Edderline's Dream. Canto First

Castle-Oban is lost in the darkness of night, For the moon is swept from the starless heaven, And the latest line of lowering light That lingered on the stormy even, A dim-seen line, half cloud, half wave, Hath sunk into the weltering grave. Castle-Oban is dark without and within, And downwards to the fearful din, Where Ocean with his thunder-shocks Stuns the green foundation rocks, Through the grim abyss that mocks his eye Oft hath the eerie watchman sent A shuddering look, a shivering sigh, From the edge of the howling battlement! Therein is a lonesome room, Undisturbed as some old tomb That, built within a forest glen, Far from feet of living men, And sheltered by its black pine-trees, From sound of rivers, lochs, and seas, Flings back its archèd gateway tall, At times to some great funeral. Noiseless as a central cell In the bosom of a mountain, Where the fairy people dwell, By the cold and sunless fountain! Breathless as a holy shrine When the voice of psalms is shed! And there upon her stately bed, While her raven locks recline O'er an arm more pure than snow, Motionless beneath her head,— And through her large fair eyelids shine Shadowy dreams that come and go, By too deep bliss disquieted,— There sleeps in love and beauty's glow, The high-born Lady Edderline. Lo! the lamp's wan fitful light, Glide, gliding round the golden rim! Restored to life, now glancing bright, Now just expiring, faint and dim, Like a spirit loth to die, Contending with its destiny. All dark! a momentary veil Is o'er the sleeper! now a pale Uncertain beauty glimmers faint, And now the calm face of the saint With every feature reappears, Celestial in unconscious tears! Another gleam! how sweet the while, Those pictured faces on the wall Through the midnight silence smile; Shades of fair ones, in the aisle Vaulted the castle cliffs below, To nothing mouldered, one and all Ages long ago! From her pillow, as if driven By an unseen demon's hand Disturbing the repose of heaven, Hath fallen her head! The long black hair, From the fillet's silken band In dishevelled masses riven, Is streaming downwards to the floor. Is the last convulsion o'er? And will that length of glorious tresses, So laden with the soul's distresses, By those fair hands in morning light, Above those eyelids opening bright, Be braided never more? No! the lady is not dead, Though flung thus wildly o'er her bed; Like a wrecked corse upon the shore, That lies until the morning brings Searchings, and shrieks, and sorrowings; Or haply, to all eyes unknown, Is borne away without a groan, On a chance plank, 'mid joyful cries Of birds that pierce the sunny skies With seaward dash, or in calm bands Parading o'er the silvery sands, Or 'mid the lovely flush of shells, Pausing to burnish crest or wing, No fading foot-mark see that tells Of that poor unremembered thing! O dreadful is the world of dreams, When all that world a chaos seems Of thoughts so fixed before! When heaven's own face is tinged with blood! And friends cross o'er our solitude, Now friends of ours no more! Or, dearer to our hearts than ever, Keep stretching forth, with vain endeavour, Their pale and palsied hands, To clasp us phantoms, as we go Along the void like drifting snow, To far-off nameless lands! Yet all the while we know not why, Nor where those dismal regions lie, Half hoping that a curse so deep And wild can only be in sleep, And that some overpowering scream Will break the fetters of the dream, And let us back to waking life, Filled though it be with care and strife; Since there at least the wretch can know The meanings on the face of woe, Assured that no mock shower is shed Of tears upon the real dead, Or that his bliss, indeed, is bliss, When bending o'er the death-like cheek Of one who scarcely seems alive, At every cold but breathing kiss, He hears a saving angel speak— 'Thy Love will yet revive!' Eager to speak—but in terror mute, With chainèd breath and snow-soft foot, The gentle maid whom that lady loves, Like a gleam of light through the darkness moves, And leaning o'er her rosy breath, Listens in tears—for sleep—or death! Then touches with a kiss her breast— 'O Lady, this is ghastly rest! Awake! awake, for Jesus' sake!' Far in her soul a thousand sighs Are madly struggling to get free; But that soul is like a frozen sea That silent lies in ice and snow, Though the deep waters boom below! And yet a clear and silvery well, By moonlight glimmering in its cell; A river that doth gently sing Around the cygnet's folded wing; A billow on the summer deep That flows, yet scarcely seems to flow, Not calmer than that lady's sleep, One blessèd hour ago! So gently as a shepherd lifts From a wreath of drifted snow, A lamb that vainly on a rock Up among the mountain clefts, Bleats unto the heedless flocks Sunwards feeding far below. Even so gently Edith takes The sighing dreamer to her breast, Loving kisses soft and meek Breathing o'er bosom, brow, and cheek, For their own fair, delightful sakes, And lays her lovely limbs at rest; When, stirring like the wondrous flower That blossoms at the midnight hour, And only then—the Lady wakes! From the heavy load set free Of that fearful fantasy, Edderline lifts up her head, And, in the fitful lustre lent By the lone lamp, gazing round, As listening for some far-off sound, Leans it on her lily hand, In beautiful bewilderment! 'Am I in some foreign land? And who art thou that takest thy stand Like a minister of grace By the prisoner's haunted bed? Walking mute thy nightly round! Oh! speak—thy voice was like a sound Elsewhere beloved! that pitying face Reminds me of the dead!” Again she hears her Edith speak— Doubt, fear, and trouble leave her cheek, And suddenly returning Remembrances all bright and fair, Above the darkness of despair, Like morning lights are burning: Even as a gloomy mountain lake From its dark sleep at once doth break, And while afar the mists are driven, In new-born beauty laughs to heaven! So rising slowly from her couch, Like a nun in humblest guise, With one light and careless touch, O'er the snow above her eyes Her long dishevelled hair she tricks, And with low sobs of gratitude To Him who chased her dreams away, Down kneels she in the solitude, And with raised hand and eyes doth pray Before the holy Crucifix. 'My soul hath been disquieted, And weltered with the weltering dead! Floating all night with a corse Over high blood-crested waves, Or driven by a fiendish force Down into unfathomed caves: Blessed be God who rescued me From that wild world of misery! Oh! it is heaven to wake again, To know that I have wept in vain! That life yet warms that noble breast Which I in mortal pangs carest, Hurried along the foaming path, In face of horror, fear, and wrath! Whether his ship in roaring motion Roll tempest-driven o'er the ocean, Or rocking lie in pleasant sleep, Anchored beneath the palmy steep, Temper, O God! the sun and air To him, my home-bound Mariner; And gently breathe the midnight dew O'er him and all his gallant crew!” The lamp is dead, but the morning peep Faintly dawning far away, Slowly, slowly wins its way Through the window buried deep In its gloomy glen of stone— A little point that shines afar Like a dim-discovered star, When other lights in heaven are none. To that little cheerful shine Turn the eyes of Edderline; And as a cloud, that long hath lain Black amid the sullen sky, Suddenly dissolves in rain, And stricken by the sunlight, shines With a thousand gorgeous lines, Blended and braided gloriously— So fair, so pure, so bright appears That kneeling Lady's face of tears, For the rain is fallen, the gloom is gone, And her soul hath risen with the sun. Hark! the martlet twittering by The crevice, while her twittering brood Beneath some shadowy wall-flower lie, In the high air of solitude! She alone, sky-loving bird, In that lofty clime is heard; But loftier far from cliff remote, Up springs the eagle, like a thought, And poised in heaven's resplendent zone, Gazes a thousand fathom down, While his wild and fitful cry, Blends together sea and sky. And a thousand songs, I trow, From the wakened world below Are ringing through the morning glow. Music is there on the shore, Softening sweet the billowy roar; For bold and fair in every weather, The sea-mews shrill now flock together, Or wheeling off in lonely play, Carry their pastimes far away, To little isles and rocks of rest, Scattered o'er the ocean's breast, Where these glad creatures build their nest. Now hymns are heard at every fountain Where the land-birds trim their wings, And boldly booming up the mountain, Where the dewy heath-flower springs, Upon the freshening gales of morn Showers of headlong bees are borne, Till far and wide with harp and horn The balmy desert rings! This the pensive Lady knows, So round her lovely frame she throws The cloud-like float of her array, And with a blessing and a prayer She fixeth in her raven hair The jewel that her lover gave, The night before he crossed the wave To kingdoms far away. Soft steps are winding down the stair, And now beneath the morning air Her breast breathes strong and free; The sun in his prime glorious hour Is up, and with a purple shower Hath bathed the billowy sea. Lo! morning's dewy hush divine Hath calmed the eyes of Edderline! Shaded by the glooms that fall From the old grey castle-wall; Or, from the glooms emerging bright, Cloud-like walking through the light, She sends the blessing of her smiles O'er dancing waves and steadfast isles, And, creature though she be of earth, Heaven feels the beauty of her mirth, How seraph-like the silent greeting, Streaming from her dark blue eyes, At their earliest matin-meeting Upwards to the dark-blue skies! Quickly glancing, gliding slowly, Child of mirth or melancholy, As her midnight dream again, Of the hushed or roaring main, Comes and goes across her brain. Now she sees the ship returning, Every mast with ensigns burning Star-bright o'er the cloud of sails, As, queen-like, down the green sea-vales She stoops, or o'er the mountains green Reascending like a queen. Glad the heart of hoary ocean In the beauty of her motion! Now through midnight's deepest noon, Howling to the wild monsoon, She sees God's anger flash around her, And the glorious vessel founder To one vain signal-gun; While in the lightning's ghastly glow The shipless ocean rolls below, As in the mid-day sun! Far, far below, in rocky cell Doth a seër-hermit dwell. In solitude and in despair He sits, with long, black, rusty hair, Face dim as death, and his fixed eye Red-flashing with futurity. A holy madman! with no chain But those forged in his burning brain— Shuddering, close beside his feet, To see the frequent winding-sheet— Spite of the water's din, to hear Steps trampling grave-wards with a bier— Or like a sweep of wintry weather, Wailing at midnight o'er the heather, Cloud-coronachs that wildly rise When far away a chieftain dies. Down—downwards to his savage cave, By steps the goat doth almost fear To lead her little kids to browse On wild-herb that there thinly grows, 'Mid spray-showers from the dashing wave, So dreadful 'tis the din to hear, The Lady with a quaking prayer, Descends, as if upon the air, Like sea-mew with white rise and fall, Floating o'er a waterfall! And now doth trembling Edith wait Reluctant at the closing gate, And wipes away her tears; For the Lady motions her to stay, Then with a wan smile sinks away, And, ghost-like, disappears!