William Harrison Ainsworth

The Legend of the Lime-Tree

1.

Amid the grove o’er – arched above 
                    with lime – trees old and tall –
The avenue that leads unto 
                    the Rookwood’s ancient hall – , 
High o’er the rest its towering crest 
                    one tree rears to the sky, 
And wide out flings, like mighty wings, 
                    its arms umbrageously.

2.

Seven yards its base would scarce embrace – 
                    a goodly tree I ween, 
With silver bark, and foliage dark, 
                    of melancholy green; 
And mid its boughs two ravens house, 
                    and build from year to year, 
Their black brood hatch – their black brood watch – 
                    then screaming disappear.

3.

In that old tree when playfully 
                    the summer breezes sigh,
Its leaves are stirred, and there is heard 
                    a low and plaintive cry;
And when in shrieks the storm blast speaks 
                    its reverend boughs among,
Sad wailing moans, like human groans, 
                    the concert harsh prolong.

4.

But whether gale or calm prevail, 
                    or threatening cloud hath fled,
By hand of Fate, predestinate,
                    a limb that tree will shed; 
A verdant bough – untouched, I trow, 
                    by axe or tempest’s breath – 
To Rookwood’s head an omen dread 
                    of fast – approaching death.

5.

Some think that tree instinct must be 
                    with preternatural power,
Like ’larum bell Death’s note to knell 
                    at Fate’s appointed hour; 
While some avow that on its bough 
                    are fearful traces seen, 
Red as the stains from human veins, 
                    commingling with the green.

6.

Others, again, there are maintain
                    that on the shattered bark 
A print is made, where fiends have laid 
                    their scathing talons dark; 
That, ere it falls, the raven calls 
                    thrice from that wizard bough;
And that each cry doth signify 
                    what space the Fates allow.

7.

In olden days, the legend says, 
                    as grim Sir Ranulph viewed
A wretched hag her footsteps drag 
                    beneath his lordly wood,
His bloodhounds twain he called amain, 
                    and straightway gave her chase;
Was never seen in forest green, 
                    so fierce, so fleet a race!

8.

With eyes of flame to Ranulph came 
                    each red and ruthless hound, 
While mangled, torn – a sight forlorn! – 
                    the hag lay on the ground; 
E’en where she lay was turned the clay, 
                    and limb and reeking bone 
Within the earth, with ribald mirth, 
                    by Ranulph grim were thrown.

9.

And while as yet the soil was wet 
                    with that poor witch’s gore, 
A lime-tree stake did Ranulph take, 
                    and pierced her bosom’s core; 
And, strange to tell, what next befell! – 
                    that branch at once took root, 
And richly fed, within its bed, 
                    strong suckers forth did shoot.

10.

From year to year fresh boughs appear – 
                    it waxes huge in size; 
And, with wild glee, this prodigy 
                    Sir Ranulph grim espies. 
One day, when he, beneath that tree, 
                    reclined in joy and pride, 
A branch was found upon the ground – 
                    the next, Sir Ranulph died!

11.

And from that hour a fatal power 
                    has ruled that Wizard Tree, 
To Ranulph’s line a warning sign 
		    of doom and destiny: 
For when a bough is found,
		    I trow, beneath its shade to lie, 
Ere suns shall rise thrice in the skies 
		    a Rookwood sure shall die!