Part 17

In sleep she sometimes walked abroad, Deep sighs with quick words blending, Like that pale queen, whose hands are seen With fancied spots contending; But she is innocent of blood: The moon is not more pure That shines aloft, while through the wood She threads her way, the sounding flood Her melancholy lure.

While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe, And owls alone are waking, In white arrayed glides on the maid, The downward pathway taking, That leads her to the torrent's side, And to a holly bower; By whom on this still night descried? By whom in that lone place espied? By thee, Sir Eglamore!

A wandering ghost, so thinks the knight, His coming step has thwarted, Beneath the boughs that heard their vows, Within whose shade they parted. Hush, hush, the busy sleeper see! Perplexed her fingers seem, As if they from the holly tree Green twigs would pluck, as rapidly Flung from her to the stream.

What means the spectre? Why intent To violate the tree, Thought Eglamore, by which I swore Unfading constancy? Here am I, and to-morrow's sun, To her I left, shall prove That bliss is ne'er so surely won As when a circuit has been run Of valour, truth, and love.

So from the spot whereon he stood He moved with stealthy pace; And, drawing nigh with his living eye, He recognised the face: And whispers caught, and speeches small, Some to the green-leaved tree, Some mutter'd to the torrent-fall:-- "Roar on, and bring him with thy call; I heard, and so may he!"

Soul-shattered was the knight, nor knew If Emma's ghost it were, Or bodying shade, or if the maid Her very self stood there. He touched; what followed who shall tell? The soft touch snapped the thread Of slumber--shrieking back she fell, The stream it whirled her down the dell Along its foaming bed.

In plunged the knight!--when on firm ground The rescued maiden lay; Her eyes grew bright with blissful light, Confusion passed away; She heard, ere to the throne of grace Her faithful spirit flew, His voice--beheld his speaking face; And, dying, from his own embrace, She felt that he was true.

So was he reconciled to life: Brief words may speak the rest; Within the dell he built a cell, And there was sorrow's guest; In hermit's weeds repose he found, From vain temptations free, Beside the torrent dwelling, bound By one deep heart-controlling sound, And awed to piety.

Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course, Nor fear memorial lays, Where clouds that spread in solemn shade, Are edged with golden rays! Dear art thou to the light of heaven, Though minister of sorrow; Sweet is thy voice at pensive even; And thou, in lovers' hearts forgiven, Shalt take thy place with Yarrow.

THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN.

A LEGEND OF THE VALE OF ST. JOHN.

In travelling from Ambleside to Keswick, after passing Wythburn Chapel, the high road winds by the base of Helvellyn and the margin of the Lake of Thirlmere, or Leatheswater, which latter it afterwards leaves by a very steep ascent, exhibiting, in all their grandeur, the Fells of Borrowdale. Arrived at the top of this ascent, a very exquisite landscape presents itself below, extending over the Vale of Legberthwaite; or, more euphoniously and modernly, the Vale of St. John's.

In the midst of this valley is a fantastic pile of rocks, which, from their resemblance to the walls and towers of a dilapidated and time-worn fortress, are known as the Castle Rock. Hutchinson, in his _Excursion to the Lakes_, describes this singular scene with much poetic feeling. "We now gained the Vale of St. John's," he says, "a very narrow dell, hemmed in by mountains, through which a small brook makes many meanderings, washing little enclosures of grass-ground, which stretch up the rising of the hills. In the widest part of the dale you are struck with the appearance of an ancient ruined castle, which seems to stand upon the summit of a little mount, the mountains around forming an amphitheatre. This massive bulwark shows a front of various towers, and makes an awful, rude, and Gothic appearance, with its lofty turrets and ragged battlements; we traced the galleries, the bending arches, the buttresses. The greatest antiquity stands characterised in its architecture; the inhabitants near it assert it is an antediluvian structure.

"The traveller's curiosity is roused, and he prepares to make a nearer approach, when that curiosity is put upon the rack by his being assured that, if he advances, certain genii who govern the place, by virtue of their supernatural art and necromancy, will strip it of all its beauties, and, by enchantment, transform the magic walls. The vale seems adapted for the habitation of such beings; its gloomy recesses and retirements look like haunts of evil spirits. There was no delusion in the report; we were soon convinced of its truth; for this piece of antiquity, so venerable and noble in its aspect, as we drew near changed its figure and proved no other than a shaken massive pile of rocks, which stand in the midst of this little vale, disunited from the adjoining mountains, and have so much the real form and resemblance of a castle, that they bear the name of the Castle Rocks of St. John."

"The inhabitants to this day," says Mackay, "believe these rocks to be an antediluvian structure, and assert that the traveller, whose curiosity is aroused, will find it impossible to approach them, as the guardian genii of the place transform the walls and battlements into naked rocks when any one draws near." Nothing, in the whole range of mythological fable, could be more beautiful than this popular superstition, which ascribes the disappearance of "the castle," on a near approach, to supernatural agency. Frigid philosophy would say, these fragments of rock, when viewed from afar, bear strong resemblance to an old fortress; but on approaching nearer the illusion vanishes, and they are found to be a shapeless mass of stone. Poetry clothes this fact in beautiful imagery; she warns the intruder to survey the structure at a distance; for should he have the temerity to advance upon it, the incensed genii of the place will, by spells "of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion," transform its fair proportions into a mis-shapen pile of rocks. This pleasing fiction emanated from the same poetical spirit that wrought, in the elder days of Greece, the splendid fable of Aurora, in her saffron-coloured robe, opening the gates of the morning to the chariot of the sun.

The genius of Sir Walter Scott has rendered the beautiful Vale of St. John classic ground, by having selected it for the principal scene of his "Bridal of Triermain." This is purely a tale of chivalry of Arthur's days, when midnight fairies danced the maze; and it is at the fantastic Castle Rock that Sir Walter represents King Arthur's amorous dalliance with its fairy inhabitants in their halls of enchantment, when he was on his way to Carlisle. Our limits will not admit the whole of "The Bridal of Triermain." We give, however, such portions as will sufficiently connect the thread of the narrative, in which it will be observed that Sir Roland de Vaux, the Baron of Tremain, is introduced. This branch of Vaux, with its collateral alliances, is now represented by the family of Braddyl, of Conishead Priory, near Furness Abbey.

THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN.

Where is the Maiden of mortal strain, That may match with the Baron of Trierman? She must be lovely, and constant, and kind, Holy and pure, and humble of mind, Blithe of cheer and gentle of mood, Courteous, and generous, and noble of blood-- Lovely as the sun's first ray When it breaks the clouds of an April day; Constant and true as the widow'd dove, Kind as a minstrel that sings of love; Pure as the fountain in rocky cave, Where never sunbeam kissed the wave; Humble as maiden that loves in vain, Holy as hermit's vesper strain; Gentle as breeze that but whispers and dies, Yet blithe as the light leaves that dance in its sighs; Courteous as monarch the morn he is crowned, Generous as spring-dews that bless the glad ground; Noble her blood as the currents that met In the veins of the noblest Plantagenet; Such must her form be, her mood, and her strain, That shall match with Sir Roland of Triermain.

Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to sleep, His blood it was fevered, his breathing was deep. He had been pricking against the Scot, The foray was long and the skirmish hot; His dinted helm and his buckler's plight Bore token of a stubborn fight.

All in the castle must hold them still, Harpers must lull him to his rest, With the slow soft tunes he loves the best, Till sleep sink down upon his breast, Like the dew on a summer hill.

It was the dawn of an autumn day, The sun was struggling with frost-fog gray, That like a silvery crape was spread Round Skiddaw's dim and distant head, And faintly gleamed each painted pane Of the lordly halls of Triermain, When that Baron bold awoke. Starting he woke, and loudly did call, Rousing his menials in bower and hall, While hastily he spoke.

"Hearken, my minstrels! Which of ye all Touched his harp with that dying fall, So sweet, so soft, so faint, It seem'd an angel's whisper'd call To an expiring saint? And hearken, my merry-men! What time or where Did she pass, that maid with her heavenly brow, With her look so sweet and her eyes so fair, And her graceful step and her angel air, And the eagle-plume in her dark-brown hair, That pass'd from my bower e'en now!"

Answer'd him Richard de Bretville; he Was chief of the Baron's minstrelsy-- "Silent, noble chieftain, we Have sat since midnight close, When such lulling sounds as the brooklet sings, Murmur'd from our melting strings, And hush'd you to repose, Had a harp-note sounded here, It had caught my watchful ear, Although it fell as faint and shy As bashful maiden's half-formed sigh, When she thinks her lover near." Answer'd Philip of Fasthwaite tall, He kept guard in the outer-hall-- "Since at eve our watch took post, Not a foot has thy portal cross'd; Else had I heard the steps, though low, And light they fell, as when earth receives, In morn of frost, the wither'd leaves That drop when no winds blow."--

"Then come thou thither, Henry, my page, Whom I saved from the sack of Hermitage, When that dark castle, tower, and spire, Rose to the skies a pile of fire, And redden'd all the Nine-stane Hill, And the shrieks of death, that wildly broke Through devouring flame and smothering smoke, Made the warrior's heart-blood chill. The trustiest thou of all my train, My fleetest courser thou must rein, And ride to Lyulph's tower, And from the Baron of Trierman Greet well that Sage of power. He is sprung from Druid sires, And British bards that tuned their lyres To Arthur's and Pendragon's praise, And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise.[17]

Gifted like his gifted race, He the characters can trace, Graven deep in elder time Upon Helvellyn's cliffs sublime: Sign and sigil well doth he know, And can bode of weal and woe, Of kingdoms' fall, and fate of wars, From mystic dreams and course of stars. He shall tell if middle earth To that enchanting shape gave birth, Or if 'twas but an airy thing, Such as fantastic slumbers bring, Fram'd from the rainbow's varying dyes, Or fading tints of western skies. For, by the blessed rood I swear, If that fair form breathe vital air, No other maiden by my side Shall ever rest De Vaux's bride!"

The faithful Page he mounts his steed, And soon he cross'd green Irthing's mead, Dash'd o'er Kirkoswald's verdant plain, And Eden barr'd his course in vain. He pass'd red Penrith's Table round,[18] For feats of chivalry renown'd, Left Mayburgh's mound[19] and stones of power, By Druids raised in magic hour, And traced the Eamont's winding way, Till Ulfo's lake[20] beneath him lay.

Onward he rode, the pathway still Winding betwixt the lake and hill; Till, on the fragment of a rock, Struck from its base by lightning shock, He saw the hoary sage: The silver moss and lichen twined, With fern and deer-hair check'd and lined, A cushion fit for age; And o'er him shook the aspin-tree, A restless rustling canopy.

Then sprung young Henry from his selle, And greeted Lyulph grave, And then his master's tale did tell, And then for counsel crave. The Man of Years mused long and deep, Of time's lost treasures taking keep, And then, as rousing from a sleep, His solemn answer gave. "That maid is born of middle earth, And may of man be won, Though there have glided since her birth Five hundred years and one. But where's the knight in all the north, That dare the adventure follow forth, So perilous to knightly worth, In the valley of St. John? Listen, youth, to what I tell, And bind it on thy memory well; Nor muse that I commence the rhyme Far distant 'mid the wrecks of time. The mystic tale, by bard and sage, Is handed down from Merlin's age."

[17] Dunmailraise is one of the grand passes from Cumberland into Westmorland. It takes its name from a cairn, or pile of stones, erected it is said, to the memory of Dunmail, the last king of Cumberland, who was slain and buried there.

[18] A circular entrenchment, about half a mile from Penrith, is thus popularly termed. The circle within the ditch is about one hundred and sixty paces in circumference, with openings, or approaches, directly opposite to each other. As the ditch is on the inner side, it could not be intended for the purpose of defence, and it has been reasonably conjectured, that the enclosure was designed for the solemn exercise of feats of chivalry; and the embankment around for the convenience of the spectators.

[19] Higher up the river Eamont than Arthur's Round Table, is a prodigious enclosure of great antiquity, formed by a collection of stones upon the top of a gently sloping hill, called Mayburgh. In the plain which it encloses there stands erect an unhewn stone of twelve feet in height. Two similar masses are said to have been destroyed during the memory of man. The whole appears to be a monument of Druidical times.

[20] Ullswater.

LYULPH'S TALE.

"King Arthur has ridden from merry Carlisle, When Pentecost was o'er: He journey'd like errant-knight the while, And sweetly the summer sun did smile On mountain, moss, and moor. Above his solitary track Rose huge Blencathara's ridgy back, Amid whose yawning gulfs the sun Cast umber'd radiance red and dun, Though never sunbeam could discern The surface of that sable tarn,[21] In whose black mirror you may spy The stars, while noontide lights the sky. The gallant King he skirted still The margin of that mighty hill; Rock upon rocks incumbent hung, And torrents, down the gullies flung, Join'd the rude river that brawl'd on, Recoiling now from crag and stone, Now diving deep from human ken, And raving down its darksome glen. The Monarch judged this desert wild, With such romantic ruin piled, Was theatre by nature's hand For feat of high achievement plann'd.

"He rode, till over down and dell The shade more broad and deeper fell; And though around the mountain's head Flow'd streams of purple, and gold, and red, Dark at the base, unblest by beam, Frown'd the black rocks, and roar'd the stream. With toil the King his way pursued By lonely Threlkeld's waste and wood, Till on his course obliquely shone The narrow valley of Saint John, Down sloping to the western sky, Where lingering sunbeams love to lie. Right glad to feel those beams again, The King drew up his charger's rein; With gauntlet raised he screen'd his sight, As dazzled with the level light, And, from beneath his glove of mail, Scann'd at his ease the lovely vale, While 'gainst the sun his armour bright Gleam'd ruddy like the beacon's light.

"Paled in by many a lofty hill, The narrow dale lay smooth and still, And, down its verdant bosom led, A winding brooklet found its bed. But, midmost of the vale, a mound Arose with airy turrets crown'd, Buttress, and rampire's circling bound, And mighty keep and tower; Seem'd some primeval giant's hand, The castle's massive walls had plann'd, A ponderous bulwark to withstand Ambitious Nimrod's power. Above the moated entrance slung, The balanced drawbridge trembling hung, As jealous of a foe; Wicket of oak, as iron hard, With iron studded, clench'd, and barr'd, And prong'd portcullis, join'd to guard The gloomy pass below. But the gray walls no banners crown'd, Upon the watch-tower's airy round, No warder stood his horn to sound, No guard beside the bridge was found, And, where the Gothic gateway frown'd, Glanced neither bill nor bow.

"Beneath the castle's gloomy pride, In ample round did Arthur ride Three times; nor living thing he spied, Nor heard a living sound, Save that, awakening from her dream, The owlet now began to scream, In concert with the rushing stream, That wash'd the battled mound. He lighted from his goodly steed, And he left him to graze on bank and mead; And slowly he climb'd the narrow way That reached the entrance grim and gray, And he stood the outward arch below, And his bugle-horn prepared to blow, In summons blithe and bold, Deeming to rouse from iron sleep The guardian of this dismal Keep, Which well he guess'd the hold Of wizard stern, or goblin grim, Or pagan of gigantic limb, The tyrant of the wold.

"The ivory bugle's golden tip Twice touch'd the Monarch's manly lip, And twice his hand withdrew. --Think not but Arthur's heart was good! His shield was cross'd by the blessed rood, Had a pagan host before him stood, He had charged them through and through; Yet the silence of that ancient place Sunk on his heart, and he paused a space Ere yet his horn he blew. But, instant as its 'larum rung, The castle gate was open flung, Portcullis rose with crashing groan Full harshly up its groove of stone; The balance-beams obey'd the blast, And down the trembling drawbridge cast; The vaulted arch before him lay, With nought to bar the gloomy way, And onward Arthur paced, with hand On Caliburn's[22] resistless brand.

"A hundred torches, flashing bright, Dispelled at once the gloomy night That lour'd along the walls, And show'd the King's astonish'd sight The inmates of the halls. Nor wizard stern nor goblin grim, Nor giant huge of form and limb, Nor heathen knight, was there; But the cressets, which odours flung aloft, Show'd by their yellow light and soft, A band of damsels fair. Onward they came, like summer wave That dances to the shore; An hundred voices welcome gave, And welcome o'er and o'er! An hundred lovely hands assail The bucklers of the monarch's mail, And busy labour'd to unhasp Rivet of steel and iron clasp. One wrapp'd him in a mantle fair, And one flung odours on his hair; His short curl'd ringlets one smooth'd down, One wreathed them with a myrtle-crown. A bride upon her wedding-day, Was tended ne'er by troop so gay.

"Loud laugh'd they all,--the King, in vain, With questions task'd the giddy train; Let him entreat, or crave, or call, 'Twas one reply--loud laugh'd they all. Then o'er him mimic chains they fling, Framed of the fairest flowers of spring. While some their gentle force unite, Onward to drag the wondering knight, Some, bolder, urge his pace with blows, Dealt with the lily or the rose. Behind him were in triumph borne The warlike arms he late had worn. Four of the train combined to rear The terrors of Tintadgel's spear;[23] Two, laughing at their lack of strength, Dragg'd Caliburn in cumbrous length; One, while she aped a martial stride, Placed on her brows the helmet's pride; Then scream'd, 'twixt laughter and surprise, To feel its depth o'erwhelm her eyes. With revel-shout, and triumph-song, Thus gaily march'd the giddy throng.

"Through many a gallery and hall They led, I ween, their royal thrall; At length, beneath a fair arcade Their march and song at once they staid. The eldest maiden of the band, (The lovely maid was scarce eighteen,) Raised, with imposing air, her hand, And reverent silence did command, On entrance of their Queen, And they were mute--But as a glance They steal on Arthur's countenance Bewilder'd with surprise, Their smother'd mirth again 'gan speak, In archly dimpled chin and cheek, And laughter-lighted eyes.

"The attributes of those high days Now only live in minstrel-lays; Nor Nature, now exhausted, still Was then profuse of good and ill. Strength was gigantic, valour high, And wisdom soar'd beyond the sky, And beauty had such matchless beam As lights not now a lover's dream. Yet e'en in that romantic age, Ne'er were such charms by mortal seen, As Arthur's dazzled eyes engage, When forth on that enchanted stage, With glittering train of maid and page, Advanced the castle's Queen! While up the hall she slowly pass'd, Her dark eye on the King she cast, That flash'd expression strong; The longer dwelt that lingering look, Her cheek the livelier colour took, And scarce the shame-faced King could brook The gaze that lasted long. A sage, who had that look espied, Where kindling passion strove with pride, Had whisper'd, 'Prince, beware! From the chafed tiger rend the prey, Rush on the lion when at bay, Bar the fell dragon's blighted way, But shun that lovely snare!'--

"At once, that inward strife suppress'd, The dame approach'd her warlike guest, With greeting in that fair degree, Where female pride and courtesy Are blended with such passing art As awes at once and charms the heart. A courtly welcome first she gave, Then of his goodness 'gan to crave Construction fair and true Of her light maidens' idle mirth, Who drew from lonely glens their birth, Nor knew to pay to stranger worth And dignity their due; And then she pray'd that he would rest That night her castle's honour'd guest. The Monarch meetly thanks express'd; The banquet rose at her behest, With lay and tale, and laugh and jest, Apace the evening flew.