A fearful day was that! the rains
Fell fast, with tempest roar,
And the swoln tide of Severn spread
Far on the level shore.
In vain Lord William sought the feast
In vain he quaff’d the bowl,
And strove with noisy mirth to drown
The anguish of his soul.
The tempest as its sudden swell
In gusty howlings came,
With cold and death-like feelings seem’d
To thrill his shuddering frame.
Reluctant now, as night came on,
His lonely couch he prest,
And wearied out, he sunk to sleep,
To sleep, but not to rest.
Beside that couch his brother’s form
Lord Edmund seem’d to stand,
Such and so pale as when in death
He grasp’d his brother’s hand;
Such and so pale his face as when
With faint and faltering tongue,
To William’s care, a dying charge
He left his orphan son.
“I bade thee with a father’s love
My orphan Edmund guard —
Well William hast thou kept thy charge!
Now take thy due reward.”
He started up, each limb convuls’d
With agonizing fear,
He only heard the storm of night —
’Twas music to his ear.
When lo! the voice of loud alarm
His inmost soul appals,
What ho! Lord William rise in haste!
The water saps thy walls!
He rose in haste, beneath the walls
He saw the flood appear,
It hemm’d him round, ’twas midnight now,
No human aid was near.
He heard the shout of joy, for now
A boat approach’d the wall,
And eager to the welcome aid
They crowd for safety all.
My boat is small, the boatman cried,
This dangerous haste forbear!
Wait other aid, this little bark
But one from hence can bear.
Lord William leap’d into the boat,
Haste — haste to yonder shore!
And ample wealth shall well reward,
Ply swift and strong the oar.
The boatman plied the oar, the boat
Went light along the stream,
Sudden Lord William heard a cry
Like Edmund’s drowning scream.
The boatman paus’d, methought I heard
A child’s distressful cry!
’Twas but the howling wind of night
Lord William made reply.
Haste haste — ply swift and strong the oar!
Haste haste across the stream!
Again Lord William heard a cry
Like Edmund’s drowning scream.
I heard a child’s distressful scream
The boatman cried again.
Nay hasten on — the night is dark —
And we should search in vain.
Oh God! Lord William dost thou know
How dreadful ’tis to die?
And can’st thou without pity hear
A child’s expiring cry?
How horrible it is to sink
Beneath the chilly stream,
To stretch the powerless arms in vain,
In vain for help to scream?
The shriek again was heard. It came
More deep, more piercing loud,
That instant o’er the flood the moon
Shone through a broken cloud.
And near them they beheld a child,
Upon a crag he stood,
A little crag, and all around
Was spread the rising flood.
The boatman plied the oar, the boat
Approach’d his resting place,
The moon-beam shone upon the child
And show’d how pale his face.
Now reach thine hand! the boatman cried
Lord William reach and save!
The child stretch’d forth his little hands
To grasp the hand he gave.
Then William shriek’d; the hand he touch’d
Was cold and damp and dead!
He felt young Edmund in his arms
A heavier weight than lead.
The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk
Beneath the avenging stream;
He rose, he scream’d, no human ear
Heard William’s drowning scream.
ST. PATRICK’S PURGATORY.
This Ballad was published (1801) in the Tales of Wonder, by Mr. Lewis, who found it among the wefts and strays of the Press. He never knew that it was mine; but after his death I bestowed some pains in recomposing it, because he had thought it worth preserving. It is founded upon the abridged extract which M. le Grand has given in his Fabliaux of a Metrical legend, by Marie de France.
1.
“Enter, Sir Knight,” the Warden cried,
“And trust in Heaven whate’er betide,
Since you have reach’d this bourn;
But first receive refreshment due,
‘T will then be time to welcome you
If ever you return.”
2.
Three sops were brought of bread and wine;
Well might Sir Owen then divine
The mystic warning given,
That he against our ghostly Foe
Must soon to mortal combat go,
And put his trust in Heaven.
3.
Sir Owen pass’d the convent gate,
The Warden him conducted straight
To where a coffin lay;
The Monks around in silence stand,
Each with a funeral torch in hand
Whose light bedimm’d the day.
4.
“Few Pilgrims ever reach this bourn,”
They said, “but fewer still return;
Yet, let what will ensue,
Our duties are prescribed and clear;
Put off all mortal weakness here,
This coffin is for you.
5.
“Lie there, while we with pious breath
Raise over you the dirge of death,
This comfort we can give;
Belike no living hands may pay
This office to your lifeless clay,
Receive it while you live!”
6.
Sir Owen in a shroud was dress’d,
They placed a cross upon his breast,
And down he laid his head;
Around him stood the funeral train,
And sung with slow and solemn strain
The Service of the Dead.
7.
Then to the entrance of the Cave
They led the Christian warrior brave;
Some fear he well might feel,
For none of all the Monks could tell
The terrors of that mystic cell,
Its secrets none reveal.
8.
“Now enter here,” the Warden cried,
“And God, Sir Owen, be your guide!
Your name shall live in story:
For of the few who reach this shore,
Still fewer venture to explore
St. Patrick’s Purgatory.”
9.
Adown the Cavern’s long descent,
Feeling his way Sir Owen went,
With cautious feet and slow;
Unarm’d, for neither sword nor spear,
Nor shield of proof avail’d him here
Against our ghostly Foe.
10.
The ground was moist beneath his tread,
Large drops fell heavy on his head,
The air was damp and chill,
And sudden shudderings o’er him came,
And he could feel through all his frame
An icy sharpness thrill.
11.<
br />
Now steeper grew the dark descent;
In fervent prayer the Pilgrim went,
‘T was silence all around,
Save his own echo from the cell,
And the large drops that frequent fell
With dull and heavy sound.
12.
But colder now he felt the cell,
Those heavy drops no longer fell,
Thin grew the piercing air;
And now upon his aching sight,
There dawn’d far off a feeble light,
In hope he hasten’d there.
13.
Emerging now once more to day
A frozen waste before him lay,
A desert wild and wide,
Where ice-rocks in a sunless sky,
On ice-rocks piled, and mountains high,
Were heap’d on every side.
14.
Impending as about to fall
They seem’d, and had that sight been all,
Enough that sight had been
To make the stoutest courage quail;
For what could courage there avail
Against what then was seen?
15.
He saw, as on in faith he past,
Where many a frozen wretch was fast
Within the ice-clefts pent,
Yet living still, and doom’d to bear
In absolute and dumb despair
Their endless punishment.
16.
A Voice then spake within his ear,
And fill’d his inmost soul with fear, —
“O mortal Man,” it said,
“Adventurers like thyself were these!”
He seem’d to feel his life-blood freeze,
And yet subdued his dread.
17.
“O mortal Man,” the Voice pursued,
“Be wise in time! for thine own good
Alone I counsel thee;
Take pity on thyself, retrace
Thy steps, and fly this dolorous place
While yet thy feet are free.
18.
“I warn thee once! I warn thee twice!
Behold! that mass of mountain-ice
Is trembling o’er thy head!
One warning is allow’d thee more;
O mortal Man, that warning o’er,
And thou art worse than dead!”
19.
Not without fear, Sir Owen still
Held on with strength of righteous will,
In faith and fervent prayer;
When at the word, “I warn thee thrice!”
Down came the mass of mountain ice,
And overwhelm’d him there.
20.
Crush’d though, it seem’d, in every bone,
And sense for suffering left alone,
A living hope remain’d;
In whom he had believed, he knew,
And thence the holy courage grew
That still his soul sustain’d.
21.
For he, as he beheld it fall,
Fail’d not in faith on Christ to call, —
“Lord, Thou canst save!” he cried;
O heavenly help vouchsafed in need,
When perfect faith is found indeed;
The rocks of ice divide.
22.
Like dust before the storm-wind’s sway
The shiver’d fragments roll’d away,
And left the passage free;
New strength he feels, all pain is gone,
New life Sir Owen breathes, and on
He goes rejoicingly.
23.
Yet other trials he must meet.
For soon a close and piercing heat
Relax’d each loosen’d limb;
The sweat stream’d out from every part,
In short quick beatings toil’d his heart,
His throbbing eyes grew dim.
24.
Along the wide and wasted land
A stream of fire through banks of sand
Its molten billows spread;
Thin vapours tremulously light
Hung quivering o’er the glowing white,
The air he breathed was red.
25.
A Paradise beyond was seen,
Of shady groves and gardens green,
Fair flowers and fruitful trees,
And flowing fountains cool and clear,
Whose gurgling music reach’d his ear
Borne on the burning breeze.
26.
How should he pass that molten flood?
While gazing wistfully he stood,
A Fiend, as in a dream,
“Thus!” answer’d the unutter’d thought,
Stretch’d forth a mighty arm, and caught
And cast him in the stream.
Sir Owen groan’d, for then he felt
His eyeballs burn, his marrow melt,
His brain like liquid lead,
And from his heart the boiling blood
Its agonizing course pursued
Through limbs like iron red.
28.
Yet, giving way to no despair,
But mindful of the aid of prayer,
“Lord, Thou canst save!” he said;
And then a breath from Eden came,
With life and healing through his frame
The blissful influence spread.
29.
No Fiends may now his way oppose,
The gates of Paradise unclose,
Free entrance there is given;
And songs of triumph meet his ear,
Enrapt, Sir Owen seems to hear
The harmonies of Heaven.
30.
“Come, Pilgrim! take thy foretaste meet,
Thou who hist trod with fearless feet
St. Patrick’s Purgatory,
For after death these seats divine,
Reward eternal, shall be thine
And thine eternal glory.”
31.
Inebriate with the deep delight,
Dim grew the Pilgrim’s swimming sight,
His senses died away;
And when to life he woke, before
The Cavern-mouth he saw once more
The light of earthly day.
Westbury, 1798.
THE CROSS ROADS.
The tragedy related in this Ballad happened about the year 1760, in the parish of Bedminster, near Bristol. One who was present at the funeral told me the story and the circumstances of the interment, as I have versified them.
1.
THERE was an old man breaking stones
To mend the turnpike way;
He sate him down beside a brook,
And out his bread and cheese he took,
For now it was mid-day.
2.
He leant his back against a post,
His feet the brook ran by;
And there were water-cresses growing,
And pleasant was the water’s flowing,
For he was hot and dry.
3.
A soldier with his knapsack on
Came travelling o’er the down;
The sun was strong and he was tired;
And he of the old man enquired
“How far to Bristol town?”
4.
“Half an hour’s walk for a young man,
By lanes and fields and stiles;
But you the foot-path do not know,
And if along the road you go
Why then’t is three good miles.”
5.
The soldier took his knapsack off,
For he was hot and dry;
And out his bread and cheese he took,
And he sat down beside the brook
To dine in company.
6.
“Old friend! in faith,” the soldier says,
“I envy you almost;
My shoulders have been sorely prest,
And I should li
ke to sit, and rest
My back against that post.
7.
In such a sweltering day as this
A knapsack is the devil;
And if on t’ other side I sat,
It would not only spoil our chat,
But make me seem uncivil.”
8.
The old man laugh’d and moved... “I wish
It were a great-arm’d chair!
But this may help a man at need;..
And yet it was a cursed deed
That ever brought it there.
9.
“There’s a poor girl lies buried here,
Beneath this very place,
The earth upon her corpse is prest,
This post was driven into her breast,
And a stone is on her face.”
10.
The soldier had but just leant back,
And now he half rose up.
“There’s sure no harm in dining here,
My friend? and yet, to be sincere,
I should not like to sup.”
11.
“God rest her! she is still enough
Who sleeps beneath my feet!”
The old man cried. “No harm I trow,
She ever did herself, though now
She lies where four roads meet.
12.
“I have past by about that hour
When men are not most brave;
It did not make my courage fail.
And I have heard the nightingale
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 115