Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/341

 No. 17.

While through  columned  woodland  palace  reigns  a dusk of silent  sadness,

And the  low  winds  chase  the  tear-drops  from  the hazel’s misty  fold?

Or if  the  witching  night  may  weave,  of  moonlight  and of shadow,

Spells to  bind  you  where  the  fairies  trace  their circlets green  and  cool;

Though the  dawn  and  noon  and  evening  there  are  clad in matchless  beauty,

Choose the  night  to  hear  a legend  on  the  brink  of Bradmere  Fool.

By the  rushing  flood  of  Teign,  amidst  the  Druid  oaks of Gidleigh,

Once a maiden  and  her  lover  wander’d  sadly  side  by side;

And though  he  came  of  gentle  blood,  he  sought  a peasant’s  daughter,

With the  truth  of  noble  natures,  for  his  loved  and honour’d bride.

“It may  not  be,  beloved!” — and  her  fair  cheek  glow’d with blushes —

“For I would  not  so  disgrace  you  and  your  lineage pure and  high:

How should  I,  a peasant  maiden,  bear  the  mighty  name of Cary,

Or with  shy  and  rustic  manners  meet  your  lady- mother’s eye?”

“’Tie the  dear  and  noble  heart  that  clothes  the  out- ward state with  honour,”

Frankly spoke  the  earnest  suitor,  all  unknowing what he  said:

“As the  moon  invests  with  beauty  every  cloud  that hangs around  her,

So the  soul  bestows  its  radiance  on  what  else  were cold and  dead.”

Grieving sorely  thus  to  pain  him,  yet  unbroken  in  her firmness,

Grieving sorely  thus  to  lose  him,  yet  she  would  not do him  wrong, —

Would not  shame  him  with  his  kinsmen,  or  embroil him with  his  mother:

So, with  slow  sad  steps,  she  parted,  and  with  weep- ing low and  long.

But he,  kneeling  down  before  her,  with  his  eyes  up- raised to Heaven

(And the  river  hush’d  its  murmur  with  the  breezes and  the  bough):

“If you  will  not  be  a lady,  Amy,  I will  be  a peasant,

And the  God  who  made  you  great  I call  to  witness  to my  vow.

“What! shall social  fictions  part  us? We have  souls form’d for  each  other!

I will doff  my  courtly  garments,  I will  labour  in  the mine;

Lands and  lordships,  name  and  honours,  I will  yield them to  my  brother,

And the  wages  of  my  labour,  noble  woman,  shall  be thine.”

Even now  but  half-assenting: time  might  change  him: could she  trust  him?

Would not  thoughts  too  oft  regretful  turn  to  Stantor’s hall of  pride?

Yet she  vow’d  that  if  his  love  lived  till  the  Tors bloom’d rich  in  purple,

To the  next  year’s  golden  harvest,  she  would  be  the miner’s  bride.

’Twas a glorious  mom  of  suminei,  and  the  miner’s wife rose  early,

And prepared  her  husband  s meal,  and  took  her  baby on her  breast;

And a little  bright-hair’d  boy  was  bounding  lightly  on before  her,

As she  walk’d  to  cheer  her  William  in  his  morning hour of  rest.

All the  dewy  flowers  were  opening,  and  the  air  was fill’d with  music,

And a joy  lay  on  the  landscape  such  as  brighter  noon denies;

Very glorious  shone  the  morning  on  the  Tors  all  golden- crested,

Rising grandly  from  earth’s  shadows  to  be  crown’d amidst the  skies.

They are  threading  greenest  alleys,  they  have  pass’d the marshy  hollow,

Bright with  crimson  tufts  of  sunden  and  Saint  John's worts’  ruddy  gold;

Pass’d the  mighty  Druid  cromlech  that  the  three  grey British Sisters

Raised by  hellish  arts  of  sorcery  in  the  mythic  days of old.

The green  elms  gently  waving,  and  the  oaks  of  brighter foliage,

And the  willows  and  the  beeches  and  the  poplar’s silver shine:

The miner’s  wife,  fair  Amy,  saw  them  bending  towards the valley

Where her  true  and  loving  husband  wrought  all night within  the  mine.

Then the  bright-hair’d  boy  bounds  forward  in  the  green and shady  alley,

And the  wife’s  heart  bounds  before  him  as  he  shouts his father’s  name:

Why so  wan  and  wild,  yet  tearless,  speeds  the  little child returning,

While a strange  pale  light  is  gleaming  through  the archway whence  he  came?

Amy pauses  not  to  question,  but  she  threads  the  ver- dant archway.

Does the  Art  accursed  linger  in  the  flowery  vale  of Teign?

Or have  pixies  borne  her  sleeping  to  their  realms  of magic  beauty,

Far beyond  the  bowers  of  dreamland,  to  behold  that wondrous scene?

For the  green  elms  scarcely  waving,  and  the  oaks  of brighter  foliage,

And the  willows  and  the  beeches  and  the  poplar's silver  shine, —

They are  bending  o’er  a bright  lake,  and  its  pure translucent waters

Fill the  forest-girdled  valley  that  contain’d  the ancient mine.

From the  deep  mine’s  deepest  caverns,  like  a gleaming serpent rising,

Wound the  icy  spring  through  corridor  and  chamber far below,

Victor ever  in  the  darkness  o’er  the  life  that  throbb’d within them,

Till it  spread  its  lucent  mirror  to  the  morning’s purple glow.

0 the voice  of  lamentation  how  it  wrestled  with  the