Читать книгу Lays and Legends of the English Lake Country - John Pagen White - Страница 11

A wild holloa on Wynander's shore,

'Mid the loud waves' splash and the night-wind's roar!

Who cries so late with desperate note,

Far over the water, to hail the boat?

'Tis night's mid gloom; the strong rain beats fast:

Is there one at this hour will face the blast,

And the darkness traverse with arm and oar,

To ferry the Crier from yonder shore?

A mile to cross, and the skies so dread;

With a storm around that would wake the dead;

And fathoms of boiling depths below;

The ferry is hailed, and the boat must go.

Snug under that cliff, whence over the Mere,

When summer is merry and skies are clear,

In holiday times hearts light and gay

Look over the hills and far away—

At the Ferry-house Inn, sat warm beside

The bright wood-fire and hearthstone wide,

A rollicking band of jovial souls

With tinkling cans and full brown bowls.

Without, the sycamores' branches rode

The storm, as if fiends the roof bestrode;

Yet stout of heart, to that wild holloa

The ferryman smiled—"The boat must go."

His comrades followed out into the dark,

As the young man strode to the tumbling bark;

And, wishing him luck in the perilous storm,

With a shudder went back to the fireside warm.

An hour is gone! against wind and wave

Well struggled and strove that heart so brave.

Another! they crowd to the whistling door,

To welcome the guide and his freight to shore.

But pallid, and stunn'd, aghast, alone,

He stood in the boat, and speech had none:

His lips were locked, and his eyes astare,

And blanched with terror his manly hair.

What thing he had seen, what utterance heard,

What horror that night his senses stirr'd,

Was frozen within him, and choked his breath,

And laid him, ere morning, cold in death.

But what that night of horror revealed,

And what that night of horror concealed

Of spirits and powers in storms that roam,

Lies hid with the monk in St. Mary's Holm.

Still, under the cliff—whence over the Mere,

When summer was merry and skies were clear,

In holiday times hearts light and gay

Looked over the hills and far away—

When the rough winds blew amid rain and cold,

The Ferry-house gathered its hearts of old,

Who sat at the hearth and o'er the brown ale,

Oft talked of that night and its dismal tale.

And often the Crier was heard to wake

The night's foul echoes across the lake;

But never again would a hand unmoor

The boat, to venture by night from shore:

Till they sought the good monk of St. Mary's Holm,

With relics of saints and beads from Rome,

To row to the Nab on Hallowmas night,

And bury the Crier by morning's light.

With Aves muttered, and spells unknown,

The monk rows over the Mere alone;

Like a feather his bark floats light and fast;

When the Crier's loud hail sweeps down the blast.

Speed on, bold heart, with gifts of grace!

He is nearing the wild fiend-blighted place.

Now heed thee, foul spirit! the priest has power

To bind thee on earth till the morning hour.

He rests his oars; and the faint blue gleam

From a marsh-light sheds on the ground its beam.

There's a stir in the grass; and there's ONE on a knoll,

Unearthly and horrid to sight and soul.

That horrible cry rings through the dark,

As the monk steps out of the grounding bark;

And he charms a circle around the knoll,

Wherein he must sit till the mass bell toll.

Then over the lake, with the fiend in tow,

To the quarry beyond the monk will go,

And bury the Crier with book and bell,

While the birds of morning sing him farewell.

The morn awoke. As the breezy smile

Of dawn played over St. Mary's Isle,

The tinkling sound of the mass-bell rose,

And startled the valleys from brief repose.

Then, like a speck from afar descried,

The monk row'd out on the waters wide—

From the Nab row'd out, with the fiend in his wake,

To lay him in quiet, across the lake.

And fear-struck men, and women that bore

Their babes, beheld from height and shore,

How he reached the wood that hid the dell,

Where he laid the Crier with book and bell.

"For the ivy green" the spell was told;

"For the ivy green" his knell was knoll'd;

That as long as by wall and greenwood tree

The ivy flourished, his rest might be.

So did the good monk; and thus was laid

The Crier in ground by greenwood shade.

In the quarry of Claife the wretched ghost

To human ear for ever was lost.

And country folk in peace again

Went forth by night through field and lane,

Nor dreaded to hear that terrible note

Cry over the water, and hail the boat.

And still on that cliff, high over the Mere,

When summer is merry, and skies are clear,

In holiday times hearts light and gay

Look over the hills and far away.

But what that night of horror revealed,

And what that night and morrow concealed,

Of spirits so wicked and given to roam,

Lies hid with the monk in St. Mary's Holm.

Peace be with him, peaceful soul!

Long his bell has ceased to toll.

Green the Isle that folds his breast;

Clear the Lake that lull'd his rest.

Though the many ages gone

Long have left his place unknown;

Yet where once he kneel'd and pray'd,

By his altar long decay'd,

Stranger to this Island led!

Humbly speak and softly tread;

Catching from the ages dim

This, the burden of his hymn:—

"Ave, Thou before whose name

Wrath and shadows swiftly flee!

Arm Thy faithful bands with flame,

Earth from foulest foes to free.

"Peace on all these valleys round,

Breathe from out this Islet's breast;

Wafting from this holy ground

Seeds of Thy eternal rest.

"Wrath and Evil, then no more

Here molesting, all shall cease.

Peace around! From shore to shore—

Peace! On all Thy waters—peace!"