[]
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. WHITE⯑STONE, J. POTTS, R. CROSS, J. WILLIAMS, W. COLLES, T. WALKER, W. WILSON, W▪ WAT⯑SON, 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 ho⯑nour to its Author.
Where merit is inconteſtible, and cha⯑racters are decided by the concurring ſuf⯑frage 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 ſtart⯑ling 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 in⯑to the world, I ſhall at leaſt have no com⯑mon pleaſure in recollecting one circum⯑ſtance 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.
[8]
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.
[9]
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.
[10]
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.
[11]
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.
[l2]
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.
[13]
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.
[14]
"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.
[15]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.
[16]
"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.
[17]
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.
[18]
"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.
[19]
"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.
[20]
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.
[21]
"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.
[22]
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.
[23]
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.
[24]
The mournful Muſe forbears to tell
How wretched ELDRED died:
She draws the Grecian * 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 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.
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.
[28]
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.
[29]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.
[30]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.
[31]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 * 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;
[32]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. *
THE END.
Notes
*
‘In the celebrated Picture of the Sacrifice of Iphigenia, Timanthes having exhauſted every image of grief in the by⯑ſtanders, threw a Veil over the face of the father, whoſe ſorrow he was utterly unable to expreſs. PLIN. Book XXXV.’
*
Midſummer-men, conſulted as oracular by village maids.
*
By contraction Failand, a hill well known in Somerſet⯑ſhire: not far from this is The Bleeding Rock, from which con⯑ſtantly iſſues a crimſon current.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 4403 Sir Eldred of the bower and the bleeding rock two legendary tales By Miss Hannah More. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5E20-7