SIR OSMOND’S youth in camps was bred,
And manly sports still pleas’d his age:
Beneath his spear the wolf had bled;
His arm had dar’d the boar’s fell rage.
‘Twas on a cheerful harvest-morn,
With heart elate, and spirits gay,
Rous’d by the clangour of the horn,
Sir OSMOND sought his silvan prey.
His jovial troop o’erspread the plain,
Each in his hunter’s vest of green;
But none of all the youthful train
Could vie with EDWIN’S noble mien.
The beauteous EDITH too was near,
Well skill’d her milk-white steed to guide;
Who, pleas’d his lovely charge to bear,
Toss’d his fair mane with conscious pride.
And now the boar in view appears;
With rage inflam’d he rends the ground;
The ready hunters point their spears,
And draw the bow to give the wound.
Sir OSMOND urg’d with all his speed,
Regardless of declining age,
Among the first his fiery steed,
And dar’d the foaming monster’s rage.
The boar all furious rolls his eyes,
His eyes, that flash with living fire;
Like darts his prickly bristles rise;
He whets his tusks with vengeful ire.
A lance the dauntless OSMOND flung,
Deep fix’d it quiver’d in his side;
The reeking blood impetuous sprung,
And all the field with crimson died.
Stung with the pain, his fury boils;
He rushes headlong on the foe;
Agast the fearful steed recoils,
And lays his hapless rider low.
Alas! thou hast no son of love
With youthful arm thy life to save:
Yes, EDWIN ; he a son shall prove,
And snatch thee from a sudden grave.
Quick as the lightning’s flash he sprung;
He pierc’d the monster’s rugged breast:
He fell; the echoing forests rung,
As earth his giant-carcass press’d.
All round the youthful victor drew;
Tho’ envious all repeat his name;
The prostrate foe with wonder view,
And rend the skies with loud acclaim.
Yet trembling EDITH’S silent praise
To EDWIN’S heart is far more dear;
Her eyes to heaven he saw her raise,
And fervent drop the grateful tear.
The aged chief with beating heart
Long held him in a strict embrace;
Oh! more than son, we ne’er shall part–
And tears of joy bedew’d his face.
Henceforth with all a father’s love
Sir OSMOND’S eyes the youth regard:
Oh! if thy birth shall noble prove,
My EDITH shall thy worth reward.
Grant me, kind heaven! a son like thee;
Whose arm may prop my failing age;
And gentle EDITH’S guardian be,
When OSMOND leaves this mortal stage,
But, ah! I fear, ignoble birth
Doth all thy gallant deeds debase:
Alas! that valour, and that worth,
May not the brave possessor raise.
Let me from EDWIN frankly claim
The story of his life to know:
Not treasure is my sordid aim;
A gentle name’s my only vow.
‘Twas at the peaceful evening-hour,
When, freed from each intrusive guest,
In social talk they sought the bow’r,
And OSMOND thus the youth address’d:
I know my EDWIN’S generous heart
Will mean distrust of friends despise:
The soul of virtue needs not art,
But fairest shows without disguise.
Say, is it friendship, ill return’d,
Reluctant makes thee, EDWIN , rove?
Or hath thy gentle bosom burn’d
With all the pangs of hopeless love?
My faithful heart its part shall bear,
If thou, my son, hast cause to grieve:
Oh! let me then thy sorrows share,
Divide, and thus thy grief relieve.
With thee my soul no secret knows:
So shall my faithful tongue relate
The tender story of my woes;
For I have felt the stings of fate.
My early years were bred to arms,
When WILLIAM , SCOTLAND’S glory, reign’d;
And, when fierce EDWARD spread alarms,
My sword its meed of honour gain’d.
But, ah! that heart, which fear’d no foe,
All-powerful beauty soon subdu’d:
Nor sigh’d I long in sullen woe;
The fair one smil’d, when OSMOND woo’d.
She smil’d, but, ah! her sire denied,
The potent lord of LIDDIS-DALE ;
In all the pomp of wealth and pride
He rul’d o’er many an hill and vale.
But can a father’s stern commands
The powerful voice of love control?
Or break those strong, tho’ silken bands,
That bind the lover’s captive soul?
The timid maid, if love’s her guide,
Nor wiles shall want, nor dangers fear;
From prying eyes her steps shall hide,
And lull secure the watchful ear.
We met: not long, ere new alarms
Our hearts with deeper woes oppress’d;
Her father mark’d her alter’d charms,
And, ah! the cause too truly guess’d.
Shut in a tower from mortal sight,
His hapless daughter captive lay;
For me she wept the sleepless night;
For me she pin’d the cheerless day.
All impotent to bring relief,
Nor force, nor art the means supply:
‘Twas all I could, I shar’d her grief,
And wish’d, but wish’d in vain, to die.
Six times within that tower forlorn
She saw the moon renew her light;
When my ill-fated babe was born,
All in the gloomy noon of night.
A stranger (so her sire ordains)
Is charg’d the outcast babe to bear
Far distant from his native plains,
Where kindred voice he ne’er shall hear.
Ere sever’d yet to meet no more,
One sacred pledge she must impart;
A bracelet from her arm she tore,
And plac’d it near his little heart.
Oh! take, she cried, this gift of love:
When reason lends her searching light,
This may thy high-born lineage prove,
And guide thy doubtful steps aright.
‘Twas the first gift I gave my fair:
Two bleeding hearts together join’d;
A cherub fluttering light in air;
A myrtle-wreath with roses twin’d;
A bracelet–say? exclaim’d the youth?
To what rash hope would I aspire?
Two bleeding hearts? mysterious truth!
‘Tis here–and OSMOND is my sire.
He spoke; the father’s eager eyes
With silent gaze his features scan;
Now hope, now fear alternate rise,
Till thro’ his soul conviction ran.
Then with what transport to his heart
He press’d his long-lamented boy!
How vain all language to impart
The vast, the immeasurable joy!
Ah! short-liv’d bliss! thus phantoms melt,
And from the touch delusive fly:
Think, what the tender EDWIN felt,
When his lov’d EDITH met his eye!
But now his struggles to reveal,
It far exceeds my simple lay;
And more the gentle heart can feel,
Than can the power of words display.
Cold, pale, as monumental stone,
So EDITH stood in speechless woe;
Her bosom heav’d not with a groan;
From her fix’d eye no tear did flow.
Silent they stood, when EDWIN rais’d
His head to take one parting view;
Wild with despair, he frantic gaz’d:
–Adieu for ever! O adieu!
And farewell thou, my sire belov’d;
Long sought, alas! but found too late:
My inauspicious love hath prov’d
More fatal than the deadliest hate.
He spoke, and vanish’d from their sight;
(His swelling heart brook’d no reply)
Hid in the murky shades of night,
In honour’s arms resolv’d to die.
Good OSMOND sunk beneath the blow;
Thus, after many a storm withstood,
The bolts of Jove at length bring low
The ancient glory of the wood.
Of all she lov’d, or priz’d, bereft,
No well-known face of kindred near,
Behold the weeping EDITH left
Extended o’er a parent’s bier!
Around her stand her mournful train,
And share their dear-lov’d mistress’ grief;
But all their tears, their cares are vain;
Nor tears, nor cares can bring relief.
Time only can with lenient hand
O’er sorrow throw a softer shade;
Or holy hope, at heaven’s command,
Descend to give the mourner aid.
‘Twas night, when now the flatterer, sleep,
Where fortune smiles, his favour shows;
But leaves the wretch forlorn to weep,
Nor shuts those eyes, whence sorrow flows.
When, lo! the wandering EDITH’S sight
A radiant cherub’s form beheld;
His flowing robe of purest light;
His hand a palm triumphant held.
Hail, gentle maid! I bring sweet peace
I come, thy sorrows to dispel;
To give thee from life’s toils release,
And guide thy steps where angels dwell.
Within the bosom of that grove,
Where oft to heaven thy soul was rais’d,
Ere yet a wretched mortal’s love
To earth thy purer thoughts debas’d;
There shall thy future days be spent;
Far off each mortal wish shall fly;
Till heaven reclaim the life it lent,
And call thee to thy native sky.
Obedient to the voice divine,
Nor wealth, nor state can bribe her stay:
All fortune’s gifts she can resign,
And go where angels point the way.
The world was all a dreary waste;
Its honours were not worth her care;
Its pleasures only brought distaste;
She saw no longer EDWIN there.
Thus EDITH left her father’s halls;
Those festive scenes of gay delight,
Where oft at feasts and courtly balls
The song and dance prolong’d the night.
And here this sacred mansion rose,
Where pale-ey’d maids their vigils keep
Beauty her flowery robe foregoes;
And pleasure learns to fast and weep.
The pensive nun this story told:
And, see! she said with tearful eye,
Beneath yon weeping marble cold,
The once-lov’d EDITH’S ashes lie.
There, in the solemn dead of night,
From angel-harps soft airs are play’d:
There forms are seen, all heavenly bright,
While yet the world is wrapp’d in shade.
O’er it the silent lapse of years
With speed unmark’d has wing’d its way:
Now time’s corrosive hand appears,
And draws the traces of decay.
Not beauty’s self alone must bow,
But all the feeble props of fame:
The bust, the arch he levels low,
And blots from sight the victor’s name.
(Elizabeth Scot)
More Poetry from Elizabeth Scot:
Elizabeth Scot Poems based on Topics: Joy & Excitement, Hope, Love, Life, Youth, Art, Anger, Fate & Destiny, Sadness, Fairness, Night- Leander And Hero (Elizabeth Scot Poems)
- Alonzo And Cora - Part III (Elizabeth Scot Poems)
- Alonzo And Cora - Part I (Elizabeth Scot Poems)
- Alonzo And Cora - Part II (Elizabeth Scot Poems)
- Edwin And Edith - Part I (Elizabeth Scot Poems)
- Celadon And Mira (Elizabeth Scot Poems)
Readers Who Like This Poem Also Like:
Based on Topics: Love Poems, Life Poems, World Poems, Night Poems, Light Poems, Sadness Poems, Time Poems, Soul Poems, War & Peace Poems, Faces Poems, Joy & Excitement PoemsBased on Keywords: unmark, flatterer, bracelet, edwin, clangour, debase, intrusive, shar, inflam, charg, whets