Book IV

Thr night-wind is sleeping — the forest is still,
The blare of the heath-cock has sunk on the hill,
Beyond the gray cairn of the moor is his rest,
On the red heather-bloom he has pillowed his breast ;
There soon with his note the gray dawning he'll cheer,
But Mary of Carel' that note will not hear !

The night-wind is still, and the moon in the wane,
The river-lark sings on the verge of the plain ;
So lonely his plaint, by the motionless reed,
It sounds like an omen or tale of the dead ;
Like a warning of death, it falls on the ear
Of those who are wandering the woodlands in fear ;
For the maidens of Carelha' wander, and cry
On their young lady's name, with the tear in their eye.
The gates had been shut, and the mass had been sung,
But Mary was missing, the beauteous and young ;
And she had been seen in the evening still,
By woodman, alone, in the groves of Bowhill.

O, were not these maidens in terror and pain ?
They knew the third night of the moon in the wane !
They knew on that night that the spirits were free ;
That revels of fairies were held on the lea ;
And heard their small bugles, with eirysome croon,
As lightly they rode on the beam of the moon !
O ! woe to the wight that abides their array !
And woe to the maiden that comes hi their way !

The maidens returned all hopeless and wan ;
The yeomen they rode, and the pages they ran ;
The Ettrick and Yarrow they searched up and down,
The hamlet, the cot, and the old borough town ;
And thrice the bedesman renewed the host ;
But the dawn returned — and Mary was lost !

Her lady mother, distracted and wild,
For the loss of her loved, her only child,
With all her maidens tracked the dew —
Well Mary's secret bower she knew !
Oft had she traced, with fond regard,
Her darling to that grove, and heard
Her orisons the green bough under,
And turned aside with fear and wonder.

O ! but their hearts were turned to stone,
When they saw her stretched on the sward alone ;
Prostrate, without a word or motion,
As if in calm and deep devotion !
They called her name with trembling breath ;
But ah ! her sleep was the sleep of death !
They laid their hands on her cheek composed ;
But her cheek was cold and her eye was closed :
They laid their hands upon her breast,
But the playful heart had sunk to rest ;
And they raised an eldritch wail of sorrow,
That startled the hinds on the braes of Yarrow.

And yet, when they viewed her comely face,
Each line remained of beauty and grace ;
No death-like features it disclosed,
For the lips were met, and the eyes were closed.
'Twas pale — but the smile was on the cheek ;
'Twas modelled all as in act to speak !
It seemed as if each breeze that blew,
The play of the bosom would renew ;
As nature's momentary strife
Would wake that form to beauty and life.

It is borne away with fear and awe
To the lordly halls of Carelha,'
And lies on silken couch at rest —
The mother there is constant guest,
For hope still lingers in her breast.

O ! seraph Hope ! that here below
Can nothing dear to the last forego !
When we see the forms we fain would save
Wear step by step adown to the grave,
Still hope a lambent gleam will shed
Over the last, the dying bed :
And even, as now, when the soul's away,
It flutters and lingers o'er the clay !
O hope ! thy range was never expounded !
TU not by the grave that thou art bounded !

The leech's art, and the bedesman's prayer,
Are all mispent — no life is there !
Between her breasts they dropped the lead,
A.nd the cord in vain begirt her head ;
Yet still on that couch her body lies,
Though another moon has claimed the skies ;
For once the lykewake maidens saw,
As the dawn arose on Carelha',
A movement soft the sheets within,
And a gentle shivering of the chin !

All earthly hope at last outworn,
The body to the tomb was borne ;
The last pale flowers in the grave were flung ;
The mass was said, and the requiem sung ;
And the turf that was ever green to be,
Lies over the dust of Mary Lee.

Deep fell the eve on old Lindeen !
Loud creaked the rail in the clover green !
The new moon from the west withdrew —
O ! well the monk of Lindeen knew
That Mary's winding-sheet was lined
With many fringe of the gold refined !
That in her bier behoved to be
A golden cross and a rosary ;
Of pearl beads full many a string,
And on every finger a diamond ring.
The holy man no scruples staid :
For within that grave was useless laid
Riches that would a saint entice —
'Twas worth a convent's benefice !

He took the spade, and away he is gone
To the church-yard, darkling and alone ;
His brawny limbs the grave bestride,
And he shovelled the mools and the bones aside ;
Of the dust, or the dead, he stood not in fear,
But he stooped hi the grave and he opened the bier ;
And he took the jewels, of value high,
And he took the cross, and the rosary,
And the golden heart on the lid that shone,
And he laid them carefully on a stone.

Then down in the depth of the grave sat he
And he raised the corse upon his knee ;
But in vain to gain the rings he strove,
For the hands were cold, and they would not move :
He drew a knife from his baldrick gray,
To cut the rings and fingers away.

He gave one cut — he gave but one —
It scarcely reached unto the bone :
Just then the soul, so long exiled,
Returned again from its wanderings wild ;
By the stars and the sun it ceased to roam,
And entered its own, its earthly home.
Loud shrieked the corse at the wound he gave,
And, rising, stood up in the grave.

The hoary thief was chilled at heart,
Scarce had he power left to depart ;
For horror thrilled through every vein ;
He did not cry, but he roared amain ;
For hues of dread and death were rife
On the face of the form he had woke to life :
His reason fled from off her throne,
And never more dawned thereupon.

Aloud she called her Cela's name,
And the echoes called, but no Cela came !
O ! much she marvelled that he had gone,
And left her thus in the grave alone.
She knew the place, and the holy dome ;
Few moments hence she had thither come ;
And through the hues of the night she saw
The woods and towers of Carelha'.
'Twas mystery all — She did not ween
Of the state or the guise in which she had been ;
She did not ween that while travelling afar,
Away by the sun and the morning star,
By the moon, and the cloud, and aerial bow,
That her body was left on the earth below.

But now she stood in grievous plight ;
The ground was chilled with the dews of the night ;
Her frame was cold and ill at rest,
The dead-rose waved upon her breast ;
Her feet were coiled in the sheet so wan,
And fast from her hand the red blood ran.

'Twas late, late on a Sabbath night !
At the hour of the ghost, and the restless sprite !
The mass at Carelha' had been read,
And all the mourners were bound to bed,
When a foot was heard on the paved floor,
And a gentle rap came to the door.

O ! why should a rap, of such gentle din,
Throw such amazement on all within, —
A dim haze clouded every sight
Each hair had life, and stood upright ;
No sound was heard throughout the hall,
But the beat of the heart and the cricket's call ;
So deep the silence imposed by fear,
That a vacant buzz sung in the ear.

The lady of Carelha' first broke
The breathless hush, and thus she spoke : —
" Christ be our shield ! — who walks so late,
And knocks so gently at my gate ?
I felt a pang — it was not dread —
It was the memory of the dead !
O ! death is a dull and dreamless sleep !
The mould is heavy, the grave is deep,
Else I had weened that foot so free
The step and the foot of my Mary Lee !
And I had weened that gentle knell
From the light hand of my daughter fell !
The grave is deep, it may not be !
Haste, porter — haste to the door and see."

He took the key with an eye of doubt,
He lifted the lamp and he looked about ;
His lips a silent prayer addressed,
And the cross was signed upon his breast ;
Thus mailed within the armour of God,
All ghostly to the door he strode.
He wrenched the bolt with grating din,
He lifted the latch — but none came in !

He thrust out his lamp, and he thrust out his head,
And he saw the face and the robes of the dead !
One sob he heaved, and tried to fly,
But he sunk on the earth, and the form came bye.

She entered the hall, she stood in the door,
Till, one by one, dropt on the floor
The blooming maiden, and matron old,
The friar gray, and the yeoman bold.
It was like a scene on the Border green,
When the arrows fly and pierce unseen ;
And nought was heard within the hall,
But Aves, vows, and groans withal.
The lady of Carel' stood alone,
But moveless as a statue of stone.

" O ! lady mother, thy fears forego ;
Why all this terror and this woe ?
But late when I was in this place,
Thou wouldst not look me in the face ;
O ! why do you blench at sight of me ?

I am thy own child, thy Mary Lee."

" I saw thee dead and cold as clay ;
I watched thy corpse for many a day ;
I saw thee laid in the grave at rest ;
I strewed the flowers upon thy breast ;
And I saw the mould heaped over thee —
Thou art not my child, my Mary Lee."

O'er Mary's face amazement spread ;
She knew not that she had been dead ;
She gazed in mood irresolute :
Both stood aghast, and both were mute.

" Speak, thou loved form — my glass is run,
I nothing dread beneath the sun,
Why comest thou in thy winding-sheet,
Thy life-blood streaming to thy feet ?
The grave-rose that my own hands made,
I see upon thy bosom spread ;
The kerchief that my own hands bound,
I see still tied thy temples round ;
The golden rings, and bracelet bands,
Are still upon thy bloody hands.
From earthly hope all desperate driven,
I nothing fear beneath high heaven ;
Give me thy hand and speak to me,
If thou art indeed my Mary Lee."

That mould is sensible and warm,
It leans upon a parent's arm :
The kiss is sweet, and the tears are sheen,
And kind are the words that pass between ;
They cling as never more to sunder —
O ! that embrace was fraught with wonder !

Yeoman, and maid, and menial poor,
Upraised their heads from the marble floor ;
With lengthened arm, and forward stride,
They tried if that form their touch would bide ;
They felt her warm ! — they heard ! — they saw :
And marvel reigns in Carelha' !
The twain into their chamber repair ;
The wounded hand is bound with care ;
And there the mother heard with dread
The whole that I to you have said,
Of all the worlds where she had been,
And of all the glories she had seen.
I pledge no word that all is true,
The virgin's tale I have told to you ;
But well 'tis vouched, by age and worth,
'Tis real that relates to earth.

'T.was trowed by every Border swain,
The vision would full credence gain.
Certes 'twas once by all believed,
Till one great point was misconceived ;
For the mass-men said, with fret and frown,
That through all space it well was known,
By moon, or stars, the earth or sea,
An up and down there needs must be :
This error caught their minds in thrall ;
'Twas dangerous and apocryphal !
And this nice fraud unhinged all.
So grievous is the dire mischance
Of priestcraft and of ignorance !

Belike thou now can'st well foresee,
What after happ'd to Mary Lee —
Then thou mayest close my legend here :
But ah ! the tale to some is dear !
For though her name no more remains,
Her blood yet runs in Minstrel veins.

In Mary's youth, no virgin's face
Wore such a sweet and moving grace ;
Nor ever did maiden's form more fair
Lean forward to the mountain air;
But now, since from the grave returned,
So dazzling bright her beauty burned,
The eye of man could scarcely brook
With steady gaze thereon to look :
Such was the glow of her cheek and eyes,
She bloomed like the rose of paradise !

Though blither than she erst had been,
In serious mood she oft was seen.
When rose the sun o'er mountain grey,
Her vow was breathed to the east away :
And when low in the west he burned,
Still there her beauteous eye was turned.
For she saw that the flowerets of the glade
To him unconscious worship paid ;
She saw them ope their breasts by day,
And follow his enlivening ray,
Then fold them up in grief by night,
Till the return of the blessed light.
When daylight in the west fell low,
She heard the woodland music flow,
Like farewell song, with sadness blent,
A soft and sorrowful lament:
But when the sun rose from the sea,
O ! then the birds from every tree
Poured forth their hymn of holiest glee !
She knew that the wandering spirits of wrath
Fled from his eye to their homes beneath,
But when the God of glory shone
On earth from his resplendent throne,
In valley, mountain, or in grove,
Then all was life, and light, and love.
She saw the new born infant's eye
Turned to that light incessantly ;
Nor ever was that eye withdrawn
Till the mind thus carved began to dawn.
All Nature worshipped at one shrine,
Nor knew that the impulse was divine.

The chiefs of the Forest the strife begin,
Intent this lovely dame to win ;
But the living lustre of her eye
Baulked every knight's pretensions high ;
Abashed they sunk before her glance,
Nor farther could their claims advance ;
Though love thrilled every heart with pain ,
They did not ask, and they could not gain.

There came a Harper out of the east ;
A courteous and a welcome guest
In every lord and baron's tower —
He struck his harp of wondrous power ;
So high his art, that all who heard
Seemed by some magic spell ensnared ;
For every heart, as he desired,
Was thrilled with woe — with ardour fired ;
Roused to high deeds his might above,
Or soothed to kindness and to love.
No one could learn from whence he came,
But Hugo of Norroway hight his name.

One day, when every Baron came,
And every maid, and noble dame,
To list his high and holy strain
Within the choir of Melrose fane,
The lady of Carelha' joined the band,
And Mary, the flower of all the land.

The strain rose soft — the strain fell low —
O ! every heart was steeped in woe !
Again as it pealed a swell so high,
The round drops stood in every eye ;
And the aisles and the spires of the hallowed fane,
And the caves of Eildon, sung it again.

O Mary Lee is sick at heart !
That pang no tongue can ever impart !
It was not love, nor joy, nor woe,
Nor thought of heaven, nor earth below ;
'Twas all conjoined in gleam so bright —
A poignant feeling of delight !
The throes of a heart that sought its rest,
Its stay — its home in another's breast !
Ah ! she had heard that holy strain
In a land she hoped to see again !
And seen that calm benignant eye
Above the spheres and above the sky !
And though the strain her soul had won,
She yearned for the time that it was done,
To greet the singer in language bland
And call him Cela, and clasp his hand.

It was yon ancient tombs among
That Mary glided from the throng'
Smiled in the fair young stranger's face,
And proffered her hand with courteous grace.
He started aloof — he bent his eye —
He stood in a trance of ecstacy !
He blessed the power that had impelled
Him onward tin he that face beheld ;
For he knew his bourn was gained at last,
And all his wanderings then were past.

She called him Cela, and made demand
Anent his kindred, and his land ;
But his hand upon his lip he laid,
He lifted his eye, and he shook his head !
" No — Hugo of Nor ro way is my name,
Ask not from whence or how I came :
But since ever memory's ray was borne
Within this breast of joy forlorn,
I have sought for thee, and only thee ;
For I ween thy name is Mary Lee.
My heart and soul with thine are blent,
My very being's element —
O ! I have wonders to tell to thee,.
If thou art the virgin Mary Lee !"

The Border chiefs were all amazed,
They stood at distance round and gazed ;
They knew her face he never had seen,
But they heard not the words that past between.
They thought of the power that had death beguiled ;
They thought of the grave, and the vision wild ;
And they found that human inference failed,
That all in mystery was veiled,
And they shunned the twain in holy awe ; —
The flower of the forest, and Carelha',
Are both by the tuneful stranger won,
And a new existence is begun.

Sheltered amid his mountains afar,
He kept from the bustle of Border war ;
For he loved not the field of foray and scathe,
Nor the bow, nor the shield, nor the sword of death ;
But he tuned his harp in the wild unseen,
And he reared his flocks on the mountain green.

He was the foremost the land to free
Of the hart, and the hind, and the forest tree ;
The first who attuned the pastoral reed
On the mountains of Ettrick, and braes of Tweed ;
The first who did to the land impart
The shepherd's rich and peaceful art,
To bathe the fleece, to cherish the dam,
To milk the ewe, and to wean the lamb ;
And all the joys ever since so rife
In the shepherd's simple, romantic life.
More bliss, more joy, from him had birth,
Than all the conquerors of the earth.

They lived in their halls of Carelha'
Until their children's sons they saw;
There Mary closed a life refined
To purity of soul and mind,
And at length was laid in old Lindeen,
In the very grave where she erst had been.

Five gallant sons upbore her bier,
And honoured her memory with a tear ;
And her stone, though now full old and grey,
Is known by the hinds unto this day.

From that time forth, on Ettrick's shore,
Old Hugo the harper was seen no more !
Some said he died as the morning rose ;
But his body was lost ere the evening close !
He was not laid in old Lindeen ;
For his grave or his burial never were seen !

Some said that eve a form they saw
Arise from the tower of Carelha'
Aslant the air, and hover a while
Above the spires of the hallowed pile,
Then sail away in a snow-white shroud,
And vanish afar in the eastern cloud.

But others deemed that his grave was made
By hands unseen in the greenwood glade.
Certes that in one night there grew
A little mound of an ashen hue,
And some remains of gravel lay
Mixed with the sward at the break of day ;
But the hind past bye with troubled air,
For he knew not what might be slumbering there ;
And still above that mound there grows,
Yearly a wondrous fairy rose.

Beware that cairn and dark green ring !
For the elves of eve have been heard to sing
Around that grave with eldritch croon,
Till trembled the light of the waning moon !

And from that cairn, at midnight deep,
The shepherd has heard from the mountain steep
Arise such a mellowed holy strain
As if the Minstrel had woke again !

Late there was seen, on summer tide,
A lovely form that wont to glide
Round green Bowhill, at the fall of even ,
So like an angel sent from heaven,
That all the land believed and said
Their Mary Lee was come from the dead ;
For since that time no form so fair
Had ever moved in this earthly air .
And whenever that beauteous shade was seen
To visit the walks of the Forest green,
The joy of the land ran to excess,
For they knew that it boded them happiness !
Peace, lore, and truth, for ever smiled
Around that genius of the wild.

Ah me ! there is omen of deep dismay,
For that saintlike form has vanished away !
I have watched her walks by the greenwood glade,
And the mound where the Harper of old was laid ;
I have watched the bower where the woodbine blows,
And the fairy ring, and the wondrous rose,
And all her haunts by Yarrow's shore,
But the heavenly form I can see no more !
She comes not now our land to bless,
Or to cherish the poor and the fatherless,
Who lift to heaven the tearful eye
Bewailing their loss — and well may I !
I little weened when I struck the string,
In fancy's wildest mood to sing,
That sad and low the strain should close.
'Mid real instead of fancied woes !