25SCREAMING TARNThe saddest place that e’er I sawIs the deep tarn above the innThat crowns the mountain-road, wherebyOne southward bound his way must win.Sunk on the table of the ridgeFrom its deep shores is nought to see:The unresting wind lashes and chillsIts shivering ripples ceaselessly.Three sides ’tis banked with stones aslant,And down the fourth the rushes grow,And yellow sedge fringing the edgeWith lengthen’d image all arow.’Tis square and black, and on its faceWhen noon is still, the mirror’d skyLooks dark and further from the earthThan when you gaze at it on high.At mid of night, if one be there,—So say the people of the hill—A fearful shriek of death is heard,One sudden scream both loud and shrill.And some have seen on stilly nights,And when the moon was clear and round,Bubbles which to the surface swamAnd burst as if they held the sound.—’Twas in the days ere hapless CharlesLosing his crown had lost his head,This tale is told of him who keptThe inn upon the watershed:He was a lowbred ruin’d manWhom lawless times set free from fear:One evening to his house there rodeA young and gentle cavalier.With curling hair and linen fairAnd jewel-hilted sword he went;The horse he rode he had ridden far,And he was with his journey spent.He asked a lodging for the night,His valise from his steed unbound,He let none bear it but himselfAnd set it by him on the ground.’Here’s gold or jewels,’ thought the host,’That’s carrying south to find the king.’He chattered many a loyal word,And scraps of royal airs gan sing.His guest thereat grew more at easeAnd o’er his wine he gave a toast,But little ate, and to his roomCarried his sack behind the host.’Now rest you well,’ the host he said,But of his wish the word fell wide;Nor did he now forget his sonWho fell in fight by Cromwell’s side.Revenge and poverty have broughtFull gentler heart than his to crime;And he was one by nature rude,Born to foul deeds at any time.With unshod feet at dead of nightIn stealth he to the guest-room crept,Lantern and dagger in his hand,And stabbed his victim while he slept.But as he struck a scream there came,A fearful scream so loud and shrill:He whelm’d the face with pillows o’er,And lean’d till all had long been still.Then to the face the flame he heldTo see there should no life remain:—When lo! his brutal heart was quell’d:’Twas a fair woman he had slain.The tan upon her face was paint,The manly hair was torn away,Soft was the breast that he had pierced;Beautiful in her death she lay.His was no heart to faint at crime,Tho’ half he wished the deed undone.He pulled the valise from the bedTo find what booty he had won.He cut the straps, and pushed withinHis murderous fingers to their theft.A deathly sweat came o’er his brow,He had no sense nor meaning left.He touched not gold, it was not cold,It was not hard, it felt like flesh.He drew out by the curling hairA young man’s head, and murder’d fresh;A young man’s head, cut by the neck.But what was dreader still to see,Her whom he had slain he saw again,The twain were like as like can be.Brother and sister if they were,Both in one shroud they now were wound,—Across his back and down the stair,Out of the house without a sound.He made his way unto the tarn,The night was dark and still and dank;The ripple chuckling neath the boatLaughed as he drew it to the bank.Upon the bottom of the boatHe laid his burden flat and low,And on them laid the square sandstonesThat round about the margin go.Stone upon stone he weigh’d them down,Until the boat would hold no more;The freeboard now was scarce an inch:He stripp’d his clothes and push’d from shore.All naked to the middle poolHe swam behind in the dark night;And there he let the water inAnd sank his terror out of sight.He swam ashore, and donn’d his dress,And scraped his bloody fingers clean;Ran home and on his victim’s steedMounted, and never more was seen.But to a comrade ere he diedHe told his story guess’d of none:So from his lips the crime returnedTo haunt the spot where it was done.
25SCREAMING TARNThe saddest place that e’er I sawIs the deep tarn above the innThat crowns the mountain-road, wherebyOne southward bound his way must win.Sunk on the table of the ridgeFrom its deep shores is nought to see:The unresting wind lashes and chillsIts shivering ripples ceaselessly.Three sides ’tis banked with stones aslant,And down the fourth the rushes grow,And yellow sedge fringing the edgeWith lengthen’d image all arow.’Tis square and black, and on its faceWhen noon is still, the mirror’d skyLooks dark and further from the earthThan when you gaze at it on high.At mid of night, if one be there,—So say the people of the hill—A fearful shriek of death is heard,One sudden scream both loud and shrill.And some have seen on stilly nights,And when the moon was clear and round,Bubbles which to the surface swamAnd burst as if they held the sound.—’Twas in the days ere hapless CharlesLosing his crown had lost his head,This tale is told of him who keptThe inn upon the watershed:He was a lowbred ruin’d manWhom lawless times set free from fear:One evening to his house there rodeA young and gentle cavalier.With curling hair and linen fairAnd jewel-hilted sword he went;The horse he rode he had ridden far,And he was with his journey spent.He asked a lodging for the night,His valise from his steed unbound,He let none bear it but himselfAnd set it by him on the ground.’Here’s gold or jewels,’ thought the host,’That’s carrying south to find the king.’He chattered many a loyal word,And scraps of royal airs gan sing.His guest thereat grew more at easeAnd o’er his wine he gave a toast,But little ate, and to his roomCarried his sack behind the host.’Now rest you well,’ the host he said,But of his wish the word fell wide;Nor did he now forget his sonWho fell in fight by Cromwell’s side.Revenge and poverty have broughtFull gentler heart than his to crime;And he was one by nature rude,Born to foul deeds at any time.With unshod feet at dead of nightIn stealth he to the guest-room crept,Lantern and dagger in his hand,And stabbed his victim while he slept.But as he struck a scream there came,A fearful scream so loud and shrill:He whelm’d the face with pillows o’er,And lean’d till all had long been still.Then to the face the flame he heldTo see there should no life remain:—When lo! his brutal heart was quell’d:’Twas a fair woman he had slain.The tan upon her face was paint,The manly hair was torn away,Soft was the breast that he had pierced;Beautiful in her death she lay.His was no heart to faint at crime,Tho’ half he wished the deed undone.He pulled the valise from the bedTo find what booty he had won.He cut the straps, and pushed withinHis murderous fingers to their theft.A deathly sweat came o’er his brow,He had no sense nor meaning left.He touched not gold, it was not cold,It was not hard, it felt like flesh.He drew out by the curling hairA young man’s head, and murder’d fresh;A young man’s head, cut by the neck.But what was dreader still to see,Her whom he had slain he saw again,The twain were like as like can be.Brother and sister if they were,Both in one shroud they now were wound,—Across his back and down the stair,Out of the house without a sound.He made his way unto the tarn,The night was dark and still and dank;The ripple chuckling neath the boatLaughed as he drew it to the bank.Upon the bottom of the boatHe laid his burden flat and low,And on them laid the square sandstonesThat round about the margin go.Stone upon stone he weigh’d them down,Until the boat would hold no more;The freeboard now was scarce an inch:He stripp’d his clothes and push’d from shore.All naked to the middle poolHe swam behind in the dark night;And there he let the water inAnd sank his terror out of sight.He swam ashore, and donn’d his dress,And scraped his bloody fingers clean;Ran home and on his victim’s steedMounted, and never more was seen.But to a comrade ere he diedHe told his story guess’d of none:So from his lips the crime returnedTo haunt the spot where it was done.
The saddest place that e’er I sawIs the deep tarn above the innThat crowns the mountain-road, wherebyOne southward bound his way must win.Sunk on the table of the ridgeFrom its deep shores is nought to see:The unresting wind lashes and chillsIts shivering ripples ceaselessly.Three sides ’tis banked with stones aslant,And down the fourth the rushes grow,And yellow sedge fringing the edgeWith lengthen’d image all arow.’Tis square and black, and on its faceWhen noon is still, the mirror’d skyLooks dark and further from the earthThan when you gaze at it on high.At mid of night, if one be there,—So say the people of the hill—A fearful shriek of death is heard,One sudden scream both loud and shrill.And some have seen on stilly nights,And when the moon was clear and round,Bubbles which to the surface swamAnd burst as if they held the sound.—’Twas in the days ere hapless CharlesLosing his crown had lost his head,This tale is told of him who keptThe inn upon the watershed:He was a lowbred ruin’d manWhom lawless times set free from fear:One evening to his house there rodeA young and gentle cavalier.With curling hair and linen fairAnd jewel-hilted sword he went;The horse he rode he had ridden far,And he was with his journey spent.He asked a lodging for the night,His valise from his steed unbound,He let none bear it but himselfAnd set it by him on the ground.’Here’s gold or jewels,’ thought the host,’That’s carrying south to find the king.’He chattered many a loyal word,And scraps of royal airs gan sing.His guest thereat grew more at easeAnd o’er his wine he gave a toast,But little ate, and to his roomCarried his sack behind the host.’Now rest you well,’ the host he said,But of his wish the word fell wide;Nor did he now forget his sonWho fell in fight by Cromwell’s side.Revenge and poverty have broughtFull gentler heart than his to crime;And he was one by nature rude,Born to foul deeds at any time.With unshod feet at dead of nightIn stealth he to the guest-room crept,Lantern and dagger in his hand,And stabbed his victim while he slept.But as he struck a scream there came,A fearful scream so loud and shrill:He whelm’d the face with pillows o’er,And lean’d till all had long been still.Then to the face the flame he heldTo see there should no life remain:—When lo! his brutal heart was quell’d:’Twas a fair woman he had slain.The tan upon her face was paint,The manly hair was torn away,Soft was the breast that he had pierced;Beautiful in her death she lay.His was no heart to faint at crime,Tho’ half he wished the deed undone.He pulled the valise from the bedTo find what booty he had won.He cut the straps, and pushed withinHis murderous fingers to their theft.A deathly sweat came o’er his brow,He had no sense nor meaning left.He touched not gold, it was not cold,It was not hard, it felt like flesh.He drew out by the curling hairA young man’s head, and murder’d fresh;A young man’s head, cut by the neck.But what was dreader still to see,Her whom he had slain he saw again,The twain were like as like can be.Brother and sister if they were,Both in one shroud they now were wound,—Across his back and down the stair,Out of the house without a sound.He made his way unto the tarn,The night was dark and still and dank;The ripple chuckling neath the boatLaughed as he drew it to the bank.Upon the bottom of the boatHe laid his burden flat and low,And on them laid the square sandstonesThat round about the margin go.Stone upon stone he weigh’d them down,Until the boat would hold no more;The freeboard now was scarce an inch:He stripp’d his clothes and push’d from shore.All naked to the middle poolHe swam behind in the dark night;And there he let the water inAnd sank his terror out of sight.He swam ashore, and donn’d his dress,And scraped his bloody fingers clean;Ran home and on his victim’s steedMounted, and never more was seen.But to a comrade ere he diedHe told his story guess’d of none:So from his lips the crime returnedTo haunt the spot where it was done.
The saddest place that e’er I sawIs the deep tarn above the innThat crowns the mountain-road, wherebyOne southward bound his way must win.Sunk on the table of the ridgeFrom its deep shores is nought to see:The unresting wind lashes and chillsIts shivering ripples ceaselessly.Three sides ’tis banked with stones aslant,And down the fourth the rushes grow,And yellow sedge fringing the edgeWith lengthen’d image all arow.’Tis square and black, and on its faceWhen noon is still, the mirror’d skyLooks dark and further from the earthThan when you gaze at it on high.At mid of night, if one be there,—So say the people of the hill—A fearful shriek of death is heard,One sudden scream both loud and shrill.And some have seen on stilly nights,And when the moon was clear and round,Bubbles which to the surface swamAnd burst as if they held the sound.—’Twas in the days ere hapless CharlesLosing his crown had lost his head,This tale is told of him who keptThe inn upon the watershed:He was a lowbred ruin’d manWhom lawless times set free from fear:One evening to his house there rodeA young and gentle cavalier.With curling hair and linen fairAnd jewel-hilted sword he went;The horse he rode he had ridden far,And he was with his journey spent.He asked a lodging for the night,His valise from his steed unbound,He let none bear it but himselfAnd set it by him on the ground.’Here’s gold or jewels,’ thought the host,’That’s carrying south to find the king.’He chattered many a loyal word,And scraps of royal airs gan sing.His guest thereat grew more at easeAnd o’er his wine he gave a toast,But little ate, and to his roomCarried his sack behind the host.’Now rest you well,’ the host he said,But of his wish the word fell wide;Nor did he now forget his sonWho fell in fight by Cromwell’s side.Revenge and poverty have broughtFull gentler heart than his to crime;And he was one by nature rude,Born to foul deeds at any time.With unshod feet at dead of nightIn stealth he to the guest-room crept,Lantern and dagger in his hand,And stabbed his victim while he slept.But as he struck a scream there came,A fearful scream so loud and shrill:He whelm’d the face with pillows o’er,And lean’d till all had long been still.Then to the face the flame he heldTo see there should no life remain:—When lo! his brutal heart was quell’d:’Twas a fair woman he had slain.The tan upon her face was paint,The manly hair was torn away,Soft was the breast that he had pierced;Beautiful in her death she lay.His was no heart to faint at crime,Tho’ half he wished the deed undone.He pulled the valise from the bedTo find what booty he had won.He cut the straps, and pushed withinHis murderous fingers to their theft.A deathly sweat came o’er his brow,He had no sense nor meaning left.He touched not gold, it was not cold,It was not hard, it felt like flesh.He drew out by the curling hairA young man’s head, and murder’d fresh;A young man’s head, cut by the neck.But what was dreader still to see,Her whom he had slain he saw again,The twain were like as like can be.Brother and sister if they were,Both in one shroud they now were wound,—Across his back and down the stair,Out of the house without a sound.He made his way unto the tarn,The night was dark and still and dank;The ripple chuckling neath the boatLaughed as he drew it to the bank.Upon the bottom of the boatHe laid his burden flat and low,And on them laid the square sandstonesThat round about the margin go.Stone upon stone he weigh’d them down,Until the boat would hold no more;The freeboard now was scarce an inch:He stripp’d his clothes and push’d from shore.All naked to the middle poolHe swam behind in the dark night;And there he let the water inAnd sank his terror out of sight.He swam ashore, and donn’d his dress,And scraped his bloody fingers clean;Ran home and on his victim’s steedMounted, and never more was seen.But to a comrade ere he diedHe told his story guess’d of none:So from his lips the crime returnedTo haunt the spot where it was done.
The saddest place that e’er I sawIs the deep tarn above the innThat crowns the mountain-road, wherebyOne southward bound his way must win.
The saddest place that e’er I saw
Is the deep tarn above the inn
That crowns the mountain-road, whereby
One southward bound his way must win.
Sunk on the table of the ridgeFrom its deep shores is nought to see:The unresting wind lashes and chillsIts shivering ripples ceaselessly.
Sunk on the table of the ridge
From its deep shores is nought to see:
The unresting wind lashes and chills
Its shivering ripples ceaselessly.
Three sides ’tis banked with stones aslant,And down the fourth the rushes grow,And yellow sedge fringing the edgeWith lengthen’d image all arow.
Three sides ’tis banked with stones aslant,
And down the fourth the rushes grow,
And yellow sedge fringing the edge
With lengthen’d image all arow.
’Tis square and black, and on its faceWhen noon is still, the mirror’d skyLooks dark and further from the earthThan when you gaze at it on high.
’Tis square and black, and on its face
When noon is still, the mirror’d sky
Looks dark and further from the earth
Than when you gaze at it on high.
At mid of night, if one be there,—So say the people of the hill—A fearful shriek of death is heard,One sudden scream both loud and shrill.
At mid of night, if one be there,
—So say the people of the hill—
A fearful shriek of death is heard,
One sudden scream both loud and shrill.
And some have seen on stilly nights,And when the moon was clear and round,Bubbles which to the surface swamAnd burst as if they held the sound.—
And some have seen on stilly nights,
And when the moon was clear and round,
Bubbles which to the surface swam
And burst as if they held the sound.—
’Twas in the days ere hapless CharlesLosing his crown had lost his head,This tale is told of him who keptThe inn upon the watershed:
’Twas in the days ere hapless Charles
Losing his crown had lost his head,
This tale is told of him who kept
The inn upon the watershed:
He was a lowbred ruin’d manWhom lawless times set free from fear:One evening to his house there rodeA young and gentle cavalier.
He was a lowbred ruin’d man
Whom lawless times set free from fear:
One evening to his house there rode
A young and gentle cavalier.
With curling hair and linen fairAnd jewel-hilted sword he went;The horse he rode he had ridden far,And he was with his journey spent.
With curling hair and linen fair
And jewel-hilted sword he went;
The horse he rode he had ridden far,
And he was with his journey spent.
He asked a lodging for the night,His valise from his steed unbound,He let none bear it but himselfAnd set it by him on the ground.
He asked a lodging for the night,
His valise from his steed unbound,
He let none bear it but himself
And set it by him on the ground.
’Here’s gold or jewels,’ thought the host,’That’s carrying south to find the king.’He chattered many a loyal word,And scraps of royal airs gan sing.
’Here’s gold or jewels,’ thought the host,
’That’s carrying south to find the king.’
He chattered many a loyal word,
And scraps of royal airs gan sing.
His guest thereat grew more at easeAnd o’er his wine he gave a toast,But little ate, and to his roomCarried his sack behind the host.
His guest thereat grew more at ease
And o’er his wine he gave a toast,
But little ate, and to his room
Carried his sack behind the host.
’Now rest you well,’ the host he said,But of his wish the word fell wide;Nor did he now forget his sonWho fell in fight by Cromwell’s side.
’Now rest you well,’ the host he said,
But of his wish the word fell wide;
Nor did he now forget his son
Who fell in fight by Cromwell’s side.
Revenge and poverty have broughtFull gentler heart than his to crime;And he was one by nature rude,Born to foul deeds at any time.
Revenge and poverty have brought
Full gentler heart than his to crime;
And he was one by nature rude,
Born to foul deeds at any time.
With unshod feet at dead of nightIn stealth he to the guest-room crept,Lantern and dagger in his hand,And stabbed his victim while he slept.
With unshod feet at dead of night
In stealth he to the guest-room crept,
Lantern and dagger in his hand,
And stabbed his victim while he slept.
But as he struck a scream there came,A fearful scream so loud and shrill:He whelm’d the face with pillows o’er,And lean’d till all had long been still.
But as he struck a scream there came,
A fearful scream so loud and shrill:
He whelm’d the face with pillows o’er,
And lean’d till all had long been still.
Then to the face the flame he heldTo see there should no life remain:—When lo! his brutal heart was quell’d:’Twas a fair woman he had slain.
Then to the face the flame he held
To see there should no life remain:—
When lo! his brutal heart was quell’d:
’Twas a fair woman he had slain.
The tan upon her face was paint,The manly hair was torn away,Soft was the breast that he had pierced;Beautiful in her death she lay.
The tan upon her face was paint,
The manly hair was torn away,
Soft was the breast that he had pierced;
Beautiful in her death she lay.
His was no heart to faint at crime,Tho’ half he wished the deed undone.He pulled the valise from the bedTo find what booty he had won.
His was no heart to faint at crime,
Tho’ half he wished the deed undone.
He pulled the valise from the bed
To find what booty he had won.
He cut the straps, and pushed withinHis murderous fingers to their theft.A deathly sweat came o’er his brow,He had no sense nor meaning left.
He cut the straps, and pushed within
His murderous fingers to their theft.
A deathly sweat came o’er his brow,
He had no sense nor meaning left.
He touched not gold, it was not cold,It was not hard, it felt like flesh.He drew out by the curling hairA young man’s head, and murder’d fresh;
He touched not gold, it was not cold,
It was not hard, it felt like flesh.
He drew out by the curling hair
A young man’s head, and murder’d fresh;
A young man’s head, cut by the neck.But what was dreader still to see,Her whom he had slain he saw again,The twain were like as like can be.
A young man’s head, cut by the neck.
But what was dreader still to see,
Her whom he had slain he saw again,
The twain were like as like can be.
Brother and sister if they were,Both in one shroud they now were wound,—Across his back and down the stair,Out of the house without a sound.
Brother and sister if they were,
Both in one shroud they now were wound,—
Across his back and down the stair,
Out of the house without a sound.
He made his way unto the tarn,The night was dark and still and dank;The ripple chuckling neath the boatLaughed as he drew it to the bank.
He made his way unto the tarn,
The night was dark and still and dank;
The ripple chuckling neath the boat
Laughed as he drew it to the bank.
Upon the bottom of the boatHe laid his burden flat and low,And on them laid the square sandstonesThat round about the margin go.
Upon the bottom of the boat
He laid his burden flat and low,
And on them laid the square sandstones
That round about the margin go.
Stone upon stone he weigh’d them down,Until the boat would hold no more;The freeboard now was scarce an inch:He stripp’d his clothes and push’d from shore.
Stone upon stone he weigh’d them down,
Until the boat would hold no more;
The freeboard now was scarce an inch:
He stripp’d his clothes and push’d from shore.
All naked to the middle poolHe swam behind in the dark night;And there he let the water inAnd sank his terror out of sight.
All naked to the middle pool
He swam behind in the dark night;
And there he let the water in
And sank his terror out of sight.
He swam ashore, and donn’d his dress,And scraped his bloody fingers clean;Ran home and on his victim’s steedMounted, and never more was seen.
He swam ashore, and donn’d his dress,
And scraped his bloody fingers clean;
Ran home and on his victim’s steed
Mounted, and never more was seen.
But to a comrade ere he diedHe told his story guess’d of none:So from his lips the crime returnedTo haunt the spot where it was done.
But to a comrade ere he died
He told his story guess’d of none:
So from his lips the crime returned
To haunt the spot where it was done.