POEMS
COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN THE SUMMER OF 1833
XLVI. THE SOMNAMBULIST
POEMS
COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN THE SUMMER OF 1833
LIST, ye who pass by Lyulph’s Tower At eve; how softly then Doth Aira-force, that torrent hoarse, Speak from the woody glen! Fit music for a solemn vale! And holier seems the ground To him who catches on the gale The spirit of a mournful tale, Embodied in the sound. Not far from that fair site whereon 10 The Pleasure-house is reared, As story says, in antique days A stern-browed house appeared; Foil to a Jewel rich in light There set, and guarded well; Cage for a Bird of plumage bright, Sweet-voiced, nor wishing for a flight Beyond her native dell. To win this bright Bird from her cage, To make this Gem their own, 20 Came Barons bold, with store of gold, And Knights of high renown; But one She prized, and only one; Sir Eglamore was he; Full happy season, when was known, Ye Dales and Hills! to yon alone Their mutual loyalty– Known chiefly, Aira! to thy glen, Thy brook, and bowers of holly; Where Passion caught what Nature taught, 30 That all but love is folly; Where Fact with Fancy stooped to play; Doubt came not, nor regret– To trouble hours that winged their way, As if through an immortal day Whose sun could never set. But in old times Love dwelt not long Sequestered with repose; Best throve the fire of chaste desire, Fanned by the breath of foes. 40 “A conquering lance is beauty’s test, “And proves the Lover true;” So spake Sir Eglamore, and pressed The drooping Emma to his breast, And looked a blind adieu. They parted.–Well with him it fared Through wide-spread regions errant; A knight of proof in love’s behoof, The thirst of fame his warrant: And She her happiness can build 50 On woman’s quiet hours; Though faint, compared with spear and shield, The solace beads and masses yield, And needlework and flowers. Yet blest was Emma when she heard Her Champion’s praise recounted; Though brain would swim, and eyes grow dim, And high her blushes mounted; Or when a bold heroic lay She warbled from full heart; 60 Delightful blossoms for the ‘May’ Of absence! but they will not stay, Born only to depart. Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills Whatever path he chooses; As if his orb, that owns no curb, Received the light hers loses. He comes not back; an ampler space Requires for nobler deeds; He ranges on from place to place, 70 Till of his doings is no trace, But what her fancy breeds. His fame may spread, but in the past Her spirit finds its centre; Clear sight She has of what he was, And that would now content her. “Still is he my devoted Knight?” The tear in answer flows; Month falls on month with heavier weight; Day sickens round her, and the night 80 Is empty of repose. 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 thrids her way, the sounding Flood Her melancholy lure! 90 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, 100 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, 110 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, 120 He recognised the face; And whispers caught, and speeches small, Some to the green-leaved tree, Some muttered 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 boding Shade, or if the Maid Her very self stood there. 130 He touched; what followed who shall tell? The soft touch snapped the thread Of slumber–shrieking back she fell, And the Stream 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 140 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 hermits’ weeds repose he found, From vain temptations free; 150 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; 160 And thou, in lovers’ hearts forgiven, Shalt take thy place with Yarrow!