Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) (279 page)

XLVII.

With shaded eyes the Druid stood,
Wrapt in dismay and fearful thought;
But now, awaking from his mood,
The last of all his spells he wrought.
Three bands he tore from his night-woven vest,
And sprinkled the oil of his failing lamp.
The Wizard sunk on his bed in rest!
Thrice on the ground did the Prophetess stamp,
And shook her streaming hair
In dæmon-like despair,
And stretched athwart the bier her withering hand,
And, shrieking, waved three times the SPECTRE WAND.

XLVIII.

At the first shriek, dark spreading mists appear;
And, in the midst, a Spectre, trembling Fear;
A wreath of aspin quivered round her hair.
More grisly pale than the Prophetess she;
More wild and haggard face could never be.
At the next shriek, distorted Pain,
With rolling eyes, that seemed to strain,
Started along th’ affrighted ground,
With dreadful yell and fitful bound;
Even dark Hela shuddered, as he rose,
For Hela could not grant him short repose.
To the third shriek the SPECTRE-BRANOH waved high.
A dim Shape came more dread than Pain or Fear;
Fell woe was in her eye, but not one tear!
A poniard in her breast, but not one sigh!
All ghastly was her face, and yet a smile
Was wandering on, but owned no thought, the while;
Unnoticed blood distilled from her loose hair!
She spoke not, wept not, looked not— ‘twas Despair!

XLIX.

Hela, as touched by her cold hand,
Stood, when she saw these shadows rise
To the false summons of her wand,
Stood, like a wretch, who guilty dies.
“Ye come uncalled. Why are ye here?”
“We wait around vast War wolf’s bier.”
“Ye come unwelcomed. Hence, away!”
But Hela saw, with dire dismay,
Her children would no more obey.
They gathered round the Wizard’s bed,
Despair drooped mutely o’er his head,
And Hela sunk, in mist, down to the dead!

L.

Then the flame of the Druid’s lamp returned,
And as clear as the morning-light it burned,
And the harp’s triumphant sound
Lightly danced the cavern round,
And filled the vaulted roof, on high,
With the loud song of truth and joy;
Through every hollow rock it rung;
The Echoes tell not all the notes,
For ne’er before had they heard sung
Such song as now around them floats.

LI.

At the first note, round Warwolf’s bier,
The ghastly shadows disappear,
And a dark cloud began to rise,
That wrapt him from the Druid’s eyes,
Who gathered and counted the conquered fangs;
Then, thankful, from the cave he hies,
To seek the lorn place, where the cymbal clangs
Of the Wizard’s imp, as it watches his bower;
There to bury the teeth, at the magic hour.

LII.

From the mouth of the cave his harp he took,
And hung it near his grateful heart;
The wires with answering rapture shook,
And hope and courage did impart.
But its cautious master, true
To the whole task he had to do,
Bent, with tempered mind, his way,
Whither the Sorcerer’s bower lay.
Through the forest he heard afar
The cymbal’s hoarsely-clanging jar,
Till he came to a widely-spreading plain,
Then ceased the Wizard’s threatening strain;
All was still as yon setting star.
But, for the bower he looked around in vain,
Unless that giant-tree be his strange bower,
A ruin now like him, and ‘reft of power.

LIII.

In the centre it stood — a withered oak;
It’s shadow was gone, and it’s branches broke;
It’s mighty trunk, knotted all round and round.
And gnarled roots, o’erspreading the ground,
Were proofs of summers that on it had shone,
And honours of old from the tempests won,
In generations all past and gone.
And a scant foliage yet was seen,
Wreathing it’s hoary brows with green;
Like to a crown of victory,
On some old Warrior’s forehead grey.
So reverend was it’s look, it seemed to speak
Of times long buried, that had passed it by
And left it there thus desolate to sigh
To the wild winter-winds, in murmurs weak;
A spectre of the woods, shadeless and pale,
A form of vanished ages, whose dark tale
It once beheld, and seemed by fits to wail.

LIV.

Here came the Druid, with firm, silent tread,
To bury deep the fangs of Warwolf dread.
Now, by the waning Moon’s red, slanting ray,
By her long, gloomy shadows on the way,
Two circles round about the oak he traced,
And, as with measured step and slow he paced,
And Runic words of secret import drew,
The mighty lines wider and wider grew,
As watery circles o’er a lake increase;
At length they rested, where he bade them cease.
Watching the minutes of the downward moon,
He walked th’ enchanted Celtic circles duly o’er;
Dropping, at every bidden step, a fang.
One fang to every step he gave, no more,
Meanwhile his harp, unsmote, with strange notes rang!
The vast circumference he paced not soon;
One hundred and forty minute-steps past,
Ere was paced the widest circle and last;
And the pale moon, behind the forest-shade,
Sunk with a small and smaller curve of light;
O’er the wood-tops he watched her last glow fade,
Till every lingering ray was lost in night.
The hour is won! — the spell is done!
The Druid to rest in his bower is gone!

LV.

Now LISTEN AND WATCH, and you shall see
What passed around that old oak-tree.
The marvellous story must now be told
Of the ban’s last force of Warwolf bold.
When next the midnight-moon was seen,
The Druid returned to the forest green;
That forest green on yesternight,
Now mourned in all its leaves a blight!
And now were its branches shattered and bare;
Nor tree, nor bough, did the Sorcerer spare,
Dire was the hour when he waked from his swoon!
O’er all the region, far and nigh,
Far as the Druid cast his eye,
(Under the glimpses of the low-hung moon)
The lands all black and desolate lie!
But whither the Wizard his-self was fled,
And whether still living in trance, or dead,
Or what was become of his horrid den,
Were matters not readied by the Druid’s ken.
Nor cliff, nor rock, was e’er seen from that hour,
On wilds, that had owned the Sorcerer’s power;
Not an oak, or green bank, on hill or dale,
That once waved in Summer’s and Winter’s gale.

LVI.

The Druid pressed on through the lifeless wood,
Till he reached the plain, where the old oak stood.
Now listen and watch, and you shall see
What was done around that warrior tree.
Scarce could the Druid now believe,
That phantoms did not his eyes deceive,
As he looked o’er this desert land,
Far as his vision could command.
Is it the light, that mocks his sight?
Or shadows, that now the low moon throws?
What dark and mighty shapes are those,
Standing like dæmons of the night?
Nearer and nearer the Seer now goes,
Taller and taller the figures arose!
Astonished he saw, on the plain around,
In the circles he traced on the teeth-sown ground,
A hundred and forty figures stand,
A lofty and motionless giant-band!
He paused in the midst, and calmly viewed
Their strange array and their sullen mood.
High wonder filled his mind, as this he saw.
And wander still and reverential awe,
From age to age, have filled the gazer’s mind,
With sweet yet melancholy dread combined.
Stonehenge is the name of the place this day,
But what more it means no man may say.

LVII.

Who, that beholds these solid masses rude,
Could guess they ever were with life endued?
And yet, receive the marvel that I tell,
These mighty masses held the Wizard’s spell!
They were his buried fangs, and upward sprung
By nerve of magic, which they yet retained,
Dilating to enormous size and shape,
While from their prison-grave they strove t’ escape.
But here their effort ceased, and, wildly flung,
They in their mighty shapes have since remained.
Their effort, but not yet their power, has ceased,
Far, as the ages of the world increased,
Still with the charm of wonder they have bound
Whoever stepped in their enchanted ring,
And when the learned held the truth was found,
The daily and the nightly thought,
So long pursued, so closely caught,
Has proved a feather dropped from Fancy’s wing!
And thus have two thousand ages rolled,
But the truth till now was never told!
Unsuspected it lay,
Closely hid from the day,
Till some smatterer bold
Should the secrets of Druid lore unfold.

LVIII.

The Hermit, by the wondrous vision won,
Felt not the shuddering earth, nor heard the gale
O’er the far wilderness come sweeping on,
With gathering strength and wildly sweeping yell,
Till, like some fiendly voice it burst around,
And gradual died along the hollow ground.
Then he knew it the Wizard’s blast;
It was his fiercest and his last,
And came for vengeance on the Druid’s head;
But with his fangs his evil power was fled.
And, when rung out the harp’s rejoicing swell,
The Druid knew that all was once more well.
Then to his bowery home his steps he turned,
And slept the sleep by conscious virtue earned.
His fortitude the Wizard’s spell had braved;
His patient wisdom a wide land had saved!

LIX.

From forth that day began the Druid sway
O’er all this widely stretching plain,
And hamlets few that on their border lay.
Still did the Druids long remain
In the lone desert, far from vulgar eye,
‘Wrapt in high thought and solemn mystery.
The circle of the Wizard’s fangs, ‘tis said,
Was their great temple, where, on certain days,
In triumph for the tyrant-daemon fled,
They gathered from the country far around,
And sang, with nameless rites, their mystic lays,
Here on this rescued memorable ground.

LX.

And thus they ruled, for age succeeding age.
There is one later record; which doth spell,
But in what scroll, or rhyme, or numbered page,
Or letter black, or white, I cannot tell —
There is one record, could it now be found,
Doth spell the words which, spoken on that ground,
By the wan light of the setting moon,
When night is far past her highest noon —
Words, that make sight so strong and fine,
As will the Druids’ shadowy figures show,
When in their long and stately march they go,
Around and round that mighty line,
Where yet the Wizard’s fangs uprear
Their monstrous shapes upon the air.
And, as they glide those shapes between,
A beam-touched harp does sometimes shine,
Or golden fillet’s glance is seen;
While long devolving robes of snow,
Wave on the wind, and round their footsteps flow.
And then are heard the wild, fantastic strains,
Which Druid-charm has left to dignify these plains.

LXI.

Such was the scene, and such are the sounds,
Linked with the history of these grounds!
Nay, ‘tis said that, at this very hour,
Without aid from any words of power,
If mortal has courage to go alone
To that remote circle and count each stone,
When the midnight-moon doth silently reign
Over the pathless and desolate plain,
Gliding forms may ev’n yet be viewed,
Of lofty port and solemn mood,
Performing rites ill understood
By people of this latter day!
How this-may be I cannot say;
For nobody of these days can be found
To venture alone to that distant ground,
When the midnight moon walks over the land,
With slow, soundless step and beckoning wand,
And cold shadows following her command.

LXII.

But, not for kindly sprites alone,
Is now that haunted region known,
Since the antique Seers are gone.
‘Tis said that, sometimes, even there
Fiendish sprites will ride on the air!
To lone shepherd their forms appear.
Their forms in the tempest’s first gloom he finds;
And this is the cause that the hurrying winds
Sweep so swiftly, and moan so loud,
As o’er those haunted downs they crowd.
On the waste’s edge they gather and brood;
Then, meeting the wild fiend’s fiercest mood,
They scud o’er the desert, through clouds, through rain,
Like ship, with her storm-sail set, on the main.
While the Druids lived, these evil bands
Kept far aloof from the guarded lands.
But, when the last died, the Sorcerer’s ban
Gained part of the force, with which it began.

LXIII.

And this is the cause why corn will not spring,
Nor a bird of summer will rest his wing,
Nor will the cottager here build his home,
Nor hospitable mansion spread its dome;
Why the plain never hears merry peal,
Announcing benefactor’s weal,
Nor e’en lone bell in village tower
Knells the irrevocable hour;
Why the dead find not here a hallowed grave,
Why the bush will not bud, nor tall tree wave.
And why Salisbury steeple was built so high
As though fairies had reared it to prop the sky!
For the mischievous sprites they once came so nigh,
They threatened all the country round,
Castles and woods, and meadow-ground,
That kindly peer o’er the edge of the plain,
Like a sunny shore o’er a stormy main;
Nay, they came so near to Salisbury town,
The people within feared the walls would down.

LXIV.

Then they built a tower, as by charmed hands,
So grand, yet so simple, its airy form!
To guard the good town from all fiendish bands,
And avert the dreaded pitiless storm.
And they fenced the tower with pinnacles light,
And they traced fine openwork all around;
It is, at this day, a beautiful sight!
And they piled on the tower a spire so high,
That it looked o’er all the Sorcerer’s ground,
And almost it vanished into the sky.
So lofty a steeple the world cannot show;
Nor, drawn on the air with the truth of a line,
A form so majestic, so gracefully fine;
Nor a tower more richly adorned below,
Where fretted pinnacles attend,
The spire’s first ascent to defend,
And catch the bright purple of evening’s glow,
While, sinking in shadows, the long roofs go.
This spire, viewed by the dawn’s blue light,
Or rising darkly on the night,
As with tall black line to measure the sphere,
While stars beside it more glorious appear,
Has so holy a look, not of earth it seems,
But some vision unknown save in Fancy’s dreams