SIR HUGH ACKLAND.
The following remarkable fact shews the necessity of minutely examining people after death, prior to interment, and of not giving way to ridiculous fears about supernatural appearances.
The late Sir Hugh Ackland, of Devonshire, apparently died of a fever, and was laid out as dead. The nurse, with two of the footmen, sat up with the corpse; and Lady Ackland sent them a bottle of brandy to drink in the night. One of the servants, being an arch rogue, told the other, that his master dearly loved brandy when he was alive; "and," says he, "I am resolved he shall drink one glass with us now he is dead." The fellow, accordingly, poured out a bumper of brandy, and forced it down his throat. A gurgling immediately ensued, and a violent motion of the neck and upper part of the breast. The other footman and the nurse were so terrified, that they ran down stairs; and the brandy genius, hastening away with rather too much speed, tumbled down stairs head foremost. The noise of the fall, and his cries, alarmed a young gentleman who slept in the house that night; who got up, and went to the room where the corpse lay, and, to his great surprise, saw Sir Hugh sitting upright. He called the servants; Sir Hugh was put into a warm bed, and the physician and apothecary sent for. These gentlemen, in a few weeks, perfectly restored their patient to health, and he lived several years afterwards.
The above story is well known to the Devonshire people; as in most companies Sir Hugh used to tell this strange circumstance, and talk of his resurrection by his brandy footman, to whom (when he really died) he left a handsome annuity.
AN
AGREEABLE EXPLANATION.
A gentleman of undoubted veracity relates the following story.
"When I was a young man, I took up my residence at a lodging-house, which was occupied by several families. On taking possession of my apartments, I agreed with the old lady of the house, who had two children, to accommodate me with a key to the street-door, to prevent unnecessary trouble to the servant or family, as I should very frequently stay out late in the evening. This was agreed to; and, by way of making things more agreeable, I had always a light left burning for me on the staircase, which was opposite to the outer door. This arrangement being made, things continued very comfortable for some months; till, one night, or rather morning, returning and opening the door as usual, I thought I heard a faint scream—I paused for a few seconds. The cry of 'Murder!' now feebly succeeded. I hesitated how to act, when the cry of 'Murder!' was again more loudly vociferated. This very much alarmed me; and, instead of going forward, I instantly re-opened the street-door, and was in the act of calling the watch, when a tall spare figure, at least six feet high, in a complete white dress, and pointed cap, with a candle in its hand, appeared before me. This unexpected encounter completed my astonishment, and I was about to speak, when the phantom (which proved to be my good old landlady) thus addressed me—'I hope, Sir, I have not alarmed you; but, just before you came to the door, I had a most frightful dream. I thought robbers had broken into my house, and, not content with plunder, had murdered my children, and were about to destroy me; when the noise you made on opening the door increased my agony of mind; and, before I was sufficiently sensible, I screamed out Murder! as you must have heard.' This explanation having taken place, the poor woman retired, and was for several days after extremely ill; and I was not a little pleased myself at finding what I at first supposed a supernatural encounter thus terminate, without having recourse to a divine exorcist."
THE
SOMERSETSHIRE DEMONIAC.
On the 13th of June 1788, George Lukins, of Yatton, in Somersetshire, was exorcised in the Temple Church at Bristol, and delivered from the possession of seven devils by the efforts of seven clergymen.
Lukins was first attacked by a kind of epileptic fit, when he was going about acting Christmas plays, or mummeries: this he ascribed to a blow given by an invisible hand. He was afterwards seized by fits; during which he declared with a roaring voice that he was the devil, and sung different songs in a variety of keys. The fits always began and ended with a strong agitation of the right hand; he frequently uttered dreadful execrations during the fits: and the whole duration of this disorder was eighteen years.
At length, viz. in June 1788, he declared, that he was possessed by seven devils, and could only be freed by the prayers, in faith, of seven clergymen. Accordingly, the requisite number was summoned, and the patient sung, swore, laughed, barked, and treated the company with a ludicrous parody on the Te Deum. These astonishing symptoms resisted both hymns and prayers, till a small, faint voice admonished the ministers to adjure. The spirits, after some murmuring, yielded to the adjuration; and the happy patient returned thanks for his wonderful cure. It is remarkable, that, during this solemn mockery, the fiend swore, by his infernal den, that he would not quit his patient; an oath, I believe, no where to be found but in the Pilgrim's Progress, from whence Lukins probably got it.
Very soon after, the first relation of this story was published, a person well acquainted with Lukins, took the trouble of undeceiving the public, with regard to his pretended disorder, in a plain, sensible, narrative of his conduct. He asserts, that Lukins's first seizure was nothing else than a fit of drunkenness; that he always foretold his fits, and remained sensible during their continuance. That he frequently saw Lukins in his fits; in every one of which, except in singing, he performed not more than most active young people can easily do. That he was detected in an imposture with respect to the clenching of his hands. That after money had been collected for him, he got very suddenly well. That he never had any fits while he was at St. George's Hospital, in London; nor when visitors were excluded from his lodgings by desire of the author of the narrative: and that he was particularly careful never to hurt himself by his exertions during the paroxysm.
Is it for the credit of this philosophical age, that so bungling an imposture should deceive seven clergymen into a public act of exorcism? This would not have passed even on the authors of the Malleus Maleficarum; for they required signs of supernatural agency, such as the suspension of the possessed in the air without any visible support, or the use of different languages, unknown to the demoniac in his natural state.
THE MANIAC,
OR
FATAL EFFECTS OF WANTON MISCHIEF.
Some years ago, a very intelligent, handsome, and promising youth, whose names is Henry Pargeter Lewis, the son of a respectable attorney, in the town of Dudley, was placed for a probationary time, previously to an intended apprenticeship, with a surgeon and apothecary of the name of Powell, in the immediate neighbourhood of one of our great public schools. He had not been there long, before one of the scholars, who lodged at the surgeon's, in league with the servant-boy of the house, devised the following stratagem to frighten him. One night, during an absence of the master, the servant-boy concealed himself under the bed of Henry, before the latter retired to rest, and remained there till the hour of midnight; when, on a preconcerted signal of three raps at the chamber door, it suddenly opened, and in stalked the school-boy, habited in a white sheet, with his face horribly disguised, and bearing a lighted candle in his hand; the servant-boy, at the same moment, heaving up the bed under Henry with his back. How long this was acted is not known: it was done long enough, however, completely to dethrone the reason of the unfortunate youth; who, it is supposed, immediately covered himself with the bed-clothes, and so continued till the morning. On his not rising at the usual time, some one of the family went to call him; and, not answering, except by incoherent cries, was discovered in the state just described.
The melancholy tidings of his situation were conveyed to his friends, on his removal to them; the facts having been disclosed, partly by the confession of the servant-boy, and partly by the unfortunate youth himself, during the few lucid intervals which occurred in the course of the first year after his misfortune.
His father and mother were then living, but they are now both dead: and the little property they left to support him is now nearly exhausted, together with a small subscription which was also raised to furnish him with necessaries, and to remunerate a person to take care of him. He is perfectly harmless and gentle, being rather in a state of idiotcy than insanity; seldom betraying any symptoms of violent emotion, except occasionally about midnight (the time of his unhappy disaster), when, full of indescribable terror, he exclaims, "Oh! they are coming! they are coming!" All hope of recovery is at an end; more than twenty years having elapsed since the catastrophe happened.
It is sincerely hoped that this pitiable case may prove a warning to inconsiderate youth; by showing them what dreadful effects may follow such wanton acts of mischief.
EXTRAORDINARY
DOUBLE DREAM,
Without any Corresponding Event.
The late Reverend Mr. Joseph Wilkins, a dissenting clergyman, at Weymouth, in Dorsetshire, had the following remarkable dream, which is copied verbatim from a short account of his life.
"One night, soon after I was in bed, I fell asleep, and dreamed I was going to London. I thought it would not be much out of my way to go through Gloucestershire, and call upon my friends there. Accordingly, I set out; but remember nothing that happened by the way, till I came to my father's house, when I went to the fore door and tried to open it, but found it fast; then I went to our back door, which I opened and went in: but finding all the family were in bed, I went across the rooms only, and walked up stairs, entered the room where my father and mother were in bed, and as I passed by the side of the bed in which my father lay, I found him asleep, or thought he was so; then I went to the other side, and as I just turned the foot of the bed, I found my mother awake, to whom I said these words, 'Mother, I am going a long journey, and am come to bid you good-bye;' upon which she answered me in a fright—'O! dear son, thee art dead!' with which I awoke, and took no notice of it more than a common dream, only it appeared to me very perfect, as sometimes dreams will. But, in a few days after, as soon as a letter could reach me, I received one by the post from my father; upon the receipt of which I was a little surprised, and concluded something extraordinary must have happened, as it was but a little before I had had a letter from my friends, and all were well: but, upon opening it, I was still more surprised; for my father addressed me as though I was dead, desiring me, if alive, or whose ever hands the letter might fall into, to write immediately. But, if the letter found me living, they concluded I should not live long, and gave this as a reason for their fears—That on such a night (naming it), after they were in bed, my father asleep and my mother awake, she heard somebody try to open the fore door, but finding it fast, he went to the back door, which he opened, and came in, and went directly through the room up stairs, and she perfectly knew it to be my step, come to her bed-side, and spoke to her these words, 'Mother, I am going a long journey, and am come to bid you good-bye,' upon which she answered in a fright, 'O! dear son, thee art dead!' (which were the very circumstances and words of my dream); but she heard nothing more, she saw nothing (neither did I in my dream, as it was all dark). Upon this she awoke my father, and told him what had passed, but he endeavoured to appease her, persuading her it was only a dream; but she insisted on it, it was no dream, for that she was as perfectly awake as ever, and had not had the least inclination to sleep since she had been in bed (from which I am apt to think it was at the very same instant with my dream, though the distance between us was about one hundred miles, but of this I cannot speak positively). This affair happened whilst I was at the academy at Ottery, in the county of Devon, and I believe in the year 1754; and at this distance every circumstance is very fresh in my mind. I have since had frequent opportunities of talking over the affair with my mother, and the whole circumstance was as fresh upon her mind as it was upon mine. I have often thought that her sensation as to this matter was stronger than mine; and, what some may think strange, I cannot remember any thing remarkable happened thereon; and that this is only a plain simple narrative of matter of fact."
The above relation must convince credulous people how necessary it is, not to place implicit confidence in dreams, or suffer them to make too great an impression on the mind, as they are most frequently merely the result of our waking thoughts.
REMARKABLE INSTANCES
OF THE
POWER OF VISION.
A shepherd upon one of the mountains in Cumberland, was suddenly enveloped with a thick fog or mist, through which every object appeared so greatly increased in magnitude, that he no longer knew where he was. In this state of confusion he wandered in search of some unknown object, from which he might direct his future steps. Chance, at last, brought this lost shepherd within sight of what he supposed to be a very large mansion, which he did not remember ever to have seen before; but, on his entering this visionary castle, to inquire his way home, he found it inhabited by his own family. It was nothing more than his own cottage. But his organs of sight had so far misled his mental faculties, that some little time elapsed before he could be convinced that he saw real objects. Instances of the same kind of illusion, though not to the same degree, are not unfrequent in those mountainous regions.
From these effects of vision, it is evident that the pupil and the picture of an object within the eye, increase at the same time.
The writer of the above account was passing the Frith of Forth, at Queensferry, near Edinburgh, one morning when it was extremely foggy. Though the water is only two miles broad, the boat did not get within sight of the southern shore till it approached very near it. He then saw, to his great surprise, a large perpendicular rock, where he knew the shore was low and almost flat. As the boat advanced a little nearer, the rock seemed to split perpendicularly into portions, which separated at a little distance from one another. He next saw these perpendicular divisions move; and, upon approaching a little nearer, found it was a number of people, standing on the beach, waiting the arrival of the ferry-boat.
The following extract of a letter, from a gentleman of undoubted veracity, is another curious instance of the property of vision:—
"When I was a young man, I was, like others, fond of sporting, and seldom liked to miss a day, if I could any way go out. From my own house I set out on foot, and pursued my diversion on a foggy day; and, after I had been out some time, the fog or mist increased to so great a degree, that, however familiar the hedges, trees, &c. were to me, I lost myself, insomuch that I did not know whether I was going to or from home. In a field where I then was, I suddenly discovered what I imagined was a well known hedge-row, interspersed with pollard trees, &c. under which I purposed to proceed homewards; but, to my great surprise, upon approaching this appearance, I discovered a row of the plants known by the name of rag, and by the vulgar, canker weed, growing on a mere balk, dividing ploughed fields: the whole height of both could not exceed three feet, or three feet and a half. It struck me so forcibly that I shall never forget it; this too in a field which I knew as well as any man, could know a field."
THE
PHILOSOPHER GASSENDI,
AND THE
HAUNTED BED-ROOM.
In one of the letters of this celebrated philosopher, he says, that he was consulted by his friend and patron the Count d'Alais, governor of Provence, on a phenomenon that haunted his bed-chamber while he was at Marseilles on some business relative to his office. The Count tells Gassendi, that, for several successive nights, as soon as the candle was taken away, he and his Countess saw a luminous spectre, sometimes of an oval, and sometimes of a triangular form; that it always disappeared when light came into the room; that he had often struck at it, but could discover nothing solid. Gassendi, as a natural philosopher, endeavoured to account for it; sometimes attributing it to some defect of vision, or to some dampness of the room, insinuating that perhaps it might be sent from Heaven to him, to give him a warning in due time of something that should happen. The spectre still continued its visits all the time that he staid at Marseilles; and some years afterwards, on their return to Aix, the Countess d'Alais confessed to her husband, that she played him this trick, by means of one of her women placed under the bed with a phial of phosphorus, with an intention to frighten him away from Marseilles, a place in which she very much disliked to live.
THE
GHOST ON SHIP-BOARD.
A gentleman of high respectability in the navy relates the following story.
"When on a voyage to New York, we had not been four days at sea, before an occurrence of a very singular nature broke in upon our quiet. It was a ghost! One night, when all was still and dark, and the ship rolling at sea before the wind, a man sprung suddenly upon deck in his shirt, his hair erect, his eyes starting from their sockets, and loudly vociferating he had seen a ghost. After his horror had a little subsided, we asked him what he had seen?—he said, the figure of a woman dressed in white, with eyes of flaming fire; that she came to his hammock, and stared him in the face. This we treated as an idle dream, and sent the frantic fellow to his bed. The story became the subject of every one; and the succeeding night produced half a dozen more terrified men to corroborate what had happened the first, and all agreed in the same story, that it was a woman. This rumour daily increasing, at length came to the ears of the captain and officers, who were all equally solicitous to discover the true cause of this terrific report. I placed myself night by night beneath the hammocks to watch its appearance, but all in vain; yet still the appearance was nightly, as usual, and the horrors and fears of the people rather daily increased than diminished. A phantom of this sort rather amused than perplexed my mind; and when I had given over every idea of discovering the cause of this strange circumstance, and the thing began to wear away, I was surprised, one very dark night, as seated under the boats, with a stately figure in white stalking along the deck! The singularity of the event struck my mind that this must be the very identical ghost which had of late so much disturbed the ship's company. I therefore instantly dropped down from the place I was in, to the deck on which it appeared, when it passed me immediately very quickly, turned round, and marched directly forwards. I followed it closely, through the gallery, and out at the head-doors, when the figure instantly disappeared, which very much astonished me. I then leaped upon the forecastle, and asked of the people who were walking there, if such a figure had passed them? They replied, No, with some emotion and pleasure, as I had ever ridiculed all their reports on this subject. However, this night-scene between me and the ghost became the theme of the ensuing day. Nothing particular transpired till twelve o'clock, when, as the people were pricking at the tub for their beef, it was discovered Jack Sutton was missing. The ship's company was directly mustered, and Jack was no where to be found. I then inquired of his messmates the character of the man; and, after a number of interrogatories, one of them said, that poor Sutton used to tell him a number of comical jokes about his walking in his sleep. Now the mystery was unravelled; and this terrific ghost, which had so much alarmed all the sailors, now proved to be the poor unfortunate Jack Sutton, who had walked overboard in his dream."
The first fellow who spread this report, and who shewed such signs of horror, was found on inquiry to be a most flagitious villain, who had murdered a woman, who he believed always haunted him, and the appearance of this sleepwalker confirmed in his mind the ghost of the murdered fair one; for, in such cases, conscience is a busy monitor, and ever active to its own pain and disturbance.
A REMARKABLE STORY
OF
A GHOST,
Thrice called for, as an Evidence, in a Court of Justice.
A farmer, on his return from the market at Southam, in the county of Warwick, was murdered. A man went the next morning to his house, and inquired of the mistress, if her husband came home the evening before; she replied, No, and that she was under the utmost anxiety and terror on that account. "Your terror," added he, "cannot equal mine; for, last night, as I lay in bed quite awake, the apparition of your husband appeared to me, shewed me several ghastly stabs in his body; told me that he had been murdered by such a person (naming the man), and his body thrown into such a marl-pit, which he then particularly described. The alarm was given, the pit searched, the body found, and the wounds answered the description given of them. The man whom the ghost had accused was apprehended, and committed, on a violent suspicion of murder. His trial came on at Warwick, before the Lord Chief Justice Raymond; when the jury would have convicted, as rashly as the magistrate had committed him, had not the judge checked them. He addressed himself to them in words to this purpose—"I think, Gentlemen, you seem inclined to lay more stress on the evidence of an apparition than it will bear. I cannot say that I give much credit to these kind of stories: but, be that as it will, we have no right to follow our own private opinions here. We are now in a court of law, and must determine according to it; and I know of no law now in being, which will admit of the testimony of an apparition: not yet, if it did, doth the ghost appear to give evidence. Crier," said he, "call the ghost." Which was thrice done, to no manner of purpose: it appeared not. "Gentlemen of the Jury," continued the Judge, "the prisoner at the bar, as you have heard by undeniable witnesses, is a man of the most unblemished character; nor has it appeared in the course of the examination, that there was any manner of quarrel or grudge between him and the party deceased. I do believe him to be perfectly innocent; and, as there is no evidence against him, either positive or circumstantial, he must be acquitted. But, from many circumstances which have arisen during the trial, I do strongly suspect that the gentleman who saw the apparition was himself the murderer: in which case he might easily ascertain the pit, the wounds, &c. without any supernatural assistance; and on suspicion, I shall think myself justified in committing him to close custody, till the matter can be fairly inquired into. This was immediately done, and a warrant granted for searching his house; when such strong proofs of guilt appeared against him, that he confessed the murder: for which he was executed.
THE
LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER.
BY MRS. ROBINSON.
"Watch no more the twinkling stars;
Watch no more the chalky bourne;
Lady, from the holy wars
Never will thy love return!
Cease to watch, and cease to mourn;
Thy lover never will return!
"Watch no more the yellow moon,
Peering o'er the mountain's head;
Rosy day, returning soon,
Will see thy lover pale and dead!
Cease to weep, and cease to mourn:
Thy lover will no more return.
"Lady, in the holy wars,
Fighting for the cross, he died;
Low he lies, and many scars
Mark his cold and mangled side;
In his winding-sheet he lies.
Lady, check those rending sighs.
"Hark! the hollow-sounding gale
Seems to sweep in murmurs by,
Sinking slowly down the vale;
Wherefore, gentle lady, sigh?
Wherefore moan, and wherefore sigh?
Lady, all that live must die.
"Now the stars are fading fast,
Swift their brilliant course are run:
Soon shall dreary night be past,
Soon shall rise the cheering sun!
The sun will rise to gladden thee;
Lady, lady, cheerful be."
So spake a voice; while, sad and lone,
Upon a lofty tow'r reclin'd,
A lady sat: the pale moon shone,
And sweetly blew the summer wind;
Yet still, disconsolate in mind,
The lovely lady sat reclin'd.
The lofty tow'r was ivy-clad;
And round a dreary forest rose;
The midnight bell was tolling sad,
'Twas tolling for a soul's repose.
The lady heard the gates unclose,
And from her seat in terror rose.
The summer moon shone bright and clear;
She saw the castle gates unclose;
And now she saw four monks appear,
Loud chanting for a soul's repose.
Forbear, O lady! look no more:
They pass'd—a livid corpse they bore.
They pass'd, and all was silent now;
The breeze upon the forest slept;
The moon stole o'er the mountain's brow;
Again the lady sigh'd and wept.
She watch'd the holy fathers go
Along the forest path below.
And now the dawn was bright; the dew
Upon the yellow heath was seen;
The clouds were of a rosy hue,
The sunny lustre shone between:
The lady to the chapel ran,
While the slow matin pray'r began.
And then, once more, the fathers grey
She mark'd, employ'd in holy pray'r;
Her heart was full, she could not pray,
For love and fear were masters there!
Ah, lady! thou wilt pray, ere long,
To sleep those lonely aisles among!
And now the matin pray'rs were o'er;
The barefoot monks, of order grey,
Were thronging to the chapel door:
When there the lady stopp'd the way;
"Tell me," she cried, "whose corpse so pale
Last night ye bore along the vale?"
"O lady! question us no more:
No corpse did we bear down the dale."
The lady sunk upon the floor,
Her quiv'ring lip was deathly pale!
The barefoot monks now whisper'd, sad,
"God grant our lady be not mad!"
The monks departing, one by one,
The chapel gates in silence close,
When from the altar steps of stone
The trembling lady feebly goes;
While morning sheds a ruby light,
The painted windows glowing bright.
And now she heard a hollow sound;
It seem'd to come from graves below;
And now again she look'd around,
A voice came murm'ring sad and slow
And now she heard it feebly cry,
"Lady, all that live must die!
"Watch no more from yonder tow'r,
Watch no more the star of day!
Watch no more the dawning hour,
That chases sullen night away!
Cease to watch, and cease to mourn;
Thy lover will no more return!"
She look'd around, and now she view'd,
Clad in a doublet gold and green,
A youthful knight: he frowning stood,
And noble was his mournful mien;
And now he said, with heaving sigh,
"Lady, all that live must die."
She rose to quit the altar's stone,
She cast a look to heav'n, and sigh'd:
When, lo! the youthful knight was gone;
And, scowling by the lady's side,
With sightless skull and bony hand,
She saw a giant spectre stand!
His flowing robe was long and clear,
His ribs were white as drifted snow.
The lady's heart was chill'd with fear;
She rose, but scarce had power to go:
The spectre grinn'd a dreadful smile,
And walk'd beside her down the aisle.
And now he wav'd his ratt'ling hand;
And now they reach'd the chapel door,
And there the spectre took his stand;
While, rising from the marble floor,
A hollow voice was heard to cry,
"Lady, all that live must die.
"Watch no more the evening star!
Watch no more the glimpse of morn!
Never from the holy war,
Lady, will thy love return!
See this bloody cross; and, see,
His bloody scarf he sends to thee!"
And now again the youthful knight
Stood smiling by the lady's side!
His helmet shone with crimson light,
His sword with drops of blood was dy'd:
And now a soft and mournful song
Stole the chapel aisles among.
Now from the spectre's paley cheek
The flesh began to waste away;
The vaulted doors were heard to creak,
And dark became the summer day!
The spectre's eyes were sunk, but he
Seem'd with their sockets still to see;
The second bell is heard to ring:
Four barefoot monks, of orders grey,
Again their holy service sing,
And round their chapel altar pray:
The lady counted o'er and o'er,
And shudder'd while she counted four!
"Oh! fathers, who was he, so gay,
That stood beside the chapel door?
Oh! tell me, fathers, tell me, pray,"
The monks replied, "We fathers four:
Lady, no other have we seen,
Since in this holy place we've been!"
PART SECOND.
Now the merry bugle-horn
Through the forest sounded far;
When on the lofty tow'r, forlorn,
The lady watch'd the evening star;
The evening star that seemed to be
Rising from the dark'ned sea.
The summer sea was dark and still,
The sky was streak'd with lines of gold,
The mist rose grey above the hill,
And low the clouds of amber roll'd:
The lady on the lofty tow'r
Watch'd the calm and silent hour.
And while she watch'd, she saw advance
A ship, with painted streamers gay:
She saw it on the green wave dance,
And plunge amid the silver spray;
While from the forest's haunts forlorn,
Again she heard the bugle horn.
The sails were full; the breezes rose;
The billows curl'd along the shore;
And now the day began to close—
The bugle horn was heard no more.
But, rising from the wat'ry way
An airy voice was heard to say—
"Watch no more the evening star;
Watch no more the billowy sea;
Lady, from the holy war,
Thy lover hastes to comfort thee:
Lady, lady, cease to mourn;
Soon thy lover will return."
Now she hastens to the bay;
Now the rising storm she hears:
Now the sailors smiling say,
"Lady, lady, check your fears:
Trust us, lady; we will be
Your pilots o'er the stormy sea."
Now the little bark she view'd,
Moor'd beside the flinty steep;
And now, upon the foamy flood,
The tranquil breezes seemed to sleep.
The moon arose; her silver ray
Seem'd on the silent deep to play.
Now music stole across the main:
It was a sweet but mournful tone;
It came a slow and dulcet strain;
It came from where the pale moon shone:
And while it pass'd across the sea,
More soft and soft it seem'd to be.
Now on the deck the lady stands.
The vessel steers across the main;
It steers towards the Holy Land,
Never to return again:
Still the sailors cry, "We'll be
Your pilots o'er the stormy sea."
Now she hears a low voice say,
"Deeper, deeper, deeper still;
Hark! the black'ning billows play;
Hark! the waves the vessel fill:
Lower, lower, down we go;
All is dark and still below."
Now a flash of vivid light
On the rolling deep was seen!
And now the lady saw the knight,
With doublet rich, of gold and green:
From the sockets of his eyes,
A pale and streaming light she spies.
And now his form transparent stood,
Smiling with a ghastly mien:
And now the calm and boundless flood
Was like the emerald, bright and green;
And now 'twas of a troubled hue,
While "Deeper, deeper," sang the crew.
Slow advanced the morning light,
Slow they plough'd the wavy tide;
When, on a cliff of dreadful height,
A castle's lofty tow'r they spied:
The lady heard the sailor-band
Cry, "Lady, this is Holy Land.
"Watch no more the glitt'ring spray;
Watch no more the weedy sand;
Watch no more the star of day;
Lady, this is Holy Land:
This castle's lord shall welcome thee;
Then, lady, lady, cheerful be!"
Now the castle-gates they pass;
Now across the spacious square,
Cover'd high with dewy grass,
Trembling steals the lady fair:
And now the castle's lord was seen,
Clad in a doublet gold and green.
He led her through the Gothic hall,
With bones and skulls encircled round;
"Oh, let not this thy soul appal!"
He cried, "for this is holy ground."
He led her through the chambers lone,
'Mid many a shriek and many a groan.
Now to the banquet-room they came:
Around a table of black stone,
She mark'd a faint and vapoury flame;
Upon the horrid feast it shone—
And there, to close the madd'ning sight,
Unnumber'd spectres met the light.
Their teeth were like the brilliant, bright;
Their eyes were blue as sapphire clear;
Their bones were of a polish'd white;
Gigantic did their ribs appear!
And now the knight the lady led,
And placed her at the table's head!
Just now the lady woke:—for she
Had slept upon the lofty tow'r,
And dreams of dreadful phantasie
Had fill'd the lonely moonlight hour:
Her pillow was the turret stone,
And on her breast the pale moon shone.
But now a real voice she hears:
It was her lover's voice; for he,
To calm her bosom's rending fears,
That night had cross'd the stormy sea:
"I come," said he, "from Palestine,
To prove myself, sweet Lady, thine."