ERMENGARDE.
It was the early summer time,
When Maidens stint their praying
To wander forth at morning's prime,
With happy hearts, a maying;
To wash their rosy cheeks with dew,
And roam the meadows over:
And ask the winds to tell them true
Of some far distant lover.
Then little Ermengarde, the while
To graver thoughts awaking,
Look'd sadly on St. Herbert's Isle
As morn was brightly breaking.
Some tapestry for his altar wrought
Beside her bed was lying;
Her beads, and little scroll for thought,
No conscious look descrying.
And now when might the gentle Saint
Be at his service bending;
His earnest life, without a taint
Of earth still heavenwards tending—
His silver voice, oft heard in prayer,
Or in direction pleading—
His manhood's bright angelic air—
Her thought too fond were feeding.
In little Ermengarde her love
With God the Saint divided.
Unknown even to herself she wove
The threads her passion guided.
And when she trembled on her knees
Confessing faith before him—
Ah! can this be but Man she sees,
So heart and soul adore him!
So little Ermengarde with pale
And thoughtful cheek sat sighing,
When rode an Elf-man down the vale
Her open lattice eyeing.
"Good morrow! May my Lady's thought,
This happy May-day, blossom;
And tenfold blessedness be wrought
Within that gentle bosom!"
"My tongue no thought or wish express'd"—
—"Yet, trust me, fairest Lady!"
"In Bowscale tarn, for thy behest,
The undying twain are ready.
Ask from their breasts two tiny scales
Of gold and pearly whiteness.
These on thy heart—fulfill'd prevails
Thy wish in all its brightness!"—
The stranger pass'd. Away she hies,
The mountain pathway keeping,
Where deep amid the silence lies
The gloomy water sleeping.
"Come, faithful fishes! give to me
Two little scales"—she chanted—
That in my bosom peace may be,
And all my wishes granted."—
They gave her from their pearly sides
Two little scales. She bore them
Down from the hill the Tarn that hides,
And in her bosom wore them.
The simple Cross her mother gave
Was on her neck, a token
Of that pure faith to which she clave;
But lo! the link was broken!
Down Greta's side with wild delight
The little Maiden wandered;
And on the Saint before her sight,
Her inmost sight, she pondered;
Now thinking—O that wed with mine
His holy heart were moving!
How shall we soar in thoughts divine,
How walk in pathways loving!
It was a festal day, and bands
Of youths and maids were trooping
With flowers and offerings in their hands,
And round the altar grouping.
And hark the little bell! it calls
To every heart how sweetly!
But most on Ermengarde's it falls
With joy that brings her fleetly.
But on the stony river's brim
A moment's space delaying,
To gaze—before she look'd on him—
On her own features playing
Within the mirror'd pool below—
Its broken link dissevering,
Her little Cross fell sinking slow
Beyond her vain endeavouring.
And from the stream two fin-like arms
Leapt up and snatch'd her wailing,
And dragg'd her down with all her charms
In anguish unavailing.
And down the rocks they bore her fast
With struggles unrelenting:
And Greta's roar mix'd in the blast
With Ermengarde's lamenting.
And far adown the rushing tide
Was dragg'd and whirled the Maiden;
And wildly mid the pools she cried
In accents horror-laden.
The streams dash'd on with furious roar;
No aid the rude rocks lent her;
Wild and more wild they gather'd o'er
The loud and lost lamenter.
So she whom Magic's wiles had driven,
And her own heart persuaded,
To tempt a Saint to turn from heaven,
Fell, snatch'd from life unaided.
Yet, not for ever lost, she roves
Amid the winding currents,
And utters to the hills and groves
Her wail above the torrents.
For yet some bard shall wander by
With harp and song so holy,
That they shall wrench the caves where lie
Her limbs in anguish lowly.
And free her for the blessed light
And air again to greet her
Awhile, before she takes her flight
To where the Saint shall meet her.
Even I, for little Ermengarde,
Would harp a life-long morrow,
But to reverse that doom so hard,
And lead her back from sorrow;
Mid happy thoughts again to beam,
All joyousness partaking;
But never more of Saints to dream
When summer morns are breaking.