"A gruesome gulf's between us spread"—
She cries—"Sir Knight, beware!
Fate spans that gulf with mystic thread
So frail that only souls may tread—
Impalpable as air!"
"Like ancient Roc I'll wing my flight"—
He whispers—"O, be mine!
I'll wing thee to my castle height
And wed thee, sweet!" She answers bright:
"Then I, dear love, am thine!"
The while she sang with more than human art—
Her voice full-throbbing like a bird's—
She seemed to see a vision of the knight,
And seemed to be the maiden of the song,
And half her heart expressed its love in words,
While all her soul beamed from her glorious eyes,
And, at the last, her rounded arms, outstretched,
Seemed to embrace the hero of her song.
While Ada sings, what happens at the hall?
Sir Bertram still sits gazing at the fire,
Seeing strange shapes and embered phantasies
Come and depart and come again more strange,
While his set gaze grows painful, and his mind
Whirls with conflicting conscience and desire;
For he hath seen the beauteous, lovely maid—
And loved her from the moment that he saw—
Loved her, yet dared not wed, nor whisper love;
And now he seems to see her in her home,
Her golden tresses rippling o'er her brow,
Her violet eyes, lit up with love's own light,
Turned full upon himself, O ravishment!
While her full-throated song enthralls his soul.
"O love!" he cries, "Sweet love, be mine indeed—
Thou pearl of beauty! goddess of my heart!"
Her outstretched arms appear to welcome him!
He raises his, to clasp her to his breast—
When lo, the vision vanishes! and loud
The hoarse tower-bell clangs out the hour of ten!
He rises hastily and treads the floor.
"What was it Elpsie croaked, as home he rode
That very evening?—Elpsie, that old hag!
What devil had inspired her?—'Bertram, lad,
Ere cock-crow this All-Hallow-E'en I see
Thy loved one swoon in thine enamored arms!'
And then she laughed uncannily and struck
Her crutch against the lightning-blasted ash,
And mumbled, 'My revenge is come at last!'
What could she mean? Impossible, to-night!
Yet when hath Elpsie prophesied in vain?"
His heart beats fast, his blood begins to surge,
His head to swim. "More air!" he cries; "more air!
A long brisk walk will shake these fancies off!"
Meanwhile, the song grown silent at the farm;
The egg-charm ended, and the molten-lead
And apple-bobbing done with; now they sit:
The old man snoring while the old dame nods—
The young ones telling stories of the Eve:
How Janet Smith last Hallow-E'en did see
O'er her left shoulder, after certain rites,
The face of John Smith, who soon married her;
And how the mirror-test was good, no doubt;
And how the colewort's prophecies were sure;
And how the hemp-seed test was surer still;
But best of all, the image in the well!—
Stories which creep, and breed a shallow laugh
Perchance, with inward shuddering and fear—
Until a sharp gust shakes the window-panes,
As in the grip of some strong shiv'ring hand,
And, with a start, the old folks wake again!
"Good man, 'tis long past ten!" the old dame cries.
"Well, well, good wife, the hours creep on apace—
The sacred fire doth need replenishment—
And we grow older, feebler, with the years;
And soon must leave to younger, stronger hands,
The toils and troubles, and the joys, of life,
As now we yield to them this vigil strict;
Another mug and pipe, and then, to bed!"
The "image in the well!" What well? and where?
From farm and castle full a mile away,
Near to an ancient tree—a Druid oak—
The old well stands—its waters deep and pure—
Its moss-grown stones much worn by age and use.
In olden days—so runs the legend—when
The good King Arthur and his chosen knights
Upheld the right, and lifted womanhood
By force of arms to heights almost divine—
A recreant knight betrayed a gentle maid,
And she, ashamed to let the thing be known,
Fled from her home, into the forest wild,
And grieved and wept her very soul away.
And when she died—the tale is often told
And all the people there believe it true—
From the hard earth, beside her, gushed a spring,
Fed, as they say, by all the tears she shed—
Which, on a day when Arthur passed that way,
And heard the story sad, he bade be walled
With masonry, "As monument," he said,
"To teach all coming time that Mother Earth
Hath more of heart and faith than recreant knight"—
And named it "Myra's Well"—and passed along.
And later, when the false knight rode that way,
He was beset, dismounted, beaten, stripped,
And sorely wounded in a fray, and crawled
To Myra's Well—not knowing of the tale—
And kneeled to slake his thirst, and bending low,
Saw her reproachful face, and seeing, died!
Scarcely a bow-shot from poor Myra's Well,
Sheltered and hid by woods and undergrowth,
A low hut leans against gray-lichened rocks—
Old Elpsie's home—beshunned by humankind—
Of which strange stories had been gossiped 'round:
How fifty years ago, on Hallow-E'en,
At midnight, in a storm, a wayward youth
Losing his way had stumbled on the hut
And found it tenanted, and peeping in,
Beheld a sad-eyed maiden all alone
Reclining on a couch hard-by the fire!
How he had prayed admittance from the storm;
How pity beat the wall of prudence down;
And how he took advantage of her state;
And how she cursed him in her crazy shame,
And prayed God blast all issue of his loins
Until the wrong should be atoned in kind;
And how, as years ran by, though rarely seen,
The sad-eyed maid became a withered hag
And practised witchcraft and foul sorcery.
But whence she came, or who she was, or why
She was called Elpsie, none could say. They knew
Alone, for sure, that Farmer Holt had once,
Near to the graveyard, in the dead of night,
Seen by the moonlight, riding on a broom—
Straight from the castle to the hut beyond—
A form and face like Elpsie's, in the air—
Scattering on all sides curses as she flew!
And people fearful were of meeting her,
And even feared to pass by Myra's Well.
From the low thatch of Elpsie's hut upcurls
A smoke-wraith, dimly seen; beneath the eaves
Black shadows fall, save where a yellow gleam,
Dull and uncertain, from a crevice pours.
Low-pendant from a crane, within the hut,
A great black pot is simmering o'er a fire,
Whose flickering light bewrays a couch, a stool,
And, crouching by the fire, the tattered form
The matted hair, the parchment-wrinkled skin,
Of Elpsie—elbowing her knees, her jowl
Supported like a wedge between her palms—
Crouching and swaying feebly back and forth—
Her gaze intent upon the shifting scum
Or on the greenish vapor it exudes—
The while her cracked voice croons uncannily:
ELPSIE'S CROON.