In sleep she sometimes walked abroad,
Deep sighs with quick words blending,
Like that pale queen, whose hands are seen
With fancied spots contending;
But she is innocent of blood:
The moon is not more pure
That shines aloft, while through the wood
She threads her way, the sounding flood
Her melancholy lure.
While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe,
And owls alone are waking,
In white arrayed glides on the maid,
The downward pathway taking,
That leads her to the torrent's side,
And to a holly bower;
By whom on this still night descried?
By whom in that lone place espied?
By thee, Sir Eglamore!
A wandering ghost, so thinks the knight,
His coming step has thwarted,
Beneath the boughs that heard their vows,
Within whose shade they parted.
Hush, hush, the busy sleeper see!
Perplexed her fingers seem,
As if they from the holly tree
Green twigs would pluck, as rapidly
Flung from her to the stream.
What means the spectre? Why intent
To violate the tree,
Thought Eglamore, by which I swore
Unfading constancy?
Here am I, and to-morrow's sun,
To her I left, shall prove
That bliss is ne'er so surely won
As when a circuit has been run
Of valour, truth, and love.
So from the spot whereon he stood
He moved with stealthy pace;
And, drawing nigh with his living eye,
He recognised the face:
And whispers caught, and speeches small,
Some to the green-leaved tree,
Some mutter'd to the torrent-fall:—
"Roar on, and bring him with thy call;
I heard, and so may he!"
Soul-shattered was the knight, nor knew
If Emma's ghost it were,
Or bodying shade, or if the maid
Her very self stood there.
He touched; what followed who shall tell?
The soft touch snapped the thread
Of slumber—shrieking back she fell,
The stream it whirled her down the dell
Along its foaming bed.
In plunged the knight!—when on firm ground
The rescued maiden lay;
Her eyes grew bright with blissful light,
Confusion passed away;
She heard, ere to the throne of grace
Her faithful spirit flew,
His voice—beheld his speaking face;
And, dying, from his own embrace,
She felt that he was true.
So was he reconciled to life:
Brief words may speak the rest;
Within the dell he built a cell,
And there was sorrow's guest;
In hermit's weeds repose he found,
From vain temptations free,
Beside the torrent dwelling, bound
By one deep heart-controlling sound,
And awed to piety.
Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course,
Nor fear memorial lays,
Where clouds that spread in solemn shade,
Are edged with golden rays!
Dear art thou to the light of heaven,
Though minister of sorrow;
Sweet is thy voice at pensive even;
And thou, in lovers' hearts forgiven,
Shalt take thy place with Yarrow.