Classic Poem

Now, fifty years ago, may be,
On a wild winter's night,
To the ceaseless moaning of the sea,
This legend of the " White Ladie, "
Was told by firelight.

She was a proud and haughty dame
Of old Penkivell's race;
He had no son to bear his name;
He worshipped her, and who could blame,
In the old Squire's place?

Though centuries have passed away,
Her home may still be seen, —
A granite building, low and grey,
Storm-beaten, often flecked with spray,
In the parish of Pendeen.

Her name was Avis; there were few
In Cornwall fair as she,
Her eyes were a deep hyacinth blue,
Her cheeks had the pink creamy hue
We in the wild rose see.

Her hair was red, with gleams of gold,
And rippled round her head;
But she was false, — her heart was cold;
Her soul for money she'd have sold;
Pride was her daily bread.

From all the parishes around
Brave suitors came to woo;
But in her sight none favour found,
She cared more for her horse and hound
Than loyal hearts and true.

Would only no denial take
Her uncle Uther's son;
He thought of her asleep, awake;
He courted dangers for her sake,
And vowed she should be won.

For her he'd often crossed the sea
In search of laces rare,
Brocades and silks, that she might be
Decked out in all her bravery,
The fairest of the fair.

For Cornishmen, in days of yore,
Thought smuggling was no crime;
And John Lenine, who knew the shore,
Had brought from France, like many more,
Rich ventures in his time.

A secret subterranean way
Ran 'twixt her house and beach;
Through a dark cave the entrance lay,
Known to few dwellers in the bay, —
Most difficult to reach.

But dangers never daunted John;
By it one night he brought
Avis, when folks to rest had gone,
Some gauds she'd set her heart upon;
To win her thus he thought.

She took his gifts, but mocked his woe:
Said, " Cousin, this I'll do,
When summer comes with frost and snow,
Or roses in mid-winter blow,
Why then — I'll marry you! "

" I swear I will. Next Christmas-day
A red rose to me bring,
My answer then shall not be nay,
And as a pledge for what I say,
You may — give me a ring. "

In a few days the ring was sent,
And then John sail'd afar;
In quest of the red rose he went;
To wed her still his soul was bent;
Hope was his guiding star.

He had been gone three months or more;
Christmas was drawing nigh;
Slipped in, and anchored close to shore,
A man-of-war, that once before,
In Pendeen Bay did lie.

Of her were many stories told, —
How, under shade of night,
She'd sent forth men, like wolves on fold,
Who'd carried off the young and old,
For James, the King, to fight.

This dreadful ship returned again,
Made many women sad:
Some feared to lose their boys: with pain
Some wept for husbands " pressed " and slain;
Avis alone was glad.

She knew the captain, — thought that he
Could wealth and rank bestow;
For them he might her husband be,
For never wed a man would she
Who could no rent-roll show.

He was not there to woo a bride,
For men alone he came;
But still he flattered, fed her pride,
With honeyed words and gifts he plied
This most imperious dame.

Because through her he wished to learn
The secret hidden way,
From whence it ran, where made a turn,
When John was likely to return,
And why he'd gone away?

The traitress told him all — The vow
She'd pledged herself to keep;
Said John at home would soon be now;
Wished he would " press him, " cared not how;
If killed, she should not weep.

Meanwhile poor John, who'd sailed away,
The bright, red rose to find,
Had heard in Nice a sailor say
" That roses bloomed on Christmas-day, "
And Fate to him was kind.

For, walking down a crooked street,
There in a house he spied
A rose-tree bearing blossoms sweet;
He entered in with eager feet,
Nor long did there abide

Before 'twas his. Full many a crown
For that rose-bush he paid.
Quick to his ship he bore it down,
Again set sail for Penzance town,
And a prosperous voyage made.

His tree he guarded with great care,
But the flowers faded fast;
Its branches soon were nearly bare
Of all its blossoms late so fair, —
One rose remained — the last.

He reached his home on Christmas-day
As the joy-bells out did ring;
Red rose in hand, he went his way
To meet his cousin, blithe and gay;
His heart did carols sing.

He bent his steps towards the shore
The hidden path to take,
But ere he reached the secret door,
Set on him ten stout men or more,
A captive him to make.

He fought for life, whilst holding still
The red rose in his hand;
And many of his foes did kill, —
Was wounded oft, yet fought on, till
Lay stretched upon the sand

He and the Captain side by side,
Both bleeding unto death.
The treachery of his would-be bride
John heard, — spake not a word, and died;
But with his dying breath

The Captain cursed her; bade a lad
The rose to Avis bear,
Wet with his blood: " Tell her she had
Her wicked wish, might now be glad,
And it in triumph wear. "

She lived till she was very old,
But never from that day
The sun shone on her; she was cold
In hottest June, for she had sold,
And sworn a life away.

No shadow from her body cast
E'er played upon the ground.
Shunned by all men, she lived alone,
And when death claimed her for his own,
Her soul no respite found.

Each Christmas morn she doth appear,
At the entrance o' the cave,
Holding her rose. She striketh fear:
Who sees her knows the coming year
Will find him in his grave.