Orleans was hush’d in sleep. Stretch’d on her couch

The delegated Maiden lay: with toil

Exhausted and sore anguish, soon she closed

Her heavy eye-lids; not reposing then,

For busy Phantasy, in other scenes

Awakened. Whether that superior powers,

By wise permission, prompt the midnight dream,

Instructing so the passive faculty; [1]

Or that the soul, escaped its fleshly clog,

Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world,

And all things are that seem. [2]

    Along a moor,

Barren, and wide, and drear, and desolate,

She roam’d a wanderer thro’ the cheerless night.

Far thro’ the silence of the unbroken plain

The bittern’s boom was heard, hoarse, heavy, deep,

It made most fitting music to the scene.

Black clouds, driven fast before the stormy wind,

Swept shadowing; thro’ their broken folds the moon

Struggled sometimes with transitory ray,

And made the moving darkness visible.

And now arrived beside a fenny lake

She stands: amid its stagnate waters, hoarse

The long sedge rustled to the gales of night.

An age-worn bark receives the Maid, impell’d

By powers unseen; then did the moon display

Where thro’ the crazy vessel’s yawning side

The muddy wave oozed in: a female guides,

And spreads the sail before the wind, that moan’d

As melancholy mournful to her ear,

As ever by the dungeon’d wretch was heard

Howling at evening round the embattled towers

Of that hell-house [3] of France, ere yet sublime

The almighty people from their tyrant’s hand

Dash’d down the iron rod.

Intent the Maid

Gazed on the pilot’s form, and as she gazed

Shiver’d, for wan her face was, and her eyes

Hollow, and her sunk cheeks were furrowed deep,

Channell’d by tears; a few grey locks hung down

Beneath her hood: then thro’ the Maiden’s veins

Chill crept the blood, for, as the night-breeze pass’d,

Lifting her tattcr’d mantle, coil’d around

She saw a serpent gnawing at her heart.

    The plumeless bat with short shrill note flits by,

And the night-raven’s scream came fitfully,

Borne on the hollow blast. Eager the Maid

Look’d to the shore, and now upon the bank

Leaps, joyful to escape, yet trembling still

In recollection.

    There, a mouldering pile

Stretch’d its wide ruins, o’er the plain below

Casting a gloomy shade, save where the moon

Shone thro’ its fretted windows: the dark Yew,

Withering with age, branched there its naked roots,

And there the melancholy Cypress rear’d

Its head; the earth was heav’d with many a mound,

And here and there a half-demolish’d tomb.

    And now, amid the ruin’s darkest shade,

The Virgin’s eye beheld where pale blue flames

Rose wavering, now just gleaming from the earth,

And now in darkness drown’d. An aged man

Sat near, seated on what in long-past days

Had been some sculptur’d monument, now fallen

And half-obscured by moss, and gathered heaps

Of withered yew-leaves and earth-mouldering bones;

And shining in the ray was seen the track

Of slimy snail obscene. Composed his look,

His eye was large and rayless, and fix’d full

Upon the Maid; the blue flames on his face

Stream’d a pale light; his face was of the hue

Of death; his limbs were mantled in a shroud.

Then with a deep heart-terrifying voice,

Exclaim’d the Spectre, “Welcome to these realms,

These regions of Despair! O thou whose steps

By Grief conducted to these sad abodes

Have pierced; welcome, welcome to this gloom

Eternal, to this everlasting night,

Where never morning darts the enlivening ray,

Where never shines the sun, but all is dark,

Dark as the bosom of their gloomy King.”

    So saying he arose, and by the hand

The Virgin seized with such a death-cold touch

As froze her very heart; and drawing on,

Her, to the abbey’s inner ruin, led

Resistless. Thro’ the broken roof the moon

Glimmer’d a scatter’d ray; the ivy twined

Round the dismantled column; imaged forms

Of Saints and warlike Chiefs, moss-canker’d now

And mutilate, lay strewn upon the ground,

With crumbled fragments, crucifixes fallen,

And rusted trophies; and amid the heap

Some monument’s defaced legend spake

All human glory vain.

The loud blast roar’d

Amid the pile; and from the tower the owl

Scream’d as the tempest shook her secret nest.

He, silent, led her on, and often paus’d,

And pointed, that her eye might contemplate

At leisure the drear scene.

He dragged her on

Thro’ a low iron door, down broken stairs;

Then a cold horror thro’ the Maiden’s frame

Crept, for she stood amid a vault, and saw,

By the sepulchral lamp’s dim glaring light,

The fragments of the dead.

“Look here!” he cried,

“Damsel, look here! survey this house of Death;

O soon to tenant it! soon to increase

These trophies of mortality! for hence

Is no return. Gaze here! behold this skull,

These eyeless sockets, and these unflesh’d jaws,

That with their ghastly grinning, seem to mock

Thy perishable charms; for thus thy cheek

Must moulder. Child of Grief! shrinks not thy soul,

Viewing these horrors? trembles not thy heart

At the dread thought, that here its life’s-blood soon

Now warm in life and feeling, mingle soon

With the cold clod? a thought most horrible!

So only dreadful, for reality

Is none of suffering here; here all is peace;

No nerve will throb to anguish in the grave.

Dreadful it is to think of losing life;

But having lost, knowledge of loss is not,

Therefore no ill. Haste, Maiden, to repose;

Probe deep the seat of life.”

So spake Despair

The vaulted roof echoed his hollow voice,

And all again was silence. Quick her heart

Panted. He drew a dagger from his breast,

And cried again, “Haste Damsel to repose!

One blow, and rest for ever!” On the Fiend

Dark scowl’d the Virgin with indignant eye,

And dash’d the dagger down. He next his heart

Replaced the murderous steel, and drew the Maid

Along the downward vault.

The damp earth gave

A dim sound as they pass’d: the tainted air

Was cold, and heavy with unwholesome dews.

“Behold!” the fiend exclaim’d, “how gradual here

The fleshly burden of mortality

Moulders to clay!” then fixing his broad eye

Full on her face, he pointed where a corpse

Lay livid; she beheld with loathing look,

The spectacle abhorr’d by living man.

“Look here!” Despair pursued, “this loathsome mass

Was once as lovely, and as full of life

As, Damsel! thou art now. Those deep-sunk eyes

Once beam’d the mild light of intelligence,

And where thou seest the pamper’d flesh-worm trail,

Once the white bosom heaved. She fondly thought

That at the hallowed altar, soon the Priest

Should bless her coming union, and the torch

Its joyful lustre o’er the hall of joy,

Cast on her nuptial evening: earth to earth

That Priest consign’d her, and the funeral lamp

Glares on her cold face; for her lover went

By glory lur’d to war, and perish’d there;

Nor she endur’d to live. Ha! fades thy cheek?

Dost thou then, Maiden, tremble at the tale?

Look here! behold the youthful paramour!

The self-devoted hero!”

Fearfully

The Maid look’d down, and saw the well known face

Of Theodore! in thoughts unspeakable,

Convulsed with horror, o’er her face she clasp’d

Her cold damp hands: “Shrink not,” the Phantom cried,

“Gaze on! for ever gaze!” more firm he grasp’d

Her quivering arm: “this lifeless mouldering clay,

As well thou know’st, was warm with all the glow

Of Youth and Love; this is the arm that cleaved

Salisbury’s proud crest, now motionless in death,

Unable to protect the ravaged frame

From the foul Offspring of Mortality

That feed on heroes. Tho’ long years were thine,

Yet never more would life reanimate

This murdered man; murdered by thee! for thou

Didst lead him to the battle from his home,

Else living there in peace to good old age:

In thy defence he died: strike deep! destroy

Remorse with Life.”

The Maid stood motionless,

And, wistless what she did, with trembling hand

Received the dagger. Starting then, she cried,

“Avaunt Despair! Eternal Wisdom deals

Or peace to man, or misery, for his good

Alike design’d; and shall the Creature cry,

Why hast thou done this? and with impious pride

Destroy the life God gave?”

The Fiend rejoin’d,

“And thou dost deem it impious to destroy

The life God gave? What, Maiden, is the lot

Assigned to mortal man? born but to drag,

Thro’ life’s long pilgrimage, the wearying load

Of being; care corroded at the heart;

Assail’d by all the numerous train of ills

That flesh inherits; till at length worn out,

This is his consummation!—think again!

What, Maiden, canst thou hope from lengthen’d life

But lengthen’d sorrow? If protracted long,

Till on the bed of death thy feeble limbs

Outstretch their languid length, oh think what thoughts,

What agonizing woes, in that dread hour,

Assail the sinking heart! slow beats the pulse,

Dim grows the eye, and clammy drops bedew

The shuddering frame; then in its mightiest force,

Mightiest in impotence, the love of life

Seizes the throbbing heart, the faltering lips

Pour out the impious prayer, that fain would change

The unchangeable’s decree, surrounding friends

Sob round the sufferer, wet his cheek with tears,

And all he loved in life embitters death!

Such, Maiden, are the pangs that wait the hour

Of calmest dissolution! yet weak man

Dares, in his timid piety, to live;

And veiling Fear in Superstition’s garb,

He calls her Resignation!

Coward wretch!

Fond Coward! thus to make his Reason war

Against his Reason! Insect as he is,

This sport of Chance, this being of a day,

Whose whole existence the next cloud may blast,

Believes himself the care of heavenly powers,

That God regards Man, miserable Man,

And preaching thus of Power and Providence,

Will crush the reptile that may cross his path!

Fool that thou art! the Being that permits

Existence, gives to man the worthless boon:

A goodly gift to those who, fortune-blest,

Bask in the sunshine of Prosperity,

And such do well to keep it. But to one

Sick at the heart with misery, and sore

With many a hard unmerited affliction,

It is a hair that chains to wretchedness

The slave who dares not burst it!

Thinkest thou,

The parent, if his child should unrecall’d

Return and fall upon his neck, and cry,

Oh! the wide world is comfortless, and full

Of vacant joys and heart-consuming cares,

I can be only happy in my home

With thee—my friend!—my father! Thinkest thou,

That he would thrust him as an outcast forth?

Oh I he would clasp the truant to his heart,

And love the trespass.”

Whilst he spake, his eye

Dwelt on the Maiden’s cheek, and read her soul

Struggling within. In trembling doubt she stood,

Even as the wretch, whose famish’d entrails crave

Supply, before him sees the poison’d food

In greedy horror.

Yet not long the Maid

Debated, “Cease thy dangerous sophistry,

Eloquent tempter!” cried she. “Gloomy one!

What tho’ affliction be my portion here,

Think’st thou I do not feel high thoughts of joy.

Of heart-ennobling joy, when I look back

Upon a life of duty well perform’d,

Then lift mine eyes to Heaven, and there in faith

Know my reward? I grant, were this life all,

Was there no morning to the tomb’s long night,

If man did mingle with the senseless clod,

Himself as senseless, then wert thou indeed

A wise and friendly comforter! But, Fiend!

There is a morning to the tomb’s long night,

A dawn of glory, a reward in Heaven,

He shall not gain who never merited.

If thou didst know the worth of one good deed

In life’s last hour, thou would’st not bid me lose

The power to benefit; if I but save

A drowning fly, I shall not live in vain.

I have great duties, Fiend! me France expects,

Her heaven-doom’d Champion.”

“Maiden, thou hast done

Thy mission here,” the unbaffled Fiend replied:

“The foes are fled from Orleans: thou, perchance

Exulting in the pride of victory,

Forgettest him who perish’d! yet albeit

Thy harden’d heart forget the gallant youth;

That hour allotted canst thou not escape,

That dreadful hour, when Contumely and Shame

Shall sojourn in thy dungeon. Wretched Maid!

Destined to drain the cup of bitterness,

Even to its dregs! England’s inhuman Chiefs

Shall scoff thy sorrows, black thy spotless fame,

Wit-wanton it with lewd barbarity,

And force such burning blushes to the cheek

Of Virgin modesty, that thou shalt wish

The earth might cover thee! in that last hour,

When thy bruis’d breast shall heave beneath the chains

That link thee to the stake; when o’er thy form,

Exposed unmantled, the brute multitude

Shall gaze, and thou shalt hear the ribald taunt,

More painful than the circling flames that scorch

Each quivering member; wilt thou not in vain

Then wish my friendly aid? then wish thine ear

Had drank my words of comfort? that thy hand

Had grasp’d the dagger, and in death preserved

Insulted modesty?”

Her glowing cheek

Blush’d crimson; her wide eye on vacancy

Was fix’d; her breath short panted. The cold Fiend,

Grasping her hand, exclaim’d, “too-timid Maid,

So long repugnant to the healing aid

My friendship proffers, now shalt thou behold

The allotted length of life.”

He stamp’d the earth,

And dragging a huge coffin as his car,

Two Gouls came on, of form more fearful-foul

Than ever palsied in her wildest dream

Hag-ridden Superstition. Then Despair

Seiz’d on the Maid whose curdling blood stood still.

And placed her in the seat; and on they pass’d

Adown the deep descent. A meteor light

Shot from the Daemons, as they dragg’d along

The unwelcome load, and mark’d their brethren glut

On carcasses.

Below the vault dilates

Its ample bulk. “Look here!”—Despair addrest

The shuddering Virgin, “see the dome of Death!”

It was a spacious cavern, hewn amid

The entrails of the earth, as tho’ to form

The grave of all mankind: no eye could reach,

Tho’ gifted with the Eagle’s ample ken,

Its distant bounds. There, thron’d in darkness, dwelt

The unseen Power of Death.

Here stopt the Gouls,

Reaching the destin’d spot. The Fiend leapt out,

And from the coffin, as he led the Maid,

Exclaim’d, “Where never yet stood mortal man,

Thou standest: look around this boundless vault;

Observe the dole that Nature deals to man,

And learn to know thy friend.”

She not replied,

Observing where the Fates their several tasks

Plied ceaseless. “Mark how short the longest web

Allowed to man! he cried; observe how soon,

Twin’d round yon never-resting wheel, they change

Their snowy hue, darkening thro’ many a shade,

Till Atropos relentless shuts the sheers!”

Too true he spake, for of the countless threads,

Drawn from the heap, as white as unsunn’d snow,

Or as the lovely lilly of the vale,

Was never one beyond the little span

Of infancy untainted: few there were

But lightly tinged; more of deep crimson hue,

Or deeper sable died. [4] Two Genii stood,

Still as the web of Being was drawn forth,

Sprinkling their powerful drops. From ebon urn,

The one unsparing dash’d the bitter wave

Of woe; and as he dash’d, his dark-brown brow

Relax’d to a hard smile. The milder form

Shed less profusely there his lesser store;

Sometimes with tears increasing the scant boon,

Mourning the lot of man; and happy he

Who on his thread those precious drops receives;

If it be happiness to have the pulse

Throb fast with pity, and in such a world

Of wretchedness, the generous heart that aches

With anguish at the sight of human woe.

To her the Fiend, well hoping now success,

“This is thy thread! observe how short the span,

And see how copious yonder Genius pours

The bitter stream of woe.” The Maiden saw

Fearless. “Now gaze!” the tempter Fiend exclaim’d,

And placed again the poniard in her hand,

For Superstition, with sulphureal torch

Stalk’d to the loom. “This, Damsel, is thy fate!

The hour draws on—now drench the dagger deep!

Now rush to happier worlds!”

The Maid replied,

“Or to prevent or change the will of Heaven,

Impious I strive not: be that will perform’d!”

[1] May says of Serapis,

“Erudit at placide humanam per somnia mentem,

Nocturnâque quiete docet; nulloque labore

Hic tantum parta est pretiosa scientia, nullo

Excutitur studio verum. Mortalia corda

Tunc Deus iste docet, cum sunt minus apta doceri,

Cum nullum obsequium præstant, meritisque fatentur

Nil sese debere suis; tunc recta scientes

Cum nil scire valent. Non illo tempore sensus

Humanos forsan dignatur numen inire,

Cum propriis possunt per se discursibus uti,

Ne forte humanâ ratio divina coiret.”—Sup Lucani.

[2] I have met with a singular tale to illustrate this spiritual theory of dreams.

    Guntram, King of the Franks, was liberal to the poor, and he himself experienced the wonderful effects of divine liberality. For one day as he was hunting in a forest he was separated from his companions and arrived at a little stream of water with only one comrade of tried and approved fidelity. Here he found himself opprest by drowsiness, and reclining his head upon the servant’s lap went to sleep. The servant witnessed a wonderful thing, for he saw a little beast (bestiolam) creep out of the mouth of his sleeping master, and go immediately to the streamlet, which it vainly attempted to cross. The servant drew his sword and laid it across the water, over which the little beast easily past and crept into a hole of a mountain on the opposite side; from whence it made its appearance again in an hour, and returned by the same means into the King’s mouth. The King then awakened, and told his companion that he had dreamt that he was arrived upon the bank of an immense river, which he had crossed by a bridge of iron, and from thence came to a mountain in which a great quantity of gold was concealed. When the King had concluded, the servant related what he had beheld, and they both went to examine the mountain, where upon digging they discovered an immense weight of gold.

    I stumbled upon this tale in a book entitled SPHINX Theologico-Philosophica. Authore Johanne Heidfeldio, Ecclesiaste Ebersbachiano. 1621.

    The same story is in Matthew of Westminster; it is added that Guntram applied the treasures thus found to pious uses.

    For the truth of this theory there is the evidence of a Monkish miracle. When Thurcillus was about to follow St. Julian and visit the world of souls, his guide said to him, “let thy body rest in the bed for thy spirit only is about to depart with me; and lest the body should appear dead, I will send into it a vital breath.”

    The body however by a strange sympathy was affected like the spirit; for when the foul and fetid smoke that arose from tithes witheld, had nearly suffocated Thurcillus, and made him cough twice, those who were near his body said that it coughed twice about the same time.

    Matthew Paris

[3] The Bastille. The expression is in one of Fuller’s works, an Author from whose quaintness and ingenuity I have always found amusement, and sometimes assistance

[4] These lines strongly resemble a passage in the Pharonnida of William Chamberlayne, a Poet who has told an interesting story in uncouth rhymes, and mingled sublimity of thought and beauty of expression, with the quaintest conceits, and most awkward inversions.

On a rock more high

Than Nature’s common surface, she beholds

The Mansion house of Fate, which thus unfolds

Its sacred mysteries. A trine within

A quadrate placed, both these encompast in

A perfect circle was its form; but what

Its matter was, for us to wonder at,

Is undiscovered left. A Tower there stands

At every angle, where Time’s fatal hands

The impartial Parcæ dwell; i’ the first she sees

Clotho the kindest of the Destinies,

From immaterial essences to cull

The seeds of life, and of them frame the wool

For Lachesis to spin; about her flie

Myriads of souls, that yet want flesh to lie

Warm’d with their functions in, whose strength bestows

That power by which man ripe for misery grows.

Her next of objects was that glorious tower

Where that swift-fingered Nymph that spares no hour

From mortals’ service, draws the various threads

Of life in several lengths; to weary beds

Of age extending some, whilst others in

Their infancy are broke: some blackt in sin,

Others, the favorites of Heaven, from whence

Their origin, candid with innocence;

Some purpled in afflictions, others dyed

In sanguine pleasures: some in glittering pride

Spun to adorn the earth, whilst others wear

Rags of deformity, but knots of care

No thread was wholly free from. Next to this

Fair glorious tower, was placed that black abyss

Of dreadful Atropos, the baleful seat

Of death and horrour, in each room repleat

With lazy damps, loud groans, and the sad sight

Of pale grim Ghosts, those terrours of the night.

To this, the last stage that the winding clew

Of Life can lead mortality unto,

Fear was the dreadful Porter, which let in

All guests sent thither by destructive sin.

It is possible that I may have written from the recollection of this passage. The conceit is the same, and I willingly attribute it to Chamberlayne, a Poet to whom I am indebted for many hours of delight, and whom I one day hope to rescue from undeserved oblivion.