# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/A Tale of the Fourteenth Century

A
TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY.*
A FRAGMENT.
The moonbeam, quivering o'er the wave,  Sleeps in pale gold on wood and hill, The wild wind slumbers in its cave,  And heaven is cloudless—earth is still! The pile that crowns yon savage height, With battlements of Gothic might,  Rises in softer pomp arrayed,  Its massy towers half lost in shade, Half touched with mellowing light!
The rays of night, the tints of time,  Soft-mingling on its dark-gray stone, O'er its rude strength and mien sublime,  A placid smile have thrown; And far beyond, where wild and high, Bounding the pale blue summer sky, A mountain vista meets the eye, Its dark, luxuriant woods assume, A pencilled shade, a softer gloom; Its jutting cliffs have caught the light, Its torrents glitter through the night, While every cave and deep recess, Frowns in more shadowy awfulness.
Scarce moving on the glassy deep, Yon gallant vessel seems to sleep,  But, darting from its side, How swiftly does its boat design A slender, silvery, waving line  Of radiance o'er the tide!
No sound is on the summer-seas,  But the low dashing of the oar, And faintly sighs the midnight breeze  Through woods that fringe the rocky shore. —That boat has reach'd the silent bay, The dashing oar has ceased to play, The breeze has murmured and has died In forest-shades, on ocean's tide. No step, no tone, no breath of sound Disturbs the loneliness profound, And midnight spreads o'er earth and main  A calm so holy and so deep, That voice of mortal were profane,  To break on nature's sleep! It is the hour for thought to soar,  High o'er the cloud of earthly woes; For rapt devotion to adore,  For passion to repose; And virtue to forget her tears, In visions of sublimer spheres!
For oh! those transient gleams of heaven, To calmer, purer spirits given, Children of hallowed peace, are known In solitude and shade alone! Like flowers that shun the blaze of noon, To blow beneath the midnight moon, The garish world they will not bless, But only live in loneliness!
Hark! did some note of plaintive swell  Melt on the stillness of the air? Or was it fancy's powerful spell  That woke such sweetness there? For wild and distant it arose, Like sounds that bless the bard's repose, When in lone wood, or mossy cave He dreams beside some fountain-wave, And fairy worlds delight the eyes, Wearied with life's realities.
—Was it illusion?—Yet again Rises and falls th' enchanted strain,  Mellow, and sweet, and faint, As if some spirit's touch had given The soul of sound to harp of Heaven  To soothe a dying saint! Is it the mermaid's distant shell,  Warbling beneath the moonlight wave? —Such witching tones might lure full well  The seaman to his grave! Sure from no mortal touch ye rise, Wild, soft, aerial melodies! —Is it the song of woodland-fay  From sparry grot, or haunted bower? Hark! floating on, the magic lay  Draws near yon ivied tower! Now nearer still, the listening ear May catch sweet harp-notes, faint yet clear, And accents low, as if in fear,  Thus murmur, half-suppressed;
"Awake! the moon is bright on high, The sea is calm, the bark is nigh,  The world is hushed to rest!" Then sinks the voice—the strain is o'er, Its last low cadence dies along the shore.
Fair Bertha hears th' expected song, Swift from her tower she glides along; No echo to her tread awakes, Her fairy step no slumber breaks, And, in that hour of silence deep While all around the dews of sleep O'erpower each sense, each eyelid steep, Quick throbs her heart with hope and fear, Her dark eye glistens with a tear. Half-wavering now, the varying cheek And sudden pause, her doubts bespeak, The lip now flushed, now pale as death, The trembling frame, the fluttering breath!
Oh! in that moment, o'er her soul What struggling passions claim control! Fear, duty, love, in conflict high. By turns have won th' ascendency; And as, all tremulously bright, Streams o'er her face the beam of night, What thousand mix'd emotions play O'er that fair face, and melt away: Like forms whose quick succession gleams O'er fancy's rainbow—tinted dreams; Like the swift glancing lights that rise Midst the wild cloud of stormy skies  And traverse ocean o'er; So in that full, impassioned eye The changeful meanings rise and die,  Just seen—and then no more! But oh! too short that pause—again, Shrills to her heart that witching strain, "Awake! the midnight moon is bright, Awake! the moments wing their flight,  Haste! or they speed in vain!"
Oh call of Love! thy potent spell, O'er that weak heart prevails too well, The "still small voice" is heard no more That pleaded duty's cause before, And fear is hushed, and doubt is gone, And pride forgot, and reason flown! Her cheek, whose colour came and fled, Resumes its warmest, brightest red, Her step its quick elastic tread,  Her eye its beaming smile! Through lonely court and silent hall, Flits her light shadow o'er the wall, And still that low, harmonious call  Melts on her ear the while! Though love's quick ear alone could tell The words its accents faintly swell, "Awake! while yet the lingering night And stars and seas befriend our flight,  Oh! haste, while all is well!"
The halls, the courts, the gates, are past, She gains the moonlit beach at last. Who waits to guide her trembling feet? Who flies the fugitive to greet? He, to her youthful heart endeared By all it e'er had hoped and feared, Twined with each wish, with every thought Each day-dream fancy e'er had wrought, Whose tints pourtray with flattering skill What brighter worlds alone fulfil! —Alas! that aught so fair should fly Thy blighting wand, Reality!
A chieftain's mien her Osbert bore, A pilgrim's lowly robes he wore, Disguise that vainly strove to hide Bearing and glance of martial pride; For he in many a battle scene, On many a rampart-breach had been; Had sternly smiled at danger nigh, Had seen the valiant bleed and die,
And proudly reared on hostile tower, 'Midst falchion-clash, and arrowy shower,  Britannia's banner high! And though some ancient feud had taught  His Bertha's sire to loathe his name, More noble warrior never fought,  For glory's prize, or England's fame. And well his dark, commanding eye,  And form and step of stately grace, Accorded with achievements high, Soul of emprize and chivalry,  Bright name, and generous race! His cheek, embrowned by many a sun, Tells a proud tale of glory won, Of vigil, march, and combat rude, Valour, and toil, and fortitude! E'en while youth's earliest blushes threw Warm o'er that cheek, their vivid hue, His gallant soul, his stripling-form, Had braved the battle's rudest storm;
When England's conquering archers stood, And dyed thy plain, Poitiers, with blood,
When shivered axe, and cloven shield, And shattered helmet, strewed the field, And France around her King in vain, Had marshalled valour's noblest train; In that dread strife, his lightning eye, Had flashed with transport keen and high, And 'midst the battle's wildest tide, Throbb'd his young heart with hope and pride. Alike that fearless heart could brave, Death on the war-field or the wave; Alike in tournament or fight, That ardent spirit found delight! Yet oft, 'midst hostile scenes afar,  Bright o'er his soul a vision came, Rising, like some benignant star, On stormy seas, or plains of war,  To soothe, with hopes more dear than fame,  The heart that throbb'd to Bertha's name!
And 'midst the wildest rage of fight, And in the deepest calm of night, To her his thoughts would wing their flight  With fond devotion warm; Oft would those glowing thoughts pourtray Some home, from tumults far away,  Graced with that angel form! And now his spirit fondly deems Fulfilled its loveliest, dearest dreams!
Who, with pale cheek, and locks of snow,  In minstrel garb attends the chief? The moonbeam on his thoughtful brow  Reveals a shade of grief. Sorrow and time have touched his face, With mournful yet majestic grace, Soft as the melancholy smile Of sunset on some ruined pile! —It is the bard, whose song had power, To lure the maiden from her tower;
The bard whose wild, inspiring lays, E'en in gay childhood's earliest days,  First woke in Osbert's kindling breast,  The flame that will not be represt, The pulse that throbs for praise! Those lays had banished from his eye, The bright, soft tears of infancy, Had soothed the boy to calm repose, Had hushed his bosom's earliest woes; And when the light of thought awoke, When first young reason's day-spring broke, More powerful still, they bade arise, His spirit's burning energies! Then the bright dream of glory warmed, Then the loud pealing war-song charmed, The legends of each martial line, The battle-tales of Palestine; And oft, since then, his deeds had proved, Themes of the lofty lays he loved! Now, at triumphant love's command, Since Osbert leaves his native land,
Forsaking glory's high career, For her, than glory far more dear, Since hope's gay dream, and meteor ray, To distant regions points his way, That there affection's hands may dress, A fairy bower for happiness; That fond, devoted bard, though now, Time's wint'ry garland wreathes his brow, Though quenched the sunbeam of his eye, And fled his spirit's buoyancy; And strength and enterprise are past, Still follows, constant to the last!
Though his sole wish was but to die 'Midst the calm scenes of days gone by, And all that hallows and endears, The memory of departed years, Sorrow, and joy, and time, have twined To those lov'd scenes, his pensive mind; Ah! what can tear the links apart, That bind his chieftain to his heart?
What smile but his with joy can light The eye obscured by age's night? Last of a loved and honoured line, Last tie to earth in life's decline, Till death its lingering spark shall dim, That faithful eye must gaze on him!
Silent and swift, with footstep light, Haste on those fugitives of night, They reach the boat—the rapid oar, Soon wafts them from the wooded shore; The bark is gained—a gallant few, Vassals of Osbert, form its crew; The pennant, in the moonlight beam,  With soft suffusion glows; From the white sail a silvery gleam,  Falls on the wave's repose; Long shadows undulating play, From mast and streamer, o'er the bay; But still so hushed the summer-air,
They tremble, 'midst that scene so fair, Lest morn's first beam behold them there. —Wake, viewless wanderer! breeze of night; From river-wave, or mountain-height, Or dew-bright couch of moss and flowers, By haunted spring, in forest bowers; Or dost thou lurk in pearly cell, In amber grot, where mermaids dwell, And caverned gems their lustre throw, O'er the red sea-flowers' vivid glow? Where treasures, not for mortal gaze, In solitary splendour blaze; And sounds, ne'er heard by mortal ear, Swell through the deep's unfathomed sphere? What grove of that mysterious world, Holds thy light wing, in slumber furled? Awake! o'er glittering seas to rove, Awake! to guide the bark of love!
Swift fly the midnight hours, and soon Shall fade the bright propitious moon;
Soon shall the waning stars grow pale, E’en now—but lo! the rustling sail, Swells to the new-sprung ocean gale! The bark glides on—their fears are o'er, Recedes the bold, romantic shore,  Its features mingling fast; Gaze, Bertha, gaze, thy lingering eye May still each lovely scene descry  Of years for ever past! There wave the woods, beneath whose shade, With bounding step, thy childhood played; 'Midst ferny glades, and mossy lawns, Free as their native birds and fawns; Listening the sylvan sounds, that float On each low breeze, 'midst dells remote; The ring-dove's deep, melodious moan, The rustling deer in thickets lone; The wild bee's hum, the aspen's sigh, The wood-stream's plaintive harmony. Dear scenes of many a sportive hour, There thy own mountains darkly tower!
'Midst their gray rocks no glen so rude, But thou hast loved its solitude! No path so wild but thou hast known, And traced its rugged course alone! The earliest wreath that bound thy hair, Was twined of glowing heath-flowers there. There, in the day-spring of thy years, Undimmed by passions or by tears, Oft, while thy bright, enraptured eye, Wandered o'er ocean, earth, and sky, While the wild breeze that round thee blew, Tinged thy warm cheek with richer hue; Pure as the skies that o'er thy head Their clear and cloudless azure spread; Pure as that gale, whose light wing drew Its freshness from the mountain dew; Glowed thy young heart with feelings high, A Heaven of hallowed ecstacy! Such days were thine! ere love had drawn A cloud o'er that celestial dawn!
As the clear dews in morning's beam, With soft reflected colouring stream, Catch every tint of eastern gem, To form the rose's diadem; But vanish, when the noontide hour, Glows fiercely on the shrinking flower; Thus in thy soul each calm delight, Like morn's first dew-drops, pure and bright. Fled swift from passion's blighting fire, Or lingered only to expire!
Spring on thy native hills again,  Shall bid neglected wild-flowers rise, And call forth, in each grassy glen,  Her brightest emerald dyes! There shall the lonely mountain rose, Wreath of the cliffs, again disclose; 'Midst rocky dells, each well-known stream, Shall sparkle in the summer beam; The birch, o'er precipice and cave, Its feathery foliage still shall wave;
The ash 'midst rugged clefts unveil, Its coral clusters to the gale, And autumn shed a warmer bloom, O'er the rich heath and glowing broom. But thy light footstep there no more, Each path, each dingle shall explore; In vain may smile each green recess, —Who now shall pierce its loneliness? The stream through shadowy glens may stray, —Who now shall trace its glistening way? In solitude, in silence deep, Shrined 'midst her rocks, shall echo sleep, No lute's wild swell again shall rise, To wake her mystic melodies. All soft may blow the mountain air —It will not wave thy graceful hair! The mountain-rose may bloom and die, —It will not meet thy smiling eye! But like those scenes of vanished days,  Shall others ne'er delight;
Far lovelier lands shall meet thy gaze.  Yet seem not half so bright! O'er the dim woodlands’ fading hue,  Still gleams yon Gothic pile on high; Gaze on, while yet 'tis thine to view  That home of infancy! Heed not the night-dew's chilling power, Heed not the sea-wind's coldest hour, But pause, and linger on the deck, Till of those towers no trace, no speck,  Is gleaming o'er the main; For when the mist of morn shall rise, Blending the sea, the shore, the skies, That home, once vanished from thine eyes,  Shall bless them ne'er again! There the dark tales and songs of yore,  First with strange transport thrilled thy soul, E’en while their fearful, mystic lore,  From thy warm cheek the life-bloom stole; There, while thy father's raptured ear,
Dwelt fondly on a strain so dear, And in his eye the trembling tear,  Revealed his spirit's trance; How oft, those echoing halls along, Thy thrilling voice has swelled the song, Tradition wild of other days, Or troubadour's heroic lays  Or legend of romance! Oh! many an hour has there been thine,  That memory's pencil oft shall dress In softer shades, and tints that shine  In mellowed loveliness! While thy sick heart, and fruitless tears,  Shall mourn, with fond and deep regret, The sunshine of thine early years,  Scarce deemed so radiant—till it set! The cloudless peace unprized, till gone, The bliss, till vanished, hardly known!
On rock and turret, wood and hill, The fading moonbeams linger still;
Still, Bertha, gaze!—on yon gray tower, At evening's last and sweetest hour, While varying still, the western skies Flushed the clear seas with rainbow-dyes, Whose warm suffusions glowed and passed, Each richer, lovelier, than the last; How oft, while gazing on the deep, That seemed a heaven of peace to sleep, As if its wave, so still, so fair, More frowning mien might never wear, The twilight calm of mental rest, Would steal in silence o'er thy breast, And wake that dear and balmy sigh, That softly breathes the spirit's harmony! —Ah! ne'er again shall hours to thee be given, Of joy on earth—so near allied to Heaven!
Why starts the tear to Bertha's eye? Is not her long-loved Osbert nigh? Is there a grief his voice, his smile, His words, are fruitless to beguile?
—Oh! bitter to the youthful heart,  That scarce a pang, a care has known, The hour when first from scenes we part,  Where life's bright spring has flown! Forsaking, o'er the world to roam, That little shrine of peace—our home! E'en if delighted fancy throw O'er that cold world, her brightest glow, Painting its untried paths with flowers, That will not live in earthly bowers; (Too frail, too exquisite, to bear One breath of life's ungenial air;) E'en if such dreams of hope arise, As Heaven alone can realize; Cold were the breast that would not heave One sigh, the home of youth to leave; Stern were the heart that would not swell To breathe life's saddest word—farewell! Though earth has many a deeper woe, Though tears, more bitter far, must flow,
That hour, whate'er our future lot, That first fond grief, is ne'er forgot!
Such was the pang of Bertha's heart, The thought, that bade the tear-drop start;  And Osbert by her side, Heard the deep sigh whose bursting swell, Nature's fond struggle told too well, And days of future bliss pourtrayed, And love's own eloquence essayed,  To soothe his plighted bride! Of bright Arcadian scenes he tells,  In that sweet land to which they fly; The vine-clad rocks, the fragrant dells  Of blooming Italy. For he had roved a pilgrim there, And gazed on many a spot so fair, It seemed like some enchanted grove, Where only peace, and joy, and love, Those exiles of the world, might rove,  And breathe its heavenly air;
And all unmixed with ruder tone, Their "wood-notes wild" be heard alone!
Far from the frown of stern control, That vainly would subdue the soul, There shall their long-affianced hands, Be joined in consecrated bands, And in some rich, romantic vale,  Circled with heights of Alpine snow, Where citron-woods enrich the gale, And scented shrubs their balm exhale,  And flowering myrtles blow; And 'midst the mulberry boughs on high, Weaves the wild vine her tapestry: On some bright streamlet's emerald side, Where cedars wave, in graceful pride, Bosomed in groves, their home shall rise, A sheltered bower of Paradise!
Thus would the lover soothe to rest With tales of hope, her anxious breast;
Nor vain that dear, enchanting lore, Her soul's bright visions to restore, And bid gay phantoms of delight, Float, in soft colouring, o'er her sight. —Oh! youth, sweet May-morn, fled so soon, Far brighter than life's loveliest noon, How oft thy spirit's buoyant power, Will triumph, e'en in sorrow's hour,  Prevailing o'er regret! As rears its head th' elastic flower, Though the dark tempest's recent shower,  Hang on its petals yet!
Ah! not so soon can hope's gay smile, The aged bard to joy beguile; Those silent years that steal away, The cheek's warm rose, the eye's bright ray, Win from the mind a nobler prize, E'en all its buoyant energies! For him the April days are past, When grief was but a fleeting cloud;
No transient shade will sorrow cast, When age the spirit's might has bowed! And as he sees the land grow dim, That native land, now lost to him, Fixed are his eyes, and clasped his hands, And long in speechless grief he stands. So desolately calm his air, He seems an image, wrought to bear The stamp of deep, though hushed despair; Motion and life no sign bespeaks Save that the night-breeze, o'er his cheeks,  Just waves his silvery hair! Nought else could teach the eye to know He was no sculptured form of woe!
Long gazing o'er the darkening flood, Pale in that silent grief he stood; Till the cold moon was waning fast,  And many a lovely star had died, And the gray heavens deep shadows cast  Far o'er the slumbering tide;
And robed in one dark solemn hue, Arose the distant shore to view. Then, starting from his trance of woe, Tears, long-suppressed, in freedom flow, While thus his wild and plaintive strain, Blends with the murmur of the main.
THE BARD'S FAREWELL.
Thou setting moon! when next thy rays,  Are trembling on the shadowy deep, The land, now fading from my gaze  These eyes in vain shall weep; And wander o'er the lonely sea, And fix their tearful glance on thee, On thee! whose light so softly gleams,
But 'midst those ancient groves no more  Shall I thy quivering lustre hail,
Its plaintive strain my harp must pour,  To swell a foreign gale; The rocks, the woods, whose echoes woke, When its full tones their stillness broke, Deserted now, shall hear alone,
And oh! ye fair, forsaken halls,  Left by your lord to slow decay, Soon shall the trophies on your walls  Be mouldering fast away! There shall no choral songs resound, There shall no festal board be crowned; But ivy wreath the silent gate,
No banner from the stately tower,  Shall spread its blazoned folds on high, There the wild briar and summer-flower,  Unmarked shall wave and die!
Home of the mighty! thou art lone, The noonday of thy pride is gone, And 'midst thy solitude profound,
From thy cold hearths no festal blaze,  Shall fill the hall with ruddy light, Nor welcome, with convivial rays,  Some pilgrim of the night; But there shall grass luxuriant spread, As o'er the dwellings of the dead; And the deep swell of every blast,
And I—my joy of life is fled,  My spirit's power, my bosom's glow, The raven-locks that graced my head,  Wave in a wreath of snow! And where the star of youth arose, I deemed life's lingering ray should close,
And those loved trees my tomb o'ershade,
Vain dream! that tomb in distant earth,  Shall rise forsaken and forgot, And thou, sweet land, that gav'st me birth,  A grave must yield me not! Yet haply he for whom I leave, Thy shores, in life's dark winter-eve, When cold the hand, and closed the lays, And mute the voice he loved to praise, O'er the hushed harp one tear may shed,