Classic Poem

A Tale

" When will my troubled soul have rest? "
— The beauteous Lewin cried;
As thro' the murky shade of night
— With frantic step she hied.

" When shall those eyes my Gynneth's face,
— My Gynneth's form survey?
When shall those longing eyes again
— Behold the dawn of day? "

Cold are the dews that wet my cheek,
— The night-mist damps the ground;
Appalling echoes strike mine ear,
— And spectres gleam around.

The vivid lightning's transient rays
— Around my temples play;
'Tis all the light my fate affords,
— To mark my thorny way.

From the black mountain's awful height,
— Where Lathryth's turrets rise;
The dark owl screams a direful song,
— And warns me as she flies!

The chilling blast, the whistling winds,
— The mould'ring ramparts shake;
The hungry tenants of the wood,
— Their cavern'd haunts forsake.

Those tender limbs unus'd to stray
— Beyond a father's door;
Full many a mile have journey'd forth,
— Each footstep mark'd with gore.

No costly sandals deck those feet,
— By thorns and briars torn;
The cold rain chills my rosy cheek,
— Whose freshness sham'd the morn!

Slow steals the life-stream at my heart;
— Dark clouds o'ershade my eyes;
Foreboding sorrow tells my soul,
— My captive Lover dies.

Yet if one gentle ray of hope
— Can sooth the soul to rest;
Oh! may it pierce yon flinty tow'r,
— And warm my Gynneth's breast:

And if soft pity's tearful eye
— A Tyrant's heart can move;
Ill-fated Lewin yet may live
— To clasp her vanquish'd Love.

And tho' stern war with bonds of steel
— His graceful form shall bind;
No earthly spell has pow'r to hold
— The freedom of his mind!

And tho' his warm and gallant heart
— Now yields to fate's decree;
Its feelings spurn the base constraint,
— And fly to Love and me!

Then, Branworth, Lion of the field!
— O, hear a maiden plead;
Sheath not thy sword in Gynneth's breast,
— Or too, let Lewin's bleed?

To valiant feats of arms renown'd
— Shall earthly praise be giv'n;
But deeds of Mercy, mighty Chief,
— Are register'd in Heav'n!

Thy praises shall resounding fill
— The Palace of thy foe;
While down the joyful Lewin's cheek
— The grateful tear shall flow.

And sure the tear that Virtue sheds,
— Some rapture can impart;
What gem can deck a victor's throne
— Like incense from the heart?

Now the grey Morning's silv'ry light,
— Dawn'd in the eastern skies,
When at the lofty lattice grate
— Her Lover's form she spies:

" He lives, " she cried, " My Gynneth lives! "
— Youth of the crimson shield!
The graceful Hero of my heart,
— The glory of the field!

" Come down, my soul's delight, " she said,
— " Thy blue-ey'd Lewin see;
Yrganvy's Daughter, thy true Love,
— Who only breathes for thee:

" Then haste thee from thy prison house
— Ere yet the Foe doth rise!
Oh! haste, ere yet the Morning Sun
— Doth flame along the skies.

" Ah, speak! my heart is chill'd with fear,
— My fault'ring voice doth fail;
Why are thy darling eyes so dim,
— Thy cheek so deathly pale? "

" I am thy Gynneth's ghost, sweet maid,
— Avoid the madd'ning sight;
Those eyes that doated on thy charms,
— Are lock'd in endless night.

" This loyal heart which beat for thee,
— Is rent with many a wound;
Cleft is my shield, my glitt'ring spear
— Lies broken on the ground!

" My bones the eagle hath convey'd
— To feed her rav'nous brood;
The savage Branworth's cruel hand
— Hath spilt my purple blood.

" Then hie thee hence, ill-fated maid,
— Ere greater woes betide;
To where Llangadoc's silver streams
— Along the vallies glide.

" There, where the modest Primrose blooms,
— Pale as thy lover's shade;
My mangled relics shalt thou find
— Upon the green turf laid.

" Then hie thee hence, with holy hands,
— Build up a sacred shrine,
And oh! chaste maid, thy faith to prove,
— Mingle thy dust with mine? "

Ah! have you seen a mother's joy
— In cherub sweetness dress'd,
Seiz'd by the numbing hand of death,
— Expiring at her breast?

Or the fond maid, whom morrow's dawn
— Had hail'd a wedded fair;
Doom'd to behold her lover's corse
— Scorch'd by the lightning's glare?

So stood the hopeless, frantic maid,
— Yrganvy's graceful child,
Cold was her cheek, her dove-like eyes
— Fix'd in amazement wild!

" This panting heart, " at length she cried
— " A sharper pang doth feel,
Than thine, brave youth, when rent in twain
— By Branworth's poison'd steel.

" No more these sad and weeping eyes,
— My father's house shall see;
Thy kindred spirit calls me hence.
— I haste to follow thee. "

Beside thy tomb the Trav'ller's tear
— Shall join the crystal spring;
Around the solemn dirge of woe
— Shall sainted Druids sing;

The weary Pilgrim faint and sad,
— Shall stay his steps awhile;
The memory of his own hard fate,
— Thy story shall beguile;

There wet with many a holy tear,
— The sweetest buds shall blow,
There Lewin's ghost shall mark the shrine
— A monument of woe!

Thrice did he ope the lattice grate,
— And thrice he bade adieu;
When lo, to join the parting shade,
— The Maiden's Spirit flew!

A Tale

" When will my troubled soul have rest? "
— The beauteous Lewin cried;
As thro' the murky shade of night
— With frantic step she hied.

" When shall those eyes my Gynneth's face,
— My Gynneth's form survey?
When shall those longing eyes again
— Behold the dawn of day? "

Cold are the dews that wet my cheek,
— The night-mist damps the ground;
Appalling echoes strike mine ear,
— And spectres gleam around.

The vivid lightning's transient rays
— Around my temples play;
'Tis all the light my fate affords,
— To mark my thorny way.

From the black mountain's awful height,
— Where Lathryth's turrets rise;
The dark owl screams a direful song,
— And warns me as she flies!

The chilling blast, the whistling winds,
— The mould'ring ramparts shake;
The hungry tenants of the wood,
— Their cavern'd haunts forsake.

Those tender limbs unus'd to stray
— Beyond a father's door;
Full many a mile have journey'd forth,
— Each footstep mark'd with gore.

No costly sandals deck those feet,
— By thorns and briars torn;
The cold rain chills my rosy cheek,
— Whose freshness sham'd the morn!

Slow steals the life-stream at my heart;
— Dark clouds o'ershade my eyes;
Foreboding sorrow tells my soul,
— My captive Lover dies.

Yet if one gentle ray of hope
— Can sooth the soul to rest;
Oh! may it pierce yon flinty tow'r,
— And warm my Gynneth's breast:

And if soft pity's tearful eye
— A Tyrant's heart can move;
Ill-fated Lewin yet may live
— To clasp her vanquish'd Love.

And tho' stern war with bonds of steel
— His graceful form shall bind;
No earthly spell has pow'r to hold
— The freedom of his mind!

And tho' his warm and gallant heart
— Now yields to fate's decree;
Its feelings spurn the base constraint,
— And fly to Love and me!

Then, Branworth, Lion of the field!
— O, hear a maiden plead;
Sheath not thy sword in Gynneth's breast,
— Or too, let Lewin's bleed?

To valiant feats of arms renown'd
— Shall earthly praise be giv'n;
But deeds of Mercy, mighty Chief,
— Are register'd in Heav'n!

Thy praises shall resounding fill
— The Palace of thy foe;
While down the joyful Lewin's cheek
— The grateful tear shall flow.

And sure the tear that Virtue sheds,
— Some rapture can impart;
What gem can deck a victor's throne
— Like incense from the heart?

Now the grey Morning's silv'ry light,
— Dawn'd in the eastern skies,
When at the lofty lattice grate
— Her Lover's form she spies:

" He lives, " she cried, " My Gynneth lives! "
— Youth of the crimson shield!
The graceful Hero of my heart,
— The glory of the field!

" Come down, my soul's delight, " she said,
— " Thy blue-ey'd Lewin see;
Yrganvy's Daughter, thy true Love,
— Who only breathes for thee:

" Then haste thee from thy prison house
— Ere yet the Foe doth rise!
Oh! haste, ere yet the Morning Sun
— Doth flame along the skies.

" Ah, speak! my heart is chill'd with fear,
— My fault'ring voice doth fail;
Why are thy darling eyes so dim,
— Thy cheek so deathly pale? "

" I am thy Gynneth's ghost, sweet maid,
— Avoid the madd'ning sight;
Those eyes that doated on thy charms,
— Are lock'd in endless night.

" This loyal heart which beat for thee,
— Is rent with many a wound;
Cleft is my shield, my glitt'ring spear
— Lies broken on the ground!

" My bones the eagle hath convey'd
— To feed her rav'nous brood;
The savage Branworth's cruel hand
— Hath spilt my purple blood.

" Then hie thee hence, ill-fated maid,
— Ere greater woes betide;
To where Llangadoc's silver streams
— Along the vallies glide.

" There, where the modest Primrose blooms,
— Pale as thy lover's shade;
My mangled relics shalt thou find
— Upon the green turf laid.

" Then hie thee hence, with holy hands,
— Build up a sacred shrine,
And oh! chaste maid, thy faith to prove,
— Mingle thy dust with mine? "

Ah! have you seen a mother's joy
— In cherub sweetness dress'd,
Seiz'd by the numbing hand of death,
— Expiring at her breast?

Or the fond maid, whom morrow's dawn
— Had hail'd a wedded fair;
Doom'd to behold her lover's corse
— Scorch'd by the lightning's glare?

So stood the hopeless, frantic maid,
— Yrganvy's graceful child,
Cold was her cheek, her dove-like eyes
— Fix'd in amazement wild!

" This panting heart, " at length she cried
— " A sharper pang doth feel,
Than thine, brave youth, when rent in twain
— By Branworth's poison'd steel.

" No more these sad and weeping eyes,
— My father's house shall see;
Thy kindred spirit calls me hence.
— I haste to follow thee. "

Beside thy tomb the Trav'ller's tear
— Shall join the crystal spring;
Around the solemn dirge of woe
— Shall sainted Druids sing;

The weary Pilgrim faint and sad,
— Shall stay his steps awhile;
The memory of his own hard fate,
— Thy story shall beguile;

There wet with many a holy tear,
— The sweetest buds shall blow,
There Lewin's ghost shall mark the shrine
— A monument of woe!

Thrice did he ope the lattice grate,
— And thrice he bade adieu;
When lo, to join the parting shade,
— The Maiden's Spirit flew!