Tales and Legends of the English Lakes

by Wilson Armistead

—"But chiefly, Ennerdale, to thee I turn,
And o'er thy healthful vales heart-rended mourn!
—For ah! those plains, those vales, those sheltering woods,
Nourish'd by Bassenthwaite's contiguous floods,
Once witness'd such a sad and heavy deed
As makes the aching memory recede."

Then introducing the Lord of Ennerdale, she continues:—

"He, the sole heir of Atheling was known,
Whose blood, stern Scotland! 'midst thy heaths has flown.
Not five and twenty summers o'er his head
Had led their orbs, when he preferr'd to wed
The sweet Edwina. Blooming were the charms
Which her fond father gave to Henry's arms.
Long had he woo'd the charming, bashful maid,
Who, yet to listen to Love's tales afraid,
By many modest arts—(so Love ordains)
Increas'd his passion, though increas'd his pains.
At length the nuptial morn burst from the sky,
Bidding prismatic light before her fly;
Soft purple radiance streamed around her car,
Absorbing all the beams of every star;—
Roses awaken'd as she pass'd along,
And the high lark perform'd his soaring song,
Whilst pinks, their fragrance shaking on the air,
The proud carnation's glories seem'd to share;
The breezes snatch'd their odours as they flew,
And gave them in their turn pellucid dew,
Which fed their colours to a higher tone,
Till all the earth a vegetative rainbow shone.

Beneath her husband's roof the matchless fair
Graced each delight, and each domestic care.
Her plastic needle bade fresh flow'rets grow;
And, hung in rich festoons, around her glow;
In cooling grots her shellwork seized the eye,
With skill arrang'd, to show each melting dye;
Her taste the garden everywhere sustain'd,
In each parterre her vivid fancy reign'd.
Submissive yews in solid walls she form'd,
Or bade them rise a castle, yet unstorm'd;
In love the eagle hover'd o'er its nest,
Or seem'd a couchant lion sunk to rest.
Her husband's sports his lov'd Edwina shar'd,
For her the hawking party was prepar'd;
She roused the wolf—the foaming boar she chased,
And Danger's self was in her presence graced.

Thus roll'd two years on flowery wheels along,
Midst calm domestic bliss, and sport, and song.
O, Edgar! from pernicious Gallia's shore,
Hadst thou, immoral youth! return'd no more,
Such years tho' lengthen'd time had sweetly run,
Down to the faintest beams of life's last sun.
But thou returnd'st! and thy voluptuous heart,
Which from temptation never knew to start,
Seized on Edwina as a lawful prize—
All dead to Honour's voice, and Conscience' secret cries.

Edgar to Ennerdale oft bent his way,
His form was courtly, and his manners gay;
To Henry he would speak of wars he'd seen,
Of tournaments, and gaudes, 'midst peace serene.
When for Edwina's ear the tale was fram'd
The beauties of bright Gallia's court were nam'd,
Their lives, their loves, all past before her view,
And many things were feign'd he never knew.
At length the prudent fair remark'd the style,
And saw beneath his ease distorted guile;—
For virtue in his tales ne'er found a place,
Nor maiden vigilance, nor matron grace,
But wild and loose his glowing stories ran,
And thus betray'd the black designing man.
As when, in eastern climes, 'midst hours of play,
A sweet boy (wand'ring at the close of day,
Along the margin of a gadding stream,
Whilst Hope around him throws her fairy dream)
Sudden beholds the panther's deadly eye,
And turns, by impulse strong, his step to fly—
So turn'd Edwina, when she saw, reveal'd,
The net th' ensnaring youth had hop'd conceal'd:
Whenever he appear'd her air grew cold,
And awed to mute despair this baron bold;
He by degrees forbore to seek her gate,
Who sat enshrin'd within, in Virtue's state.
But his wild wishes did not cease to rage,
Nor did he strive their fever to assuage—
For sinful love is ever dear to sin,
Its victims self-correction ne'er begin;
But, hurried on by hell, pursue their road,
Nor heed surrounding woes, nor tremble at their God!

The huntsman blew his horn, ere listless day
Had from his shoulder thrown his robe of gray,
Ere he had shaken from his shining hair
The rosy mists which irrigate the air.
Lord Henry heard—and from his pillow sprung,
And bold responsive notes he cheerily sung;
Then, "Wake my love!" the happy husband cried,
To her, who, sweetly slumbering at his side,
Wish'd still, thus slumbering, to wear the morn,
And almost chid the tyrant horn—
Yet quick she rose, and quick her busy maids,
Folding her yellow locks in careless braids,
Equipp'd her for the field—sweeping she flew,
Like a slim arrow from the graceful yew.
Her jet-black steed more lively seem'd to bound,
When the light burden on his back he found—
The jet-black steed her husband had bestow'd,
When first, a huntress, at his side she rode;
Long was his streaming main, his eye of fire,
Proved his descent from no ignoble sire;
He sprung 'midst Araby's far distant plains,
Whose sands the bleeding violet never stains.
And now the day in all his glories drest,
Seem'd at the bugle's call to shake off rest.
He pour'd his beams around in ample floods—
Rivers of light descended on the woods;
The plains, the valleys drank the radiant shower,
Each plant received it, and each gentle flower.
The Hunt inspir'd, the ambient æther rent
With varied sounds, as their keen course they bent:
The dogs, deep-mouth'd, in chorus form'd the cry,
And sent their forest greetings to the sky;
The horn's full tone swell'd each pervading note,
And harmony and joy around the country float.

At length a boar, thro' a dark coppice side,
Amidst the rustling bushes seem'd to glide;
Cautious he moved, like a fell thief of night,
Strung by his fears to unintended flight.
Close to the earth he softly crept along,
And shrubs, and underwood around him throng;
But ah! in vain he creeps, the air so thin,
Catches th' effluvia from his reeking skin,
The titillations to the hounds' keen nostrils fly,
Who instantly the brown recesses try.
When turn'd before them into open view,
Quick transports from each bosom flew;
The huntsman's law the churning savage found,
They suffer'd his escape twelve roods of ground,
Ere loose was let the eager mad'ning pack,
To follow in the bristly monster's track;
At length in close pursuit they pour along,
Urged or retarded by their Leader's thong.
O'er hills, through brakes, he led them many an hour,
Straining each nerve—exhausting ev'ry power:
Now hears the dogs' faint mouthings far behind,
Then scents them as around a beck they wind—
With dread and joy alternately is fill'd
Now high with hope, and now with terror chill'd;
Then in despair he turns to meet the foe,
And rage and madness in his eyeballs glow—
When Henry, darting on before the rest,
Fix'd the bright lance within his heaving breast,
His struggling breast convulsive motions strain,
His spouting veins the foaming coursers stain:
The death-notes issue from the brazen horn,
And from th' enormous trunk the head is torn.
Straight with the tusk-arm'd head upon his spear,
Lord Henry turn'd to Her—for ever dear!
To lay the bleeding trophy at her feet,
And make his triumph more sincerely sweet—
But horror! no Edwina could be seen,
Nor on the hill's soft slope, or pasture green;
Not shelter'd, near the torrent's fall she lay,
Nor on the forest's edge, escaped the day,
Nor was she on the plain—the valleys too,
Gave no Edwina to the aching view.
Wonder and dread compress her husband's heart,
O'er the surrounding scene his eye-beams dart;
He moves—stands still—terror lifts up his hair,
He seems the pale-cheek'd spectre of despair.
And now was heard her steed's sonorous neigh,
Whose voice the rocks' firm echoes would obey;
Bounding, he comes towards them from the plain,
But his sweet mistress held no guiding rein—
The reins float loosely, as he cleft the air,
No mistress sweet, with guiding hand, was there!
From all but Henry burst terrific cries,
Silent his dread—and quite suppress'd his sighs.
His manly features sink, his eyelids close,
And all his lineaments express his woes.
Speech! O, how weak, when mighty sorrows spring,
When fears excessive to the bosom cling!
Words may to lighter troubles give a show,
But find no place where griefs transcendent grow.
At length they each a different way diverge,
Some to the mountain's haughty brow emerge,
Others pursue the plain—the wood—the dell,
Appointing where to meet, their fortune dear, to tell.

And now, O Lady! Empress of the day,
My pensive pen pursues thee on thy way!
Amidst the heat and fury of the chace,
When the fleet horsemen scarce the eye could trace.
A road succinct Edwina meant to take,
And push'd her steed across an ancient brake;
But in the thicket tangled and dismayed,
And of the thorny solitude afraid,
Again she turn'd her horse—ah! turn'd in vain,
She miss'd the op'ning to the neighb'ring plain.
At length dismounting, tremblingly she strove,
To force a path, through briars thickly wove;
The horse releas'd, straight vanish'd from her eye,
And o'er opposing brambles seem'd to fly—
The distant hounds his prick'd-up ears invade,
And quick he skims o'er ev'ry glen and glade.
His mistress, thus forsook, with prickles torn,
And weeping oft with pain, and all forlorn,
At length achiev'd a path, and saw a rill,
To which she mov'd, her ruby mouth to fill;—
Her taper'd hand immers'd beneath the stream,
Flash'd through the glassy wave with pearly gleam,
It bore the living moisture to her lips,
And eagerly the panting beauty sips,
The shining freshness o'er her brow she threw,
And bless'd the current as it sparkling flew;
Then on its borders sought a short repose,
Whilst round her, doddergrass, and pansies rose.
Sleep soon, unbidden, caught her in his snare,
And folded in his arms the weary fair,
Two aspen trees in one smooth bark were bound,
And threw a thin and trembling shadow round,
The waters gently tinkled as they fell,
And a near sheep sustained a silvery bell,
Whilst breezes o'er her temples softly stray'd,
And 'midst her floating ringlets, leaping, played,
Who would not wish to linger in such rest,
Where waters, shades, and sounds, make sleeping blest?
But, Powers Sublime! who tread the burning air,
And give to sainted charity your care,
Where roved ye now?—Where waved your filmy wings,
Where struck your harps their million-bearing strings?
If on Light's rays, swift shot from pole to pole,
Your essences supine you chose to roll,
Or the rich glowing tapestry to weave,
Which must the sun's retiring orb receive,
Yet still you should have left each task undone,
Fled from the glowing west—forsook the sun,
Rush'd in whole troops, nor left one sylph behind,
And all your cares to Ennerdale confined:
Clung round the aspens where Edwina slept,
And o'er her form your anxious vigils kept—
Whose slumbers long spun out their rosy dreams,
And still consoled her 'midst the noontide beams.
When a hard grasp which seized her listless hands,
Rude, snapt asunder their narcotic bands,
She started, and she found,—O! hated sight,
Close at her side the am'rous villain knight,
Who tried in specious terms his hopes to paint—
Inspir'd by ev'ry fiend, he call'd on every saint!