mark’d their brethren glutOn carcasses.Below the vault dilatesIts ample bulk. “Look here!”—Despair addrestThe shuddering Virgin, “see the dome of Death!”It was a spacious cavern, hewn amidThe entrails of the earth, as tho’ to formThe grave of all mankind: no eye could reach,Tho’ gifted with the Eagle’s ample ken,Its distant bounds. There, thron’d in darkness, dweltThe unseen Power of Death.Here stopt the Gouls,Reaching the destin’d spot. The Fiend leapt out,And from the coffin, as he led the Maid,Exclaim’d, “Where never yet stood mortal man,Thou standest: look around this boundless vault;Observe the dole that Nature deals to man,And learn to know thy friend.”She not replied,Observing where the Fates their several tasksPlied ceaseless. “Mark how short the longest webAllowed to man! he cried; observe how soon,Twin’d round yon never-resting wheel, they changeTheir snowy hue, darkening thro’ many a shade,Till Atropos relentless shuts the sheers!”Too true he spake, for of the countless threads,Drawn from the heap, as white as unsunn’d snow,Or as the lovely lilly of the vale,Was never one beyond the little spanOf infancy untainted: few there wereBut lightly tinged; more of deep crimson hue,Or deeper sable died.[4]Two Genii stood,Still as the web of Being was drawn forth,Sprinkling their powerful drops. From ebon urn,The one unsparing dash’d the bitter waveOf woe; and as he dash’d, his dark-brown browRelax’d to a hard smile. The milder formShed less profusely there his lesser store;Sometimes with tears increasing the scant boon,Mourning the lot of man; and happy heWho on his thread those precious drops receives;If it be happiness to have the pulseThrob fast with pity, and in such a worldOf wretchedness, the generous heart that achesWith anguish at the sight of human woe.To her the Fiend, well hoping now success,“This is thy thread! observe how short the span,And see how copious yonder Genius poursThe bitter stream of woe.” The Maiden sawFearless. “Now gaze!” the tempter Fiend exclaim’d,And placed again the poniard in her hand,For Superstition, with sulphureal torchStalk’d to the loom. “This, Damsel, is thy fate!The hour draws on—now drench the dagger deep!Now rush to happier worlds!”The Maid replied,“Or to prevent or change the will of Heaven,Impious I strive not: be that will perform’d!”
[1]May says of Serapis,“Erudit at placide humanam per somnia mentem,Nocturnâque quiete docet; nulloque laboreHic tantum parta est pretiosa scientia, nulloExcutitur studio verum. Mortalia cordaTunc Deus iste docet, cum sunt minus apta doceri,Cum nullum obsequium præstant, meritisque fatenturNil sese debere suis; tunc recta scientesCum nil scire valent. Non illo tempore sensusHumanos forsan dignatur numen inire,Cum propriis possunt per se discursibus uti,Ne forte humanâ ratio divina coiret.”—Sup Lucani.
[2]I have met with a singular tale to illustrate this spiritual theory of dreams.Guntram, King of the Franks, was liberal to the poor, and he himself experienced the wonderful effects of divine liberality. For one day as he was hunting in a forest he was separated from his companions and arrived at a little stream of water with only one comrade of tried and approved fidelity. Here he found himself opprest by drowsiness, and reclining his head upon the servant’s lap went to sleep. The servant witnessed a wonderful thing, for he saw a little beast (bestiolam) creep out of the mouth of his sleeping master, and go immediately to the streamlet, which it vainly attempted to cross. The servant drew his sword and laid it across the water, over which the little beast easily past and crept into a hole of a mountain on the opposite side; from whence it made its appearance again in an hour, and returned by the same means into the King’s mouth. The King then awakened, and told his companion that he had dreamt that he was arrived upon the bank of an immense river, which he had crossed by a bridge of iron, and from thence came to a mountain in which a great quantity of gold was concealed. When the King had concluded, the servant related what he had beheld, and they both went to examine the mountain, where upon digging they discovered an immense weight of gold.I stumbled upon this tale in a book entitled SPHINXTheologico-Philosophica. Authore Johanne Heidfeldio, Ecclesiaste Ebersbachiano.1621.The same story is in Matthew of Westminster; it is added that Guntram applied the treasures thus found to pious uses.For the truth of this theory there is the evidence of a Monkish miracle. When Thurcillus was about to follow St. Julian and visit the world of souls, his guide said to him, “let thy body rest in the bed for thy spirit only is about to depart with me; and lest the body should appear dead, I will send into it a vital breath.”The body however by a strange sympathy was affected like the spirit; for when the foul and fetid smoke that arose from tithes witheld, had nearly suffocated Thurcillus, and made him cough twice, those who were near his body said that it coughed twice about the same time.Matthew Paris
[3]The Bastille. The expression is in one of Fuller’s works, an Author from whose quaintness and ingenuity I have always found amusement, and sometimes assistance
[4]These lines strongly resemble a passage in thePharonnidaof William Chamberlayne, a Poet who has told an interesting story in uncouth rhymes, and mingled sublimity of thought and beauty of expression, with the quaintest conceits, and most awkward inversions.On a rock more highThan Nature’s common surface, she beholdsThe Mansion house of Fate, which thus unfoldsIts sacred mysteries. A trine withinA quadrate placed, both these encompast inA perfect circle was its form; but whatIts matter was, for us to wonder at,Is undiscovered left. A Tower there standsAt every angle, where Time’s fatal handsThe impartial Parcæ dwell; i’ the first she seesClotho the kindest of the Destinies,From immaterial essences to cullThe seeds of life, and of them frame the woolFor Lachesis to spin; about her flieMyriads of souls, that yet want flesh to lieWarm’d with their functions in, whose strength bestowsThat power by which man ripe for misery grows.Her next of objects was that glorious towerWhere that swift-fingered Nymph that spares no hourFrom mortals’ service, draws the various threadsOf life in several lengths; to weary bedsOf age extending some, whilst others inTheir infancy are broke:some blackt in sin,Others, the favorites of Heaven, from whenceTheir origin, candid with innocence;Some purpled in afflictions, others dyedIn sanguine pleasures: some in glittering prideSpun to adorn the earth, whilst others wearRags of deformity, but knots of careNo thread was wholly free from. Next to thisFair glorious tower, was placed that black abyssOf dreadful Atropos, the baleful seatOf death and horrour, in each room repleatWith lazy damps, loud groans, and the sad sightOf pale grim Ghosts, those terrours of the night.To this, the last stage that the winding clewOf Life can lead mortality unto,Fear was the dreadful Porter, which let inAll guests sent thither by destructive sin.It is possible that I may have written from the recollection of this passage. The conceit is the same, and I willingly attribute it to Chamberlayne, a Poet to whom I am indebted for many hours of delight, and whom I one day hope to rescue from undeserved oblivion.