Page:Traditional Tales of the English and Scottish Peasantry - 1887.djvu/117

Rh the place. As my eye pursued the sinuous line of the lake, it was arrested by the appearance of a form, which seemed that of a human being, stretched motionless on the margin. I rose, and on going nearer I saw it was a man—the face cast upon the earth, and the hands spread. I thought death had been there; and while I was waving my hand for a shepherd, who sat on the hillside, to approach and assist me, I heard a groan and a low and melancholy cry; and presently he started up, and, seating himself on an old tree-root, rested a cheek on the palm of either hand, and gazed intently on the lake. He was a young man, the remains of health and beauty were still about him; but his locks, once curling and long, which maidens loved to look at, were now matted, and wild, and withered; his cheeks were hollow and pale, and his eyes, once the merriest and brightest in the district, shone now with a grey, wild, and unearthly light. As I looked upon this melancholy wreck of youth and strength, the unhappy being put both hands in the lake, and, lifting up water in his palms, scattered it in the air; then dipping both hands again, showered the water about his locks like rain. He continued, during this singular employment, to chant some strange and broken words with a wild tone and a faltering tongue:

Cursed be thou, O water, for my sake!

Misery to them who dip their hands in thee!

May the wild fowl forsake thy margin,

The fish leap no more in thy waves;

May the whirlwind scatter thee utterly,

And the lightning scorch thee up;

May the lily bloom no more on thy bosom,

And the white swan fly from thy floods!

Cursed be thou, O water, for my sake!

The babe unborn shall never bless thee;

May the flocks that taste of thee perish;

May the man who bathes in thy flood

Be crossed and cursed with unrequited love,

And go childless down to the grave.

As I curse thee with my delirious tongue,

I will mar thee with my unhappy hands!

As this water, cast on the passing wind,

Shall return to thy bosom no more,

So shall the light of morning forsake thee,

And night-darkness devour thee up.