And she told wild tales, all of magic spell,
Where treasures were hidden in mountain or dell;
Where wizards, for ages, kept beauty in thrall
’Neath the mould’ring damp of their dank donjon wall.
———But list thee, my Walter, by Tinmouthe’s towers grey,
Where chant the cowl’d monks all by night and by day;
In a cavern of rock scoop’d under the sea,
Lye treasures in keeping of Sorcery.
It avails not the Cross, ever sainted and true,
It avails not the pray’rs of the prior Sir Hugh,
It avails not, O dread! Holy Virgin’s care,
Great treasure long held by dark Sathan is there.
Far, far ’neath the sea, in a deep rocky cell,
Bound down by the chains of the strongest spell,
Lies the key of gold countless as sands on the shore,
And there it will rest ’till old time is no more.
Nay, say not so, mother, can heart that is bold
Not win from the fiend all this ill-gotten gold?
Can no lion-soul’d knight, with his harness true,
Do more than cowl’d monks with their beads e’er can do?
Now hush thee young Walter, how like to thy sire!
Thy heart is too reckless, thine eye full of fire:
When reason with courage can help thee in need,
I will tell how the treasure from spell may be freed.
Full many a long summer with scented breath,
Saw the flowers blossom wild on the north mountain heath;
And the fleetest in chase and the stoutest in fight,
Grew young Walter, the son of Sir Robert the Knight.
Full many a long winter of sleet and of snow,
Swept through the cold valleys where pines only grow;
But heedless of sleet, snow, or howling blast,
Young Walter e’er brav’d them, the first and the last.
Who is that young knight in the Percy’s band?
Who wieldeth the falchion with master hand?
Who strideth the war-steed in border fight?
——’Tis Walter, the son of Sir Robert the Knight!
Thy promise, dear mother, I claim from thee now,
When my reason can act with my blade and my bow;
But the lady she wept o’er bold Walter her son,
For peril is great where renown can be won.