Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XXIV Part 3

XI.

Now months and years in quick succession flew, And joys increased, and still affection grew.

For what is youth's first love to wedded joy?

Or what the transports of the ardent boy To the fond husband's bliss, which, day by day, Lights up his spirit with affection's ray?

Man knows not what love is, till all his cares The partner of his bosom soothes and shares-- Until he find her studious to please-- Watching his wishes!--Oh, 'tis acts like these That lock her love within his heart, and bind Their souls in one, and form them of one mind.

Love flowed within their bosoms as a tide, While the calm rapture of their own fireside Each day grew holier, dearer; and esteem Blended its radiance with the glowing beam Of young affection, till it seemed a sun Melting their wishes and their thoughts as one.

XII.

Eight years pa.s.sed o'er them in unclouded joy, And now by Helen's side a lovely boy, Looked up and called her, Mother; and upon The knee of Edmund climbed a little one-- A blue-eyed prattler--as her mother fair.

They were their parents' joy, their hope, their care; But, while their cup with happiness ran o'er, And the long future promised joys in store, Death dropped its bitterness within the cup, And its late pleasant waters mingled up With wailing and with woe. Like early flowers, Which the slow worm with venomed tooth devours, The roses left their two fair children's cheeks, Or came and went like fitful hectic streaks, As day by day they drooped: their sunny eyes Grew l.u.s.treless and sad; and yearning cries-- Such as wring life-drops from a parent's heart-- Their lisping tongues now uttered. The keen dart Of the unerring archer, Death, had sunk Deep in their bosoms, and their young blood drunk; Yet the affection of the children grew, As its dull, wasting poison wandered through Their tender b.r.e.a.s.t.s; and still they ever lay With their arms round each other. On the day That ushered in the night on which they died, The boy his mother kissed, and fondly cried, "Weep not, dear mother!--mother, do not weep!

You told me and my sister, death was sleep-- That the good Saviour, who from heaven came down, And who for our sake wore a th.o.r.n.y crown-- You often told us how He came to save Children like us, and conquered o'er the grave; And I have read in his blessed book, How in his hand a little child He took, And said that such in heaven should greatest be: Then, weep not, mother--do not weep for me; For if I be angel when I die, I'll watch you, mother--I'll be ever nigh; Where'er you go, I'll hover o'er your head; Then, though I'm buried, do not think me dead!

But let my sister's grave and mine be one, And lay us by the pretty marble stone, To which our father dear was wont to go, And where, in spring, the sweet primroses blow; Then, weep not, mother!" But she wept the more; While the sad father his affliction bore Like one in whom all consciousness was dead, Save that he wrung his hands and rocked his head, And murmured oft this short and troubled prayer-- "O G.o.d! look on me, and my children spare!"

XIII.

Their little arms still round each other clung, When their last sleep death's shadow o'er them flung!

And still they slept, and fainter grew their breath-- Faint and more faint, until their sleep was death.

Deep, but unmurmured was the mother's grief, For in her FAITH she sought and found relief; Yea, while she mourned a daughter and a son, She looked to heaven, and cried, "Thy will be done!"

But, oh! the father no such solace found-- Dark, cheerless anguish wrapt his spirit round; He was a stranger to the Christian's hope, And in bereavement's hour he sought a prop On which his pierced and stricken soul might lean; Yet, as he sought it, doubts would intervene-- Doubts which for years had clouded o'er his soul-- Doubts that, with prayers he struggled to control; For though a grounded faith he ne'er had known, He was no prayerless man; but he had grown To thinking manhood from his dreaming youth, A _seeker_ still--a _seeker after truth!_-- An earnest seeker, but his searching care Sought more in books and nature than by prayer; And vain he sought, nor books nor nature gave The hope of hopes that animates the grave!

Though, to have felt that hope, he would have changed His station with the mendicant who ranged Homeless from door to door and begged his bread, While heaven hurled its tempest round his head.

For what is hunger, pain, or piercing wind, To the eternal midnight of the mind?

Or what on earth a horror can impart, Like his who feels engraven on his heart The word, _Annihilation!_ Often now The sad Enthusiast would strike his brow, And cry aloud, with deep and bitter groans, "How have I sinned, that both my little ones-- The children of my heart--should be struck down!

O Thou Almighty Spirit! if thy frown Is now upon me, turn aside thy wrath, And guide me--lead, oh lead me in the path Of heaven's own truth; direct my faith aright, Teach me to hope, and lend thy Spirit's light."

XIV.

Thus, long his soul as a frail bark was tossed On a dark sea, with helm and compa.s.s lost, Till she who ever to his breast had been The star of hope and love, with brow serene, As if no sorrow e'er her heart had riven, But her eye calmly looked through time to heaven-- Soothed his sad spirit, and with anxious care Used much of reason, and yet more of prayer; Till bright'ning hope dawned gently o'er his soul, Like the sun's shadow at the freezing pole, Seen by the shiv'ring Greenlander, or e'er Its front of fire does his horizon cheer; While brighter still that ardent hope became, Till in his bosom glowed the living flame Of Christian faith--faith in the Saviour sent, By the eternal G.o.d, to preach, "Repent And be ye saved."---Then peace, as sunshine, fell On the Enthusiast's bosom, and the swell Of anguish died away, as o'er the deep The waves lie down when winds and tempests sleep.

XV.

Time glided on, and wedded joys still grew As beauty deepens on an autumn view With tinges rich as heaven! and, though less green, More holy far than summer's fairest scene.

Now o'er the happy pair, at life's calm eve Age like a shadow fell, and seemed to weave So fair a twilight round each silvered brow, That they ne'er felt so young, so blest as now; Though threescore winters o'er their path had fled, And left the snow of years on either head.

For age drew round them, but they knew it not-- The once bright face of youth was half forgot; But still the young, the unchanged heart was there, And still his aged Helen seemed as fair As when, with throbbing heart and giddy bliss, He from her lips first s.n.a.t.c.hed the virgin kiss!

XVI.

Last scene of all: An old and widowed man, Whose years had reached life's farthest, frailest span, And o'er whose head, as every moment flew, Eternity its dark'ning twilight threw, Lay in his silent chamber, dull and lone, Watching the midnight stars, as one by one They as slow, voiceless spirits glided past The window of his solitude, and cast Their pale light on his brow; and thus he lay Till the bright star that ushers in the day Rose on his sight, and, with its cheering beams, Lit in his bosom youth's delicious dreams; Yea, while he gazed upon that golden star, Rolling in light, like love's celestial car, He deemed he in its radiance read the while His children's voices and his Helen's smile; And as it pa.s.sed, and from his sight withdrew, His longing spirit followed it! and flew To heaven and deathless bliss--from earth and care-- To meet his Helen and his children there!

THE ROMAUNT OF SIR PEREGRINE AND THE LADY ETHELINE.

I.

Of a maiden's beauty the world-wide praise Was a thing of duty in chivalrous days, When her envied name was a nation's fame, And raised in knights' b.r.e.a.s.t.s an emulous flame, Which lighted to honour and grand emprise-- Things always so lovely in ladies' eyes; For a true woman's favour will ever be won By that which is n.o.ble and n.o.bly done.

Sir Peregrine sounded his bugle horn With a note of love and a blast of scorn; Of love to the Ladye Etheline Up in yon Castle of Eaglestein, Whose beauty had pa.s.sed o'er Christian land As a philter to nerve the resolute hand Of many a knight in the goodly throng Who gathered round G.o.dfrey of Buglion, With Richard, and Raymond, and Leopold, And thousands of others as brave and bold; And a blast of scorn to every knight Who would dare to challenge his envied right.

The porte yields quick to the warder's hand By the Yerl's consent, by the Yerl's command; And the ladye, who knew the winding sound, As the tra-la-la rang all around, Has opened her cas.e.m.e.nt up on high, And thrown him the kiss of her courtesy.

II.

"I am come, fair ladye, to beg of thee, As here I crave upon bended knee, That thou wilt grant unto my prayer A single lock of thy golden hair, To wear in a lockheart over my breast, And carry with me to the balmy East-- The land where the Saviour met his death, The sacred Salem of saving faith, Which holds the sepulchre of our Lord, Defiled by a barbarous Paynim horde.

Grant me the meed for which I burn, And, by our Ladye, on my return, We will wedded be in the sacred bands Of a sacrament sealed by holy hands."

The ladye has, with a gesture bland, Taken her scissors into her hand, And clipt a lock of her auburn hair, And yielded it to his ardent prayer; But a pearly drop from her weeping eyes Hath fallen upon the golden prize.

"Ah! blessed drop," said the knight, and smiled-- "This tear was from thine heart beguiled, And I take it to be an omen of good, For tears, my love, are purified blood, That impart a beauty to female eyes, And vouch for her kindly sympathies."

"Ah! no, ah! no," the maid replied-- "An omen of ill," and she heavily sighed; Then a flood came gushing adown her cheek, Nor further word could the damoiselle speak.

Then said Sir Peregrine, smiling still, "If tears, my love, are an omen of ill, The way to deprive them of evil spell Is to kiss them away, and--all is well!"

And he took in his arms the yielding maid, And kissed them away, as he had said.

The warder has oped the porteluse again, To let Sir Peregrine forth with his train.

Loud spoke the horn o'er fell and dell, "Fare thee--fare thee--fare thee well;"

But Etheline, as she waved her hand, Could not those flowing tears command, And thought the bugle in sounds did say, "Fare thee--fare thee well for aye."

III.

A year has pa.s.sed: at Eaglestein There sat the Ladye Etheline; Her eyes were wet, and her cheek was pale, Her sweet voice dwindled into a wail; For though through the world's busy crowd The deeds of the war were sung aloud, And the name of Sir Peregrine was enrolled With G.o.dfrey's among the brave and bold, No letter had come from her knight so dear, To belie the spell of the lock and tear.

The Countess would weep, and the Yerl would say, "Alas! for the hour when he went away."

But the womb of old Time is everly full, And the storm-wind bloweth after a lull.

Hark! a horn has sounded both loud and clear, And echoed around both far and near; It is Sir Ronald from Palestine-- Sir Ronald, a suitor of Etheline.

"I have come," said he, "through pain and peril, To tell unto thee, most n.o.ble Yerl: Woe to the sword of the fierce Soldan, Who slew our most gallant capitan!

Sir Peregrine, in an unhappy hour, Fell wounded before High Salem's tower, And ere he died he commissioned me To bear to Scotland, and give to thee, This bit of the genuine haly rood Dipt in his heart's outpouring blood, That thou mightst give it to Etheline, As a relic of dead Sir Peregrine."

IV.

All Eaglestein vale is yellow and sere, The ancient elms seem withered and bare, The river asleep in its rushy bed, The waters are green, and the gra.s.s is red, The roses are dead in the sylvan bowers, Where oft in the dewy evening hours, Ere yet the fairies had sought the dell, And the merle was singing her day-farewell, The Lady Etheline would recline And think of her dear Sir Peregrine: All was cheerless now, forlorn, As if they missed her at early morn; At noontide and at evening fall They sorrowed for her, the spirit of all.

In the solary, up in the western wing, The Countess and Yerl sat sorrowing For one so young, so gentle, and fair, Their only child, lying ailing there, Waning and waning slowly away, Yet waxing more beautiful every day, As if she were drawing from spheres above, Before she got there, the spirit of love, Which shone as a light through the silken lire, Pure as was that of the vestal fire; And ever she kissed in hysterical mood The bit of the cross all red with blood.

"Oh mother dear! I wish--I fear The time of my going is drawing near: Last night, at the mirk and midnight hour, A voice seemed to come through my chamber door-- For the ear of the dying is tender and fine-- And three times it sounded Etheline; And it is true, as I've heard say, Such voices are calls to come away-- The voices of angels hovering near, Who wish us to join them in yonder sphere."

"Oh! no, oh! no, my own dear child, Thine overfine ears have thee beguiled: It was the Yerl, when in a dream, Who three times called thy dear-loved name; I heard the call as awake I lay, And thou mayst believe what now I say."

"Oh mother! oh mother! what do I hear?

It is the nightingale singing clear; I have heard the notes in Italian clime, And remember them since that early time; And it is true, as I've heard say, That when the nightingale sings by day, The dying who hears it will pa.s.s away."

"No, no, my child, the song you hear Is that of the throstle-c.o.c.k singing clear: I see him upon the linden tree, And you, if you like, may also see.

I know its speckled breast too well; It is not, dear child, the nightingale."

When this she heard, the maiden sighed, As if she were vexed she was denied The hope of pa.s.sing quickly away To yon regions bright of eternal day.