Sir ELDRED of the BOWER, AND THE BLEEDING ROCK: TWO LEGENDARY TALES.
By Miss HANNAH MORE.
Of them who, wrapt in Earth so cold,
No more the smiling day shall view,
Shou'd many a tender tale be told,
For many a tender thought is due.
LANGHORNE.
DUBLIN: Printed for W. SLEATER, S. PRICE, W. WHITESTONE, J. POTTS, R. CROSS, J. WILLIAMS, W. COLLES, T. WALKER, W. WILSON, W▪ WATSON, S. WATSON, T. WILKINSON, J. HOEY, R. MONCRIEFFE, J. SHEPPARD, W. HALHEAD, W. SPOTSWOOD, R. STEWART, T. STEWART, E. CROSS, C. JENKIN, J. HILLARY, T. ARMITAGE, W. GILBERT, H. BURROWES, M. MILLS, and P. HIGLY.
M DCC.LXXVI.
TO DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.
SIR,
IT is scarcely possible that any one should entertain a more humble opinion of the following little Production, than she who presents it to you. It is a trifle which, she confesses, has but a very slender claim to your protection; but she considers that your Name will be an ornament to her Book, as your Friendship has been an honour to its Author.
Where merit is incontestible, and characters are decided by the concurring suffrage of mankind, praise becomes almost impertinent. It is absurd to be industrious in proving truths so self-evident, that no one ever thought of controverting them.
I may be accused of advancing a startling proposition, when I declare that you are an enemy to the Muses; but if it be allowed that description and invention are the very soul of Poetry, I shall be justified by the world in general, who constantly behold you displaying talents which cannot be described, and exhibiting excellencies which leave nothing to be imagined.
Whatever reason I may find to regret my having ventured these little Poems into the world, I shall at least have no common pleasure in recollecting one circumstance attending them, since they furnish me with an occasion of assuring you with what esteem and admiration I am,
SIR,
Your most obedient, and very humble Servant, HANNAH MORE.
Bristol,
Dec. 14th, 1775
.
Sir ELDRED of the BOWER: A Legendary Tale. In Two Parts.
Sir ELDRED of the BOWER: A LEGENDARY TALE.
Part I.
O nostra Vita, ch'e si bella in vista!
Come perde agevolmente in un momento,
Quel, che'n molt' anni a grand pena s'acquista!
Petrarca.
There was a young, and valiant Knight,
SIR ELDRED was his name,
And never did a worthier wight
The rank of knighthood claim.
Where gliding
Tay
her stream sends forth,
To crown the neighbouring wood,
The antient glory of the North,
SIR ELDRED's castle stood.
The youth was rich as youth might be
In patrimonial dower;
And many a noble feat had he
Atchiev'd, in hall, and bower.
He did not think, as some have thought,
Whom honour never crown'd,
The fame a father dearly bought,
Cou'd make the son renown'd.
He better thought, a noble sire,
Who gallant deeds had done,
To deeds of hardihood shou'd fire
A brave and gallant son.
The fairest ancestry on earth
Without desert is poor;
And every deed of lofty worth
Is but a tax for more.
SIR ELDRED's heart was good and kind,
Alive to Pity's call;
A croud of virtues grac'd his mind,
He lov'd, and felt for all.
When
merit
rais'd the sufrerer's name,
He
doubly
serv'd him
then;
And those who cou'd not prove that claim,
He thought they still were
men.
But sacred truth the Muse compels
His errors to impart;
And yet the Muse, reluctant, tells
The fault of ELDRED's heart.
Tho' kind and gentle as the dove,
As free from guile and art,
And mild, and soft as infant love
The feelings of his heart;
Yet if distrust his thoughts engage,
Or jealousy inspires,
His bosom wild and boundless rage
Inflames with all its fires:
Not Thule's waves so wildly break
To drown the northern shore;
Not Etna's entrails fiercer shake,
Or Scythia's tempests roar.
As when in summer's sweetest day,
To fan the fragrant morn,
The sighing breezes softly stray
O'er fields of ripen'd corn;
Sudden the lightning's blast descends,
Deforms the ravag'd fields;
At once the various ruin blends,
And all resistless yields.
But when, to clear his stormy breast,
The sun of reason shone,
And ebbing passions sunk to rest,
And shew'd what rage had done:
O then what anguish he betray'd!
His shame how deep, how true!
He view'd the waste his rage had made,
And shudder'd at the view.
The meek-ey'd dawn, in saffron robe,
Proclaimed the opening day;
Up rose the sun to gild the globe,
And hail the new-born May;
The birds their amorous notes repeat,
And glad the vernal grove,
Their feather'd partners fondly greet
With many a song of love;
When pious ELDRED walk'd abroad
His morning vows to pay,
And hail the universal Lord
Who gave the goodly day.
That done—he left his woodland glade,
And journey'd far away;
He lov'd to court the stranger shade,
And thro' the lone vale stray.
Within the bosom of a wood,
By circling hills embrac'd,
A little, modest mansion stood,
Built by the hand of Taste.
While many a prouder castle fell,
This safely did endure;
The house where guardian virtues dwell
Is sacred, and secure.
Of Eglantine an humble fence
Around the mansion stood,
Which charm'd at once the ravish'd sense,
And screen'd an infant wood.
The wood receiv'd an added grace,
As pleas'd it bent to look,
And view'd its ever verdant face
Reflected in a brook.
The smallness of the stream did well
The master's fortunes shew;
But little streams may serve to tell
From what a source they flow.
This mansion own'd an aged Knight,
And such a man was he,
As Heaven just shews to human sight,
To tell what man shou'd be.
His youth in many a well-fought field
Was train'd betimes to war;
His bosom, like a well-worn shield,
Was grac'd with many a scar.
The vigour of a green old age
His reverend form did bear;
And yet, alas! the warrior-sage
Had drain'd the dregs of care.
And sorrow more than age can break,
And wound its hapless prey;
'Twas sorrow surrow'd his firm cheek,
And turn'd his bright locks grey.
One darling daughter sooth'd his cares,
A young and beauteous dame;
Sole comfort of his failing years,
And BIRTHA was her name.
Her heart a little sacred shrine,
Where all the Virtues meet;
And holy Hope, and Faith divine,
Had claim'd it for their seat.
She rear'd a fair and fragrant bower
Of wild and rustic taste,
And there she screen'd each fav'rite flower
From every ruder blast.
And not a shrub or plant was there
But did some moral yield;
For wisdom, with a father's care,
Was found in every field.
The trees, whose foliage fell away,
And with the summer died,
He thought an image of decay
Might lecture human pride.
While fair, perennial greens that stood,
And brav'd the wintry blast,
As types of the fair mind he view'd
Which shall for ever last.
He taught her that the gaudiest: flowers
Were seldom fragrant found,
But wasted soon their little powers,
Lay useless on the ground.
While the sweet pink, and scented rose,
In precious odours last;
And when no more the colour glows,
The sweetness is not past.
And here the Virgin lov'd to lead
Her inoffensive day,
And here she oft retir'd to read,
And oft retir'd to pray.
Embower'd she grac'd the woodland shades,
From courts and cities far,
The pride of Caledonian maids,
The peerless northern star.
As shines that bright and blazing star,
The glory of the night,
When sailing thro' the liquid air,
It pours its lambent light:
Such BIRTHA shone!—But when she spoke
The Muse herself was heard,
As on the ravish'd air she broke,
And thus her prayer preferr'd:
"O bless thy BIRTHA, Power Supreme,
"In whom I live and move,
"And bless me most by blessing him
"Whom more than life I love."—
She starts to hear a stranger voice,
And with a modest grace
She lifts her meek eye in surprize,
And sees a stranger face.
The stranger lost in transport stood,
Bereft of voice and power,
While she with equal wonder view'd
SIR ELDRED OF THE BOWER.
The mountain breeze which paints her cheek
With Nature's purest dye,
And all the dazzling fires which break
Illustrious from her eye:—
He view'd them all, and as he view'd
Drank deeply of delight;
And still his ravish'd eye pursued,
And feasted on the sight.
With silent wonder long they gaz'd,
And neither silence broke;
At length the smother'd passion blaz'd,
Enamour'd ELDRED spoke:
"O sacred Virtue, heav'nly power!
Thy wondrous force I feel;
"I gaze, I tremble, I adore,
Yet die my love to tell.
Beauty
with coldness I've beheld,
"And 'scap'd the shaft divine;
But what my guardless heart can shield
From
piety
like thine?"
She cast her mild eyes on the ground,
And rais'd their beams as fast;
And close her Father dear she found,
Who haply that way past.
Good ARDOLPH's eye his BIRTHA meets
With glances of delight;
And thus with courteous speech he greets
The young and graceful Knight:
O gallant Youth, whoe'er thou art,
Thou art welcome to this place;
"There's something rises at my heart
Which says I've seen that face.
"Thou generous Knight!" the Youth rejoin'd,
Tho' little known to same,
"I trust I bear a grateful mind—
SIR ELDRED is my name.
SIR ELDRED?"—ARDOLPH loud exclaim'd,
"Renown'd for worth and power?
For valour and for virtue fam'd,
"SIR ELDRED OF THE BOWER?
"Now make me grateful, righteous Heaven,
As thou art good to me,
Since to my aged eyes 'tis given
SIR ELDRED's son to see!"
Then ARDOLPH caught him by the hand,
And gaz'd upon his face,
And to his aged bosom strain'd,
With many a kind embrace.
Again he view'd him o'er and o'er,
And doubted still the truth,
And ask'd what he had ask'd before,
Then thus addrest the Youth:
"Come now beneath my roof, I pray,
Some needful rest to take,
"And with us many a cheerful day
Thy friendly sojourn make."
He enter'd at the gate straightway
Some needful rest to take;
And with them many a cheerful day
Did friendly sojourn make.
END OF THE FIRST PART.
PART II.
ONCE—'twas upon a summer's walk,
The gaudy day was fled;
They cheated Time with cheerful talk,
When thus Sir ARDOLPH said:
"Thy father was the firmest friend
"That e'er my being blest;
"And every virtue Heaven could send,
"Fast bound him to my breast.
"Together did we learn to bear
"The targe and ample shield;
"Together learn'd in many a war,
"The deathful spear to wield.
"To make our union still more dear,
"We both were doom'd to prove
"What is most sweet and most severe
"In heart-dissolving love.
"The daughter of a neighbouring Knight
"Did
my
fond heart engage;
"And ne'er did Heav'n the virtues write
"Upon a fairer page.
"
His
bosom felt an equal wound,
"Nor sigh'd we long in vain;
"One summer's sun beheld us bound
"In Hymen's holy chain.
"Thou wast SIR ELDRED's only child,
"Thy father's darling joy;
"On me a lovely daughter smil'd,
"On me a blooming boy.
"But man has woes, has clouds of care,
"That dim his star of life—
"My arms receiv'd the little pair,
"The earth's cold breast, my wife.
"Forgive, thou gentle Knight, forgive,
"Fond foolish tears will flow;
"One day like mine thy heart may heave,
"And mourn its lot of woe.
"But grant, kind Heaven! thou ne'er may'st know
"The pangs I now impart;
"Nor ever feel the deadly blow
"That rives a husband's heart.
"Beside the blooming banks of
Tay,
"My angel's ashes sleep;
"And wherefore should her ARDOLPH stay,
"Except to watch and weep?
"I bore my beauteous babes away
"With many a gushing tear,
"I left the blooming banks of
Tay,
"And brought my darlings here.
"I watch'd my little household cares,
"And form'd their growing youth;
"And fondly train'd their infant years
"To love and cherish truth."
"Thy blooming BIRTHA here I see,"
Sir. ELDRED straight rejoin'd;
"But why thy son is not with thee,
"Resolve my doubting; mind."
When BIRTHA did the question hear,
She sigh'd, but could not speak;
And many a soft and silent tear
Stray'd down her damask check.
Then pass'd o'er good Sir ARDOLPH's face,
A cast of deadly pale;
But soon compos'd, with manly grace
He thus renew'd his tale:
"For him my heart too much has bled,
"For him, my darling son,
"Has sorrow prest my hoary head;
"But—Heav'n's high will be done!
"Scarce eighteen winters had revolv'd,
"To crown the circling year,
"Before my valiant boy resolv'd
"The warrior's lance to bear,
"Too high I priz'd my native land,
"Too dear his fame I held,
"T' oppose a parent's stern command,
"And keep him from the field.
"He left me—left his sister too,
"Yet tears bedew'd his face—
"What could a feeble old man do?—
"He burst from my embrace.
"O thirst of glory, fatal flame!
"O laurels dearly bought!
"Yet sweet is death when earn'd with fame—
"So virtuous EDWY thought.
"Full manfully the brave boy strove,
"Tho' pressing ranks oppose;
"But weak the strongest arm must prove
"Against an host of foes.
"A deadly wound my son receives,
"A spear assails his side.
"Grief does not kill—for ARDOLPH lives
"To tell that EDWY died.
"His long—lov'd Mother died again
"In EDWY's parting groan;
"I wept for her, yet wept in vain—
"I wept for both in one.
"I would have died—I sought to die;
"But Heaven restrain'd the thought,
"And to my passion-clouded eye
"My helpless BIRTHA brought.
"When lo! array'd in robes of light,
"A nymph celestial came;
"She clear'd the mists that dimm'd my sight—
"RELIGION was her name.
"She prov'd the chastisement divine,
"And bade me kiss the rod;
"She taught this rebel heart of mine
"Submission to its God.
"RELIGION taught me to sustain
"What nature bade me feel;
"And piety reliev'd the pain
"Which time can never heal."
He ceas'd—With sorrow and delight
The tale Sir ELDRED hears,
Then weeping cries—"Thou noble Knight,
For thanks accept my tears.
"O ARDOLPH, might I dare aspire
"To claim so bright a boon!—
"Good old Sir ELDRED was my sire—
"And thou hast lost a son.
"And tho' I want a worthier plea
"To urge so dear a cause,
"Yet, let me to thy bosom be
"What once thy EDWY was.
"My trembling tongue its aid denies;
"For thou may'st disapprove;
"Then read it in my ardent eyes,
"Oh! read the tale of love.
"Thy beauteous BIRTHA '"—"Gracious Power,
"How cou'd I e'er repine,
"Cries ARDOLPH, "since I see this hour?
"Yes—BIRTHA shall be thine."
A little transient gleam of red
Shot faintly o'er her face,
And every trembling feature spread
With sweet disorder'd grace.
The tender father kindly smil'd
With fullness of content,
And fondly eyed his darling child,
Who, bashful, blush'd consent.
O then to paint the vast delight
That fill'd Sir ELDRED's heart,
To tell the transports of the Knight,
Wou'd mock the Muse's art.
But every kind and gracious soul,
Where gentle passions dwell,
Will better far conceive the whole,
Than any Muse can tell.
The more the Knight his BIRTHA knew,
The more he priz'd the Maid;
Some worth each day produc'd to view,
Some grace each hour betray'd.
The virgin too was fond to charm
The dear, accomplish'd Youth;
His single breast she strove to warm,
And crown'd, with love, his truth.
Unlike the dames of modern days,
Who
general
homage claim,
Who court the
universal
gaze,
And pant for
public
fame.
Then
Beauty but on merit smil'd,
Nor were her chaste smiles sold;
No venal father gave his child
For grandeur, or for gold.
The ardour of young ELDRED's flame
But ill cou'd brook delay,
And oft he press'd the maid to name
A speedy nuptial day.
The fond impatience of his breast
'Twas all in vain to hide,
But she his eager suit represt.
With modest, maiden pride.
When oft Sir ELDRED press'd the day
Which was to crown his truth,
The thoughtful Sire wou'd sigh, and say,
"O happy state of youth!
"It little recks the woes which wait
"To scare its dreams of joy,
"Nor thinks to-morrow's alter'd fate
"May all those dreams destroy.
"And tho' the flatterer, Hope, deceives,
"And painted prospects shews;
"Yet man, still cheated, still believes,
"Till death the bright scene close.
"So look'd my bride, so sweetly mild,
"On me her beauty's slave;
But whilst she look'd, and whilst she smil'd,
"She sunk into the grave.
"Yet, O forgive an old man's care,
"Forgive a father's zeal;
"Who fondly loves must greatly fear,
"Who fears must greatly feel.
"Once more in soft and sacred bands
"Shall Love and Hymen meet;
"To-morrow shall unite your hands,
"And—be your bliss complete!"
The rising sun inflam'd the sky,
The golden orient blush'd;
But BIRTHA's cheeks a sweeter die,
A brighter crimson flush'd.
The Priest, in milk-white vestments clad,
Perform'd the mystic rite;
Love lit the hallow'd torch that led
To Hymen's chaste delight.
How feeble language were to speak
Th' immeasurable joy
That fir'd Sir ELDRED's ardent cheek,
And triumph'd in his eye!
Sir ARDOLPH's pleasu're stood confest,
A pleasure all his own;
The guarded rapture of a breast
Which many a grief had known.
'Twas such a sober sense of joy
As Angels well might keep;
A joy chastis'd by piety,
A joy prepar'd to weep.
To recollect her scatter'd thought,
And shun the noon-tide hour,
The lovely bride in secret sought
The coolness of her Bower.
Long she remain'd—th' enamour'd Knight,
Impatient at her stay,
And all unfit to taste delight
When BIRTHA was away;
Betakes him to the secret Bower;
His footsteps softly move;
Impell'd by every tender power,
He steals upon his love.
O, horror! horror! blasting sight!
He sees his BIRTHA's charms,
Reclin'd with melting, fond delight,
Within a stranger's arms.
Wild phrenzy fires his frantic hand,
Distracted at the sight,
He flies to where the lovers stand,
And stabs the stranger Knight.
"Die, traitor, die, thy guilty flames
"Demand th' avenging steel"—
"It is my brother, she exclaims,
"Tis EDWY—Oh farewell!"
An aged peasant, EDWY's guide,
The good old ARDOLPH sought;
He told him that his bosom's pride,
His EDWY, he had brought.
O how the father's feelings melt!
How faint, and how revive!
Just so the Hebrew Patriarch felt
To find his son alive.
"Let me behold my darling's face
"And bless him ere I die!
"Then with a swift and vigorous pace
He to the Bower did hie.
O sad reverse !—Sunk on the ground
His slaughter'd son he view'd,
And dying BIRTHA close he found
In brother's blood imbued.
Cold, speechless, senseless, ELDRED near
Gaz'd on the deed he had done;
Like the blank statue of
Despair,
Or
Madness
grav'd in stone.
The father saw— so Jephthah stood,
So turn'd his woe-fraught eye,
When the dear, destin'd child he view'd,
His zeal had doom'd to die.
He look'd the woe he could not speak,
And on the pale corse prest
His wan, discolour'd, dying cheek,
And silent, sunk to rest.
Then BIRTHA faintly rais'd her eye,
Which long had ceas'd to stream,
On ELDRED fix'd with many a sigh
Its dim, departing beam.
The cold, cold dews of hastening death
Upon her pale face stand;
And quick and short her failing breath,
And tremulous her hand.
The cold, cold dews of hastening death,
The dim, departing eye,
The quivering hand, the short quick breath
He view'd— and did not die.
He saw her spirit mount in air,
Its kindred skies to seek;
His heart its anguish cou'd not bear,
And yet it wou'd not break.
The mournful Muse forbears to tell
How wretched ELDRED died:
She draws the Grecian
In the celebrated Picture of the Sacrifice of Iphigenia, Timanthes having exhausted every image of grief in the bystanders, threw a Veil over the face of the father, whose sorrow he was utterly unable to express.
PLIN. Book XXXV.
Painter's veil,
The vast distress to hide.
Yet Heaven's decrees are just, and wise,
And man is born to bear:
Joy is the portion of the skies,
Beneath them, all is care.
THE END.
THE BLEEDING ROCK: A LEGENDARY TALE.
—The annual wound allur'd
The Syrian damsels to lament his fate,
In amorous ditties all a summer's day,
While smooth Adonis from his native Rock
Ran purple to the sea, suppos'd with blood
Of Thammuz yearly wounded.
MILTON.
THE BLEEDING ROCK: A LEGENDARY TALE.
WHERE beauteous
Belmont
rears its modest brow
To view
Sabrina
's silver waves below,
Liv'd LINDAMIRA; fair as Beauty's Queen,
The same sweet form, the same enchanting mien;
With all the softer elegance of mind
By genius helghten'd, and by taste refin'd.
Yet early was she doom'd the child of care,
For love, ill-fated love subdued the fair.
Ah! what avails each captivating grace,
The form enchanting, or the finish'd face?
Or what, each beauty of the heav'n born mind,
The soul superior, or the taste refin'd?
Beauty
but serves destruction to insure,
And
sense,
to feel the pang it cannot cure;
Each neighb'ring Youth aspir'd to gain her hand,
And many a suitor came from many a land.
But all in vain each neighb'ring Youth inspir'd,
And distant suitors all in vain admir'd,
Averse to hear, yet fearful to offend,
The lover she refus'd she made a friend:
Her meek rejection wore so mild a face,
More like acceptance seem'd it, than disgrace.
Young POLYDORE, the pride of rural swains,
Was wont to visit
Belmont
's blooming plains.
Who has not heard how POLYDORE cou'd throw
Th' unerring dart to wound the flying doe?
How leave the swiftest at the race behind,
How mount the courser, and outstrip the wind?
With melting sweetness, or with magic fire,
Breathe the soft flute, or strike the louder lyre?
From that fam'd lyre no vulgar music sprung,
The Graces tun'd it, and Apollo strung.
Apollo too was once a shepherd swain,
And fed the flock, and grac'd the rustic plain.
He taught what charms to rural life belong,
The social sweetness, and the sylvan song;
He taught, fair Wisdom in her grove to woo,
Her joys how precious, and her wants how few!
The savage herds in mute attention stood,
And ravish'd
Echo
fill'd the vocal wood;
The sacred Sisters, stooping from their sphere,
Forgot their golden Harps, intent to hear.
Till Heav'n the scene survey'd with jealous eyes,
And Jove, in envy, call'd him to the skies.
Young POLYDORE was rich in large domains.
In smiling pastures and in flowery plains:
With these, he boasted each exterior charm,
To win the prudent, and the cold to warm;
To act the tenderness he never felt,
In sorrow soften, and in anguish melt,
The sigh elaborate, the fraudful tear,
The joy dissembled, and the well feign'd fear,
All these were his; and his the treach'rous art
That steals the guileless and unpractis'd heart.
Too soon he heard of LINDAMIRA's fame,
'Twas each enamour'd Shepherd's fav'rite theme;
Return'd the rising, and the setting sun,
The shepherd's fav'rite theme was never done.
They prais'd her wit, her worth, her shape, her air!
And even inferior beauties thought her fair.
Such sweet perfection all his wonder mov'd;
He saw, admir'd, nay, fancied that he lov'd:
But POLYDORE no real passion knew,
Lost to all truth in feigning to be true.
No sense of tenderness could warm a heart
Too proud to feel, too selfish to impart.
Cold as the snows of
Rhodope
descend,
And with the chilling waves of
Hebrus
blend;
So cold the breast where
Vanity
presides,
And mean Self-love the bosom-feelings guides.
Too well, he knew to make his conquest sure,
Win her soft heart, yet keep his own secure.
So oft he told the well imagin'd tale,
So oft he swore, —how shou'd he
not
prevail?
Too unsuspecting not to be deceiv'd,
The well imagin'd tale the nymph believ'd:
She lov'd the youth, she thought herself belov'd,
Nor blush'd to praise whom every maid approv'd,
Alas! that youth, from LINDAMIRA far,
For newer conquests wages cruel war;
With other nymphs on other plains he roams,
Where injur'd LINDAMIRA never comes;
Laughs at her easy faith, insults her woe,
Nor pities tears himself had taught to flow.
And now her eyes soft radiance seem'd to fail,
And now the crimson of her cheek grew pale;
The lily there, in faded beauty, shews
Its sickly empire o'er the vanquish'd rose,
Devouring Sorrow marks her for his prey,
And slow and certain mines his silent way,
Yet, as apace her ebbing life declin'd,
Increasing strength sustain'd her woman's mind.
O had my heart been hard as his,"she cried,
An hapless victim thus I had not died:
If there be gods, and gods there surely are,
lnsulted virtue doubtless is their care.
Then hasten, righteous Heaven ! my tedious fate,
Shorten my woes, and end my mortal date:
Quick let your power transform this failing frame,
Let me be any thing but what I am !
And since the cruel woes I'm doom'd to feel,
Proceed, alas ! from having lov'd too well;
Grant me some form where love can have no part,
Nor human weakness reach my guarded heart:
If pity has not left your blest abodes,
Change me to flinty adamant, ye Gods;
To hardest rock, or monumental stone,
Rather than let me know the pangs I've known:
So shall I thus no farther torments prove,
Nor taunting rivals say, ' she died for love.
For sure if aught can aggravate our fate,
'Tis scorn, or pity from the breast we hate."
She said, —the Gods accord the sad request;
For when were pious pray'rs in vain addrest?
Now, strange to tell! if rural folks say true,
To harden'd Rock the stiffening damsel grew;
No more her shapeless features can be known,
Stone is her body, and her limbs are stone;
The growing Rock invades her beauteous face,
And quickly petrifies each living grace;
The stone her stature nor her shape retains,
The nymph is vanish'd, but the Rock remains;
Yet wou'd her heart its vital spirits keep,
And scom'd to mingle with the marble heap.
When babbling Fame the fatal tidings bore,
Grief seized the soul of perjur'd POLYDORE;
Despair and horror robb'd his soul of rest,
And deep compunction wrung his tortur'd breast.
Then to the fatal spot in haste he hied,
And plung'd a deadly poniard in his side;
He bent his dying eyes upon the stone,
And, "Take, sweet maid,"he cried, "my parting groan."
Fainting, the steel he grasp'd, and as he fell,
The weapon pierc'd the Rock he lov'd so well;
The guiltless steel assail'd the mortal part,
And stabb'd the vital, vulnerable heart.
The life-blood issuing from the wounded stone,
Blends with the crimson current of his own.
And tho' revolving ages since have past,
The meeting torrents undiminish'd last;
Still gushes out the sanguine stream amain,
The standing wonder of the stranger swain.
Now once a year, so rustic records tell,
When o'er the heath resounds the midnight bell;
On eve of Midsummer, that foe to sleep,
What time young maids their annual vigils keep,
The
Midsummer-men, consulted as oracular by village maids.
tell-tale shrub fresh gather'd to declare
The swains who false, from those who constant are;
When ghosts in clanking chains the church-yard walk,
And to the wondering ear of Fancy talk:
When the scar'd maid steals trembling thro' the grove,
To kiss the tomb of him who died for love:
When, with long watchings,
Care,
at length opprest,
Steals broken pauses of uncertain rest;
Nay,
Grief
short snatches of repose can take,
And nothing but
Despair
is quite awake:
Then, at that hour, so still, so full of fear,
When all things horrible to thought appear,
Is perjur'd POLYDORE observ'd to rove
A ghastly spectre thro' the gloomy grove;
Then to the Rock, the
Bleeding Rock
repair,
Where, sadly sighing, it dissolves to air.
Still when the hours of solemn rites return,
The village train in sad procession mourn;
Pluck every weed which might the spot disgrace,
And plant the fairest field-flow'rs in their place.
Around no noxious plant, or floweret grows,
But the first daffodil, and earliest rose:
The snow drop spreads its whitest bosom here,
And golden cowslips grace the vernal year:
Here the pale primrose takes a fairer hue,
And every violet boasts a brighter blue.
Here builds the wood lark, here the faithful dove
Laments her lost, or wooes her living love.
Secure from harm is every hallow'd nest,
The spot is sacred where true lovers rest.
To guard the Rock from each malignant sprite,
A troop of guardian spirits watch by night;
Aloft in air each takes his little stand,
The neighb'ring hill is hence call'd
Fairy Land.
By contraction
Failand,
a hill well known in Somersetshire: not far from this is
The Bleeding Rock,
from which constantly issues a crimson current.
THE END.