Энн Баннерман (Anne Bannerman)

The Dark Ladie

The knights return'd from Holy Land,
Sir Guyon led the armed train;
And to his castle, on the sea,
He welcom'd them again.

He welcom'd them with soldier glee,
And sought to charm away their toil;
But none, on Guyon's clouded face,
Had ever seen a smile!

And, as the hour of eve drew on,
That clouded face more dark became,
No burst of mirth could overpow'r
The shiverings of his frame;

And often to the banner'd door
His straining eyes, unbidden, turn'd;
Above, around, they glanced wild,
But ever there return'd.

At every pause, all breathless then,
And pale as death, he bent his ear,
Tho' not a sound the silence broke,
He seemed still to hear !

And when the feast was spread, and all
The guests, assembled, were at meat,
There pass'd them by, with measur'd step,
And took the upper seat,
A Ladie, clad in ghastly white,
And veiled to the feet:

She spoke not when she enter'd there;
She spoke not when the feast was done;
And every knight, in chill amaze,
Survey'd her one by one:

For thro' the foldings of her veil,
Her long black veil that swept the ground,
A light was seen to dart from eyes
That mortal never own'd.

And then the knights on Guyon turn'd
Their fixed gaze, and shudder'd now;
For smother'd fury seem'd to bring
The dew-drops on his brow.

But, from the Ladie in the veil,
Their eyes they could not long withdraw,
And when they tried to speak, that glare
Still kept them mute with awe !

Each wish'd to rouse his failing heart,
Yet look'd and trembled all, the while;
All, till the midnight clock had toll'd
Its summons from the southern aisle.

And when the last dull stroke had rung,
And left behind its deep'ning knell,
The Ladie rose, and fill'd with wine,
Fill'd to the brim, the sparkling shell.

And to the' alarmed guests she turn'd,
No breath was heard, no voice, no sound,
And in a tone, so deadly deep,
She pledg'd them all around,
That in their hearts, and thro' their limbs,
No pulses could be found.

And, when their senses back return'd,
They gaz'd upon the steps of stone
On which the Dark Ladie had stood,
They gaz'd...but she was gone!...

Then Guyon rose,...and ah ! to rest,
When every weary knight was led,
After what they had seen and heard,
What wonder, slumber fled !

For, often as they turn'd to rest,
And sleep prest down each heavy eye,
Before them, in her black veil wrapt,
They saw the Dark Ladie.

And then the voice, the tone, that stopt
Thro' all their limbs, the rushing blood;
The cup which she had fill'd with wine,
The steps on which she stood.

The sound, the tone,...no human voice
Could ever reach that echo, deep;
And, ever as they turn'd to rest,
It roused them from sleep !...

The morning dawns...the knights are met,
And seated in the arched hall,
And some were loud, and some spoke low,
But Huart none at all !

"Dost not remember, well, cries one,
When wide the sacred banners flew,
And when, beneath the blessed Cross,
The infidels we slew.

"This same Sir Guyon, erst so brave,
In fight, who ever led the van,
Soon as the Sepulchre he saw,
Grew pale and trembled then ?

"And as the kneeling knights ador'd,
And wept around that holy place,
O God ! I've seen the big drops burst
For hours upon his face !

"And when I named the blessed name,
His face became as livid clay,
And, on his foamy lips, the sounds,
Unutter'd, died away !"

"But O ! that Ladie ! Huart cries,...
That Ladie, with the long black veil,
This morn I heard!...I hear it still,
The lamentable tale !

"I hear the hoary-headed man,
I kept him till the morning dawn,
For five unbroken hours he talk'd,
With me they were as one !

"He told me he had lived long
Within this castle, on the sea;
But peace, O Heaven ! he never had,
Since he saw the Dark Ladie !

"'Twas chill," he said, "a hazy night,
Just as the light began to fail,
Sir Guyon came and brought with him
The Ladie in the veil:

"Yes ! to this castle on the sea,
The wild surge dashing on its base,
He brought her in that frightful veil
That ever hides her face.

"And many a time, he said, he tried
That ne'er-uncover'd face to see:
At eve and more, at noon and night;
But still it could not be !

"Till once ! but O ! that glaring eye,
It dried the life-blood, working here !
And when he turn'd to look again,
The Ladie was not near !

"But, sometimes, thro' her curtain'd tower,
A strange uncolour'd light was seen,
And something, of unearthly hue,
Still passed on between:

"And then aloof its clasped hands
Were wrung, and tossed to and fro!
And sounds came forth, dull, deep, and wild,
And O ! how deadly slow !

"He quak'd to tell !...But, never more,
In quiet sleep, he rested long;
For still, on his alarmed ear,
That rousing echo rung!

"It glar'd for ever on his sight,
That fixed eye, so wildly keen !
Till life became a heavy load;
And long had heavy been.

"He told me that, at last, he heard
Some story, how this poor Ladie
Had left, alas! her husband's home
With this dread knight to flee:

"And how her sinking heart recoil'd,
And how her throbbing bosom beat,
And how sensation almost left
Her cold convulsed feet:

"And how she clasp'd her little son,
Before she tore herself away;
And how she turn'd again to bless
The cradle where he lay.

"But where Sir Guyon took her then,
Ah ! none could ever hear or know,
Or, why, beneath that long black veil,
Her wild eyes sparkle so.

"Or whence those deep unearthly tones,
That human bosom never own'd;
Or why, it cannot be remov'd,
That folded veil that sweeps the ground?"

Поддержать сайт