Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, DE QUINCEY'S REVENGE; A BALLAD IN THREE FITTES, by DAVID MACBETH MOIR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

DE QUINCEY'S REVENGE; A BALLAD IN THREE FITTES, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: De quincey, lord of travernent
Last Line: "who hither return no more!"
Alternate Author Name(s): Delta
Subject(s): Crusades; De Quincey, Robert (1127-1197); De Quincey, Seyer (1125-1190); Revenge


FITTE FIRST

I.

DE QUINCEY, lord of Travernent,
Has from the Syrian wars return'd;
As near'd his train to his own domain,
His heart within him burn'd.
Yet heavy was that heart, I ween:
A cloud had o'er him pass'd;
And all of life, that once was green,
Had wither'd in the blast.
Say, had he sheath'd his trusty brand,
Intent no more to roam,
Only to find the Scottish strand
For him no fitting home?

II.

Who stands at hush of eventide
Before Newbottle's sacred walls,
While eastward far, in arch and aisle,
Its mighty shadow falls?
That steel-clad Knight stood at the porch,
And loud he knock'd, and long,
Till out from the chancel came a Frere,
For it was even-song.
To an alder stump his steed was tied,
And the live wind from the west
Stirr'd the blue scarf on his corslet side,
And the raven plumes of his crest.

III.

"Why knock'st thou here? no hostel this,
And we have mass to say;
Know'st thou, that rises our vesper-hymn
Duly at close of day?
And in the chantry, even now,
The choristers are met;
For lo! o'er Pentlands' summits blue,
The western sun is set?
But if thou return'st at morning tide,
Whatever be thy behest"—
"Nay," said the stranger hastily,
"Delay not my request.

IV.

"For I have come from foreign lands,
And seen the sun of June
Set over the holy Jerusalem,
And its towers beneath the moon;
And I have stood by the sepulchre
Wherein the Lord was laid,
And drunk of Siloa's brook, that flows
In the cool of its own palm shade.
Yea! I have battled for the Cross,
'Tis the symbol on my mail—
But why, with idle words, should I
Prolong a bootless tale?

V.

"The Lady Elena—woe to me
Brought the words that tale which told—
Was yesternight, by the red torchlight,
Left alone in your vaults so cold.
'Tis said, last night by the red torchlight,
That a burial here hath been;
Now show me, prithee, her tomb, who stood
My heart and Heaven between.
Alas! alas! that a cold damp vault
Her resting-place should be,
Who, singing, sate among the flowers
When I went o'er the sea."

VI.

"'Tis nay, Sir Knight," the Frere replied,
"If thou turn'st thy steed again,
And hither return'st at matin prime,
Thou shalt not knock in vain."
Then ire flash'd o'er that warrior's brow,
Like storm-clouds o'er the sky,
And, stamping, he struck his gauntlet glove
On the falchion by his thigh:—
" Now, by our Lady's holy name,
And by the good St John,
I must gaze on the features of the dead,
Though I hew my path through stone!"

VII.

The Frere hath lighted his waxen torch,
And turn'd the grating key,
Down winding steps, through gloomy aisles,
The damp, dull way show'd he;
And ever he stood and cross'd himself,
As the night wind smote his ear,
For the very carven imageries
Spake nought but of death and fear—
And sable 'scutcheons flapp'd on high
'Mid that grim and ghastly shade;
And coffins were ranged on tressels round,
And banners lowly laid.

VIII.

From aisle to aisle they pass'd the while,
In silence both—the one in dread—
So solemn a thing it was to be
With darkness and the dead!
At length the innermost vault they gain'd,
Last home of a house of fame,
And the Knight, looking up, with earnest eye,
Read the legend round the name—
"Unsullied aye our honours beam,"
'Neath fleur-de-lis and crescent shone;
And o'er the Dragon spouting fire,
The battle-word, "Set on!"

IX.

"Yes! here, good Frere—now, haste thee, ope"—
The holy man turn'd the key;
And ere ever he had an "Ave" said,
The Knight was on his knee.
He lifted the lawn from her waxen face,
And put back the satin soft;
Fled from her cheek was the glowing grace
That had thrill'd his heart so oft!
The past came o'er him like a spell,
For earth could now no bliss afford,
And thus, within that cheerless cell,
His bitter plaint he pour'd.

X.

"Oh, Elena! I little dreamt,
When I sailed o'er the sea,
That, coming back, our meeting next
In a charnel-vault should be!
I left thee in thy virgin pride,
A living flower of beauty rare;
And now I see thee at my side
What words may not declare!
Oh! I have met thee on the waves,
On the field have braved thee, Death;
But ne'er before so sank my heart
Thy withering scowl beneath!

XI.

"How different was the time, alas!
When, in the sunny noon, my love,
I trysted with thee in the stag coppice,
In the centre of the grove!
How different was the time, alas!
When from the tower of high Falsyde,
We mark'd along the bay of Forth
The streamer'd galleys glide!
How different was the time, alas!
When the gay gold ring I gave,
And thou didst say, when far away,
I will bear it to my grave!"

XII.

The Knight turn'd back the satin fold
Where her hand lay by her side,
And there, on her slender finger cold,
He the token-ring espied!
"Now know I thou wert true to me,
Ah! false thou couldst not prove;
Vain was the hate that strove to mate
Thy heart with a stranger love."
And then he kiss'd her clay-cold cheek,
And then he kiss'd his sword:—
"By this," he said, "sweet, injured maid,
Thy doom shall be deplored!

XIII.

"Yes! darkly some shall make remeid,
And dearly some shall pay
For griefs that broke thy faithful heart,
When I was far away!"
"Nay! dost thou talk of vengeance now,"
Quod the Frere, "on thy bended knee?"
The Knight look'd wildly up in his face,
But never a word spake he.
"Now rise, now rise, Sir Knight!" he cried,
"Mary Mother calm thy mind!
'Twas the fiat of Heaven that she should die,
To its will be thou resigned!"

XIV.

Uprose De Quincey from his knee,
In that darksome aisle and drear;
No word he spake, but, with hasty glove,
Brush'd off one starting tear;
Then, as he donn'd his helm, he pluck'd
The silken scarf from its crest,
And upraised it first to his meeting lip,
Then hid it within his breast.
The scenes—the thoughts of other years
Pour'd o'er him like a lava tide;
Her day was done, and set her sun,
And all for him was night beside!

XV.

The coffin lid was closed; the Frere
Preceded, with his taper wan;
Behind him strode the black-mail'd Knight,
A melancholy man!
And oft the Monk, as he upwards clomb
From the darksome place of dread,
Where the coffin'd clay of fair Elena lay,
Did backwards turn his head—
Say, holy Frere, can the waves of fear
O'er thy calm, pure spirit flow;
Or is it the cold, through these vaults of mould,
That makes thee tremble so?

XVI.

The porch they gain'd—the Frere he closed
The gates behind the Knight;
Dim lay the clouds, like giant shrouds,
Over the red starlight;
And ever, with low moaning sound,
The soft warm gust wail'd through the trees;
Calm, in slumber bound, lay all around,
And the stream sang "Hush!" to the breeze.
The Frere put out his torch, and look'd
His high-barr'd lattice fro';
And he saw, 'mid the dusk, the mounted Knight
Down the winding valley go.

FITTE SECOND.

I.

'Twas the flush of dawn; on the dewy lawn
Shone out the purpling day;
The lark on high sang down from the sky,
The thrush from the chestnut spray;
On the lakelet blue, the water-coot
Oar'd forth with her sable young;
While at its edge, from reed and sedge,
The fisher-hern upsprung;
In peaceful pride, by Esk's green side,
The shy deer stray'd through Roslin glen;
And the hill-fox to the Roman camp
Stole up from Hawthornden.

II.

Where hurries so fast the henchman?
His steed seems froth'd with spray—
To Newbottle's shrine, 'mid the dawning lone,
He speeds his onward way.
From grey Caerbarrin's walls he came,
By Smeaton Shaw, through Colden Wood,
And up thy royal way, Derstrette,
His path he hath pursued;
Until, upon its flowery lawn,
By murmuring Esk's enamour'd side,
The Abbey's grand and massive walls
Were 'mid its groves espied.

III.

"Awake," he cries, as loudly he knocks,
"Ho! arise, and haste with me;
For soon, alas, Caerbarrin's lord
Among the dead must be!"
Then forth out spake the abbot grey,
From his couch, as he arose,
"Alack! thou bring'st us evil news,
For thy lord he was of those
Who dower'd our church with goodly lands,
And his sword hath ever been,
For Scotland's glory and for ours,
At the call, unsheath'd and keen.

IV.

"But the best are aye the first to die;
This sinful earth is not their place;
Sure is the passage of the good—
Mary Mother yield them grace!
Then rest thee in our porter's keep,
While our brother Francis will repair
To the house of woe, and soothe the soul
Of the dying man with prayer!"
The henchman sate him down to rest,
And wiped the toil-drops from his brow;
While in hurry and haste, on shrieving quest,
The Frere was boune to ride and go.

V.

Thro' the green woodlands spurr'd the monk—
The morning sun was shining bright,
Upon his bosom lay the Book,
Under his cloak of white;
Before him, in the pleasant prime,
The willow'd stream meandering flow'd;
From wildflowers by the pathway side,
The gallant heathcock crow'd;
Glisten'd the dew on the harebells blue;
And, as the west wind murmur'd by,
From yellow broom stole forth perfume,
As from gardens of Araby.

VI.

Now lay his road by beechen groves,
Now by daisied pastures green;
And now from the vista'd mountain-road,
The shores of Fife were seen;
And now Dalcaeth behind him lay—
And now its castle, whence the Græme
Sent forth his clump of Border spears,
The vaunting Gael to tame;
Now by coppice and corn he urged his steed,
Now by dingle wild and by dell,
Where down by Cousland's limestone rocks
The living waters well.

VII.

Then he came to a clump of oak-trees hoar,
Half over the steep road hung,
When up at once to his bridle-rein
The arm of a warrior sprung;
With sudden jerk, the startled steed
Swerved aside with bristling mane:—
"Now halt thee, Frere, and rest thee here,
Till I hither return again.
I know thine errand—dismount, dismount—
That errand for thee I'll do;
But, if thou stirrest till I return,
Such rashness thou shalt rue!

VIII.

"Then doff to me thy mantle white,
And eke thy hood of black;
And crouch thee amid these brackens green,
To the left, till I come back."
"Oh! bethink thee, Knight!" the good Frere said,
"I should kneel by his couch and pray;
How awful it is for the soul of man
Unanneal'd to pass away!
How awful it is, with sins unshrived,
To pass from the bed of pain!
Caerbarrin's chief may a dead man be,
Ere thou comest hither again!"

IX.

He must needs obey—he durst not say nay,
That monk to the warrior stern;
His corslet unlaced, and his helm unbraced,
Down rattled among the fern:
And he hath mounted the Frere's good steed,
Clad in mantle and cowl he rode,
Till 'neath him, on its own green knoll
Caerbarrin's turrets glow'd.
Caerbarrin! famed by History's pen
In Scotland's later day,
When Bothwell fled, and Mary was led
In weeping beauty away.

X.

The warder hail'd him from the keep,
As through the forest of oak he hied,
Now down the path, by the winding strath,
That leads from Chalkyside:—
"Speed, speed thee!" cried the porter old,
As the portals wide he threw;
"Speed, speed thee!" cried the sentinel,
The court as he pass'd through;
And "Speed thee!" echoed the seneschal,
As he showed the way before;
"For much I fear, most holy Frere,
That the struggle shall soon be o'er."

FITTE THIRD.

I.

Bright on Caerbarrin shines the sun;
But all within is woe and gloom,
For there Sir Malcolm bends in death—
Before him yawns the tomb!
Unfolded were the chamber doors,
Where moan'd he, stretch'd in prone decay;
And his rattling breath spake of coming death,
As life's sands ebb'd away.
But, when the mantled Monk he saw,
On his arm he strove to rise,
And the light, that erst was waning fast,
Flash'd back to his sunken eyes.

II.

"Welcome! holy Father," he said,
In accents fond, but low and weak—
"I would pour my sins in thy pitying ear,
And absolution seek;
For I have been a sinful man,
And repent me of my sin;
Yet, as pass the hopes of life away,
The terrors of death begin;
But chiefly would I tell to thee
My crime of the blackest dye,
Which a sea of tears might scarce wash out,
Though I could weep it dry!

III.

"A gentle ladye my kinsman loved,
And before he cross'd the sea,
To combat afar with the Saracen,
He trust reposed in me;
But a demon held my soul in thrall,
And evil thoughts within me brew'd;
So, instead of nursing her love for him,
Her hand for myself I woo'd.
I threw forth doubts, that only were
The coinage of my brain,
I praised her high fidelity,
Yet mourn'd that her love was vain!"

IV.

Upstarted the Frere;—" Ah! holy man,
Yet the worst I have not told;
In me—though sprung from noblest blood—
A perjured wretch behold!—
For my love that ladye no love return'd,
Although, with Hellish sleight,
We forged a cartel, whose purport show'd
That De Quincey had fallen in fight.
Yes! my suit that lofty ladye scorn'd—
More distant she look'd and cold;
And for my love no love return'd,
Though I woo'd her with gifts and gold!"

V.

Uprose the Frere;—" Nay, sit thee down—
Not mine was the guilt alone:
Father Francis was the clerke thereof,
And his Abbey is your own!
To fair Elena's hand that scroll he bore,
Then she folded her palms, and sigh'd;
And she said, 'Since true he has died to me,
I will be no other's bride!'
Still woo'd I her in her mourning weeds,
Till she show'd a poniard bare,
And wildly vow'd, if again I vex'd
Her heart, to plunge it there!

VI.

"Day after day, ray after ray,
She waned like an autumn sun,
When droop the flowers, 'mid yellow bowers,
And the waters wailing run:
Day after day, like a broken rosebud,
She wither'd and she waned,
Till, of her beauty and wonted bloom,
But feeble trace remain'd:
Then seem'd she, like some saintly form,
Too pure for the gazer's eye,
Melting away, from our earthly day,
To her element—the sky!

VII.

"She died—and then I felt remorse—
But how could I atone?
And I shook, when by her breathless corse
In silence I stood alone:
Yes! when I saw my victim lie,
Untimely, in her swathing shroud,
The weight of my burden'd conscience hung
Upon me like a cloud!
There was no light—and all was night,
And storm, and darkness drear;
By day 'twas joyless, and my sleep
Was haunted by forms of fear!

VIII.

"Lonely I stray'd, until, dismay'd,
I sought the feast, where mirth was none,
Only to find that man is mind,
And form and features dust alone.
Yes, of my kinsman oft I dreamt—
Of his woe and his vengeance dire,
Till yesternight he cross'd my sight,
Like a demon in his ire.
I had not heard of his home return—
Like a spectre there he stood—
Appall'd I sank, and his falchion drank
Deeply my forfeit blood.

IX.

"Oh! grant remission of my sins,
A contrite, humbled man I die!"
Ere yet the words were out, the monk
Beheld his glazing eye;
And rising away from the couch, he said—
"May Heaven forgive my vow!"
With horror thrill'd his yielding frame,
And he smote his bursting brow:
Then pass'd he from the chamber forth,
And in silence from the gate,
And off to the south, through the steep hill pass,
On his steed he journey'd straight.

X.

A weight of woe is at his heart,
Despair's grey cloud is on his brow,
For hope and fear both disappear
In that absorbing now!
The world is one vast wilderness,
Vain all its pomp, its honours vain;
De Quincey sigh'd, and onward pass'd
Slowly with slacken'd rein;
Thus wound he down through Cousland glen,
O'erhung with willows grey,
Until he came to the brackens green,
Wherein Father Francis lay.

XI.

"Ho! Frere, arise! Thy cloak and cowl
Have done their office meet."
Father Francis sprang from his lurking-place,
And stood at the warrior's feet.
"Now, tell me," cried De Quincey, fierce,
"For thou art learned in lore,
What the meaning of this riddle is
That a bird unto me bore,—
A lady in her chamber mourn'd,
Her true knight he was abroad,
Fighting afar with the Saracen,
Under the Cross of God!

XII.

"A false Friend, and a falser Frere,
Combined to shake her faith;
They forged—ah! wherefore dost thou fear?
Base caitiff, take thy death!"
The Knight he struck him to the heart;
Through the branches with a crash,
Down reel'd the corse, and in the swamp
Sank with a sullen dash.
"Thus perish all who would enthrall
The guileless and the true;
Yet on head of mine no more shall shine
The sun from his path of blue!

XIII.

"No more on me shall pleasure smile—
A heartless, hopeless man;
The tempest's clouds of misery
Have darken'd for aye my span.
Farewell—farewell! my native land,
Hill, valley, stream, and strath;
And thou, who held my heart's command,
And ye who cross'd my path.
Blow, blow ye winds! in fury blow,
And waft us from this baleful shore;
Rise, rise, ye billows, and bear us along,
Who hither return no more!"





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