The Baron's Yule Feast: A Christmas Rhyme

Several pieces in the following Rhyme were written many years ago, and will be recognised by my early friends. They were the fruit of impressions derived from the local associations of boyhood, (of which, the reader, if inclined, may learn more in the notes,) and of an admiration created by the exquisite beauty and simplicity of Coleridge's 'Christabel,'—which I had by heart, and used to repeat to Thomas Miller, my playmate and companion from infancy, during many a delightful 'Day in the Woods,' and pleasing ramble on the hills and in the woods above Gainsborough, and along the banks of Trent.
I offer but one apology for the production of a metrical essay, composed chiefly of imperfect and immature pieces:—the ambition to contribute towards the fund of Christmas entertainment, in which agreeable labour I see many popular names engaged,—and among them, one, the most deservedly popular in the literature of the day. The favour with which an influential portion of the press has received my 'Prison Rhyme' emboldens me to take this step; and if the flagellation of criticism be not too keenly dealt upon me for the imperfections in the few pages that follow, I will be content, in this instance, to expect no praise.
134, Blackfriars Road , Dec. 20. 1845 .



Plantagenet hath dungeons deep Beneath his castled halls;— Plantagenet awakes from sleep To count his dungeoned thralls. Alone, with the torch of blood-red flame, The man of blood descends; And the fettered captives curse his name, As through the vaults he wends.— His caverns are visited, all, save one, The deepest, and direst in gloom,— Where his father, doomed by a demon son, Abode in a living tomb.— I bring thee bread and water, sire! Brave usury for thy gold! I fear my filial zeal will tire To visit, soon, thy hold! Thus spake the fiendish-hearted lord, And wildly laughed, in scorn: Like thunder round the cell each word By echoing fiends is borne,— But not a human heart is there The baron's scorn or hate to fear! And the captives tell, as he passeth again,— That tyrant, in his rage,— How an angel hath led the aged man To his heavenly heritage! The wrathful baron little recked That angel was his darling child; Or knew his dark ambition checked By her who oft his rage beguiled,— By her on whom he ever smiled:— This had he known, from that dread hour, His darling's smile had lost its power,— And his own hand, without remorse, Had laid her at his feet a corse!— Plantagenet's banners in pride are borne To the sound of pipe and drum! And his mailëd bands, with the dawn of morn, To Romara's walls are come. We come not as foes, the herald saith,— But we bring Plantagenet's shriven faith That thou, Romara, in thine arms Shall soon enfold thy true love's charms: Let no delay thy joy betide!— Thy Agnes soon shall be thy bride! The raven croaks as Torksey's lord Attends that bannered host; But the lover is deaf to the omen-bird— The fatal moat is crossed! Ride, ride; saith the baron,— thy ladye fain And the priest—by the altar wait! — And the spearmen seize his bridle-rein, And hurry him to his fate. A marriage by torchlight! the baron said; This stair to the altar leads! We patter our prayers, 'mong the mouldering dead,— And there we tell our beads! Along the caverned dungeon's gloom The tyrant strides in haste; And, powerless, to his dreadful doom The victim followeth fast. The dazëd captives quake and stare At the sullen torch's blood-red glare, And the lover starts aghast At the deathlike forms they wear! Too late, the truth upon him breaks!— Romara's heart is faint!— Behold thy bride! the baron shrieks— Wilt hear the wedding chaunt? This chain once bound my father here, Who would have found his grave— The cursed dotard!—'neath the wave,— Had not thy hateful hand been near.— Be this the bride thou now shalt wed! This dungeon dank thy bridal bed!— And when thy youthful blood shall freeze In death,—may fiends thy spirit seize! — Plantagenet hath minions fell Who do their master's bidding well:— Few days Romara pines in dread:— His soul is with the sainted dead!— Plantagenet hath reached his bourne! What terrors meet his soul forlorn And full of stain,—I may not say:— Reveal them shall the Judgment Day!— Her orisons at matin hour, At noon, and eve, and midnight toll, For him, doth tearful Agnes pour!— Jesu Maria! sain his soul!