And bask in day, while deepest night
Still blackens each surrounding height:
And she* whose glittering dells are known
To sprites of middle air alone,
The Virgin, on whose frozen breast
A shadowy eagle loves to rest,
And spreads his mighty pinions dun,
To shield her from the amorous sun;
When, at the lingering beam he throws,
She blushes thro' her waste of snows,
And all her brother Alps around
Are with a roseate glory crown'd.
All save the Shreckhorn's * dreadful peak,
For ever black, and bare, and bleak;
For not a sprite that comes to throw
The soft and velvet veil of snow
That dresses other heights, will dare
To plant his vent'rous footsteps there.
"Ye mountains! have your peaks sublime
Scorn'd all the wasting power of Time,
Unchang'd since first the world began
'Mid all the changing fates of man!
Eagles of Austria, Rome, and Gaul,
Stoop, for these heights have mock'd you all
Ye thought these realms an easy spoil;
They foil'd you, and shall ever foil,
For Freedom loves her flag to rear
Where hills are proud, and streams are clear;
And who that knows these velvet vales,
These pine-clad steeps, these healthful gales,
These glittering peaks, to conqueror's hand
Will ever yield the lovely land?
"Helvetia! trust the prophet-prayers
A sister-spirit breathes and shares;
* The Jungfrau, or Virgin's Horn, so called from the belief that its steep sides rendered it inaccessible. It was, however, twice ascended a few years since by two German gentlemen of the name of Meyer, who, on their second visit, left a flag upon its summit. These lines allude to a deep and extensive shadow, thrown on the Jungfrau at sunset, by its western peak, which is called the Silver-Horn. This shadow (to some eyes at least) has much the form of an eagle.
The Shreck-Horn, or Peak of Terror, which in this view appears insulated, and almost pyramidical. It is so steep that the snow will not rest on its summit; and is believed to be completely inaccessible.
WHAT is that sound so soft and sweet,
That like a seraph's music pours?
No echo can those tones repeat,
It dies along these rocky shores.
And what that form of beauteous mould,
So light it seems of woven air,
While flinging odours rich and rare,
From clustering locks of elfin gold?
When shines the moon with placid beam
Amid her rays those ringlets stream,
That form, those eyes of azure light,
That fairy harp of witching tone,
To garish day are never known,
But ope, like modest flowers of night,
When all his ruddy beams are gone.
And many a knight, of valour prov'd,
Had heard that harp's enchanting spell,
Had seen that fairy form, and lov'd,
And long pursued o'er heath and dell;
As still the lovely sorceress led
Had follow'd to the murky cave,
Had plung'd amid the roaring wave
That clos'd in darkness o'er his head!
And see, she bids the moon-beam rest
More softly on her snowy breast,
And as she bathes in silver light,
She wakes a purer, loftier strain,
For lo! a victim comes again,
And well she knows the dauntless knight
A princely game, nor lightly slain.
Yet came he not in knightly pride;
His noble steed, his squires dismist,
His leashed hound is by his side,
His hooded falcon on his wrist.
He gaz'd not on those witching charms,
Yet if a cautious glance he stole
Sir Gawaine's was no icy soul.
His kindling frame her beauty warms,
Yet in the blue of that soft eye,
A frozen coldness seemed to lie,
And he who nearer look'd might trace
Tears gathering there that scorn'd to flow,
Young anger in that heighten'd glow,
Or see that more than mortal face
Pale with the throb of inward woe.
Again she tun'd her lyre, again
Awakes its most resistless tone;
But lo! she hears an answering strain,
Less sweet, but loftier than her own:
As Gawaine tunes the vocal reed,
Her lyre drops useless from her hands,
Vanquish'd and sad awhile she stands,
Then bounds away with arrowy speed.
But never conquer'd in the race,
Sir Gawaine urg'd no fruitless chace;
He seiz'd her by her flowing hair;
He casts her on the rugged heath,
He draws his falchion from its sheath,
While pointed at her bosom bare
The lifted weapon threatens death.
It falls but on no female breast
Dilated was that phantom fair,
And now, in glittering armour drest,
A Knight stands sternly frowning there;
And Gawaine's unpolluted sword,
That wept to shed a woman's blood,
Now aids its master's kindling mood,
And thirsts to quell that form abhorr❜d.
Fierce was the combat, and at length
Each panting own'd their failing strength,
Though parrying still each adverse blow:
But Gawaine summon'd all his might,
Resolv'd at once to end the fight,
He struck but blood refus'd to flow,
Though wounded sunk the elfin knight.
He sunk, but soon a nimble Deer,
Rose where the warrior seem'd to die,
And launching forth in full career,
Oft tost his crested head on high.
One instant fixed in new surprize,
Soon Gawaine's hand the leash unbound, Forth springs his keen, his matchless hound, And on the fainting stag he flies
Again his prey has vanish'd there, An Eagle wing'd the middle air, And soar'd so boldly and so high,
It seem'd he flew to meet the sun,
Whose ruddy beams e'en now begun
To purple o'er the dark blue sky,
And clouds that veiled the mountains dun.
But Gawaine's falcon swifter flies,
Nor fears to grapple with his king,
In vain with anger-beaming eyes,
And mighty beak, and flapping wing,
And dreadful cries he threats his foe.
His wing th' intrepid falcon tore,
He falls, the king of air no more.
Yet scarcely touch'd the ground below,
Ere all his spreading plumes were gone:
Forth flew a little Wren alone,
Scarce seen amid the brightening sky;
But on a fir-tree's pointed height
She perches, half conceal'd from sight,
And human voice and words surprize
From that small frame the listening knight.
"Desist! yon rising orb of gold
At once thy power and mine controll'd.
For secret crimes in fairy-land
Condemn'd to roam this barren strand;
Alone, for many a weary year,
My joyless steps have linger'd here.
One only pleasure glads my mind,-
To work the woe of human kind,
And lead to death or endless shame
The race thro' which my sorrow came.
Thou! thou alone, hast foil'd
my wiles, Thou only scorn'd my fatal smiles,
Compell'd in borrow'd shapes to flee,
My endless hatred waits on thee.
"Lov'd by your sovereign, heap'd with wealth,
With fame and fortune, youth, and health,
While England's fairest maidens, all
Contend thy hand to lead the ball,
List thy soft converse, and decline
All coarser flattery than thine,
Unconquer'd still by mortal wight
In tourney or in fiercest fight,
Thine shall be still a joyless heart,
That shares no bliss thy words impart;
The smiles on that gay brow that glow,
Shall never gild the void below,
Till one of fairy race shall join
Her fate by marriage bonds with thine*
Then must my power, my curse expire,
For Fate controls my deathless ire.
I know my fate to die
By thine accursed progeny.
This day that saw me vanquish'd lie,
Must every year behold agen,
On these bleak shores, the fairy wren,
While hundreds scour each barren heath
To work one helpless creature's death. †
Woe to the fate-devoted bird,
Whose cry that luckless morn is heard,
Alluding to the old fairy tale of Sir Gawaine's Marriage.
+ The chase of the wren is still pursued in the Isle of Man on the anniversary of the day when the fairy is supposed to have taken refuge in that form, and num bers of unfortunate birds have fallen victims to the superstition,
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