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" Her widow'd mother's pride and joy, “ For he would have a heart of stone
They liv'd a lone, sequester'd pair; Who would not wish a spirit rest ; Nought could their guileless hearts annoy, Or who could leave a maid alone Nor chill'd by want, nor cross'd by Such terrors thrilling in her breast. care.
" Not such the reverend Abbot's heart, " But sorrow sought their lonely bow'r, For it could feel, and warmly glow;
And sickness laid the mother low; And ghostly counsel would impart And many a silent midnight hour
To Mary Scott of Edenknow. Would Mary smile, to soothe her woe.
“ And when, at midnight's dreary hour, * Physicians tried to banish pah;
Approach'd the restless, wand'ring Confessors came to whisper peace;
sprite, The Abbot left his hallow'd fane,
He could not leave the haunted bow'r, From sin and sorrow to release.
Till morning smil'd with cheering light. " He bow'd above the matron's bed;
“ For, in his presence, all would cease ; But often glanc'd, with gloating eye,
But nightly visits still began ; And turn'd aside his rev'rend head,
Nor was the mansion e'er at peace, To gaze on Mary, weeping nigh.
Unhallow'd by the holy man. “ The shaft of Death descended slow,
“ Week after week had pass'd away, And kind the pious Abbot's care;
And nightly the intruder came; To cheer the mourner's house of woe,
Nor Monk nor Priest would it obey ;
The Abbot only it could tame. Each evening sun beheld him there.
“ From Mary's cheek the rose had fled, " The hour approach'd-Death claim'd
The lustre faded in her eyes ; his prize ;
The Abbot all his pow'rs array'd,
The restless sprite to exorcise.
“ On Christmas-eve the twilight sky
Saw him to Edenknow repair ; “The present for the corpse was paid,
Resolv'd to make the phantom fly, With liberal hand, and pious love ;
And leave his benediction there. And holy Monks their masses said, To guide the soul to bliss above. “He spent the long and ling'ring night
With candle, book, and sacred bell ; “But still her mother's troubled sprite
But morning shew'd her dawning light Appear'd to find no place of rest;
Ere success crown'd the priestly spell. And in the lone and darksome night Shot terror through the daughter's “ The wand'ring spirit laid to rest, breast;
No more appears at evening's gloom ;
But peace has fled from Mary's breast, " For it would glide across the room, Her cheek shews no returning bloom !
With folded hands, and mournful air ;
“ Her flow'ry carpet spring has spread ; “ Mass after mass was duly said,
The green birch scatters fragrance And Ave-Maries many a one ;
round; And o'er her beads the troubl'd maid The verdant hawthorn lifts his head Would weep from morn to setting sun. With scented snow-white blossoms
crown'd. “ The Abbot's sympathetic soul Led him to soothe the frighted fair ;
“ 'Tis now the merry month of May, The wand'ring spirit to controul,
And gladness rings in glen and grove; He sprinkled holy water there.
The blithesome plough-boy whistles gay,
The milk-maid trills her song of love.
“But, who is she that strays alone, The corpse-present was an exaction
A moping, melancholy maid ? by the church, of a certain sum, accord With downcast look, all woe-begone, ing to the circumstances of a family, on
At twilight hour who seeks the shade? the death of any member thereof; and being levied with great rigour, was often “ Her eye in faded lustre shines found very oppressive.—See Lindsay of Like stars, when fogs float on the gale; Pitscottie's History; Works of Sir David And lost in thought, she musing pines, Lindsay of the Mount; and Dr M'Crie's With sallow cheek, lips blanch'd and Life of John Knox.
“ Erewhile she tript as lambkin light, “ The vesper bell has ceas'd to ring,
Now slow her steps, with pensive mien; And murky darkness vcils the sky; Her broider'd girdle scems too tight, And Mary, sadly sorrowing,
And much too short her kirtle green ! Has turn'd to heave her parting sigh. “ And she her lonely couch must press, " The Abbey towers, amidst the gloom, In vain invoking balmy sleep;
Were dimly seen, in dusky air ; Or, plung'd in dreams of dire distress, She thought upon her mother's tomb,
Will wake, her wayward fate to weep. And wish'd that she were slumb'ring “ Alas! that one so young, so fair,
there! Should drink such bitter draughts of “With trembling frame she forward woe!
press'd; And shame to him who spread the snare She fear'd-yet knew not what to dread;
For Mary Scott of Edenknow! But sad foreboding fill'd her breast, “ But there is one who talks of love,
Of ills impending o'er her head. And bids the mourner weep no more ; “Saint Ringan's well flows at her feet, Who says, his truth he'll fondly prove, And chilly blows the hollow wind;
And guide her to a distant shore. But where is he she came to meet, * There, blest with wealth and beauty's
Whom still her heart half fears to find? charms,
“ He comes !-her trembling hand he To care and busy tongues unknown,
takes, He'll clasp her in his shelt'ring arms, And bids her still her heart's alarms; And live for love and her alone.
But every limb with terror shakes ““You cannot save my soul from shame, For she is in a stranger's arms!
Nor hide me from myself!' she cried ; * Forgot for ever be my name ! Would I had in my cradle died !
“A burning torch, with frightful glare,
Shed lustre o'er the gloom profound; “ " I loathe to live-yet dread to die He forward led the trembling fair
Till tears have wash'd my guilt away! Then paus'd—and bade her look around. Forlorn-I know not where to flyBut here-I cannot - will not stay!
“A hasty glance the fair one gave,
But started back in wild affright; “I'll bear you hence,' he softly said, She saw a deep and yawning grave • Where, all unknown, your shame Beneath the torch's baleful light.
shall cease : My love ! of phantoms why afraid ?
« • Behold,' he cried, 'your bridal bed, Your guilt absolv'd-repose in peace!'
And this the couch where you must
rest; “ He gaz'd upon her faded charms, That sod the pillow for your head,
And strove to banish all her fears ; And there a turf to wrap your breast ! He clasp'd her fondly in his arms, And sought to kiss her streaming tears ;
“ Her throbbing brain with terror beat,
And horror chain'd her parched tongue; “She turn'd her head aside, and said : She bow'd before the ruffian's feet,
"Your lips my cheek must never press, And round his knees in silence clung! Till your protecting hand has led Me from this home of wretchedness.
" A brutal fire gleam'd in his eyes,
And deep his dark brow seem'd to ** If you from shame, from death, would
lower : save,
Exulting o'er his beauteous prize, Delay not-haste ! my hour is near;
He thus address'd the drooping flower : Or bid me hide me in the graveMy heart is sick of ling'ring here!'
“I would not wound a lady's ear ;
But time admits not of delay; “ “ Then hush your grief be calm, my If you can love-dismiss your fear, love!
I'll bear you hence ere break of day. To-morrow night shall set you free; A boat in waiting at the cave
" Full well I know your virgin bloom Shall bear us to a bark at sea.
Was given to bless the Abbot's arms;
And he rewards you with a tomb ! “66 When you have heard the vesper bell, There seeks to hide your angel charms!
Then bid adieu to Eder w, And meet me at Saint Ringan's well, “Come! let me lead you to yon bower ; And banish sadness from your brow! I long to still that throbbing heart !
Vouchsafe to smile one little hour,
And we will long crc day depart !
* Her keen eye flash'd indignant scorn; “ The monks have heard with wond'ring She felt her brain like burning flame;
car, *Although I am a wretch forlorn
And to the Abbot bear the tale; Though plung'd in sin- not lost to And though he careless seems to hear, shame!
His purple cheek grows ghostly pale. “* No farther guilt my soul shall stain ; “ At midnight hour he seeks the cell ;
My bleeding heart deplores the past ! The Monk is mumbling o'er a pray'r; Since every earthly hope is vain,
But cries, "Now, for Saint Ringan's well ! I here shall find repose at last !
The moon shines bright, I'll guide you
there! “ He laid his arm around her waist; (The trembling fair could hardly stand)
« « There is a spot with flow'rs emboss'd, One hand her throbbing bosom pressid,
The loveliest you have ever seen; The other wav'd a glittering brand.
In summer's drought and winter's frost,
Its turf is ever gay and green. “Now, love or death!' the ruffian
«• There spring expands her earliest said,
bloom ; "Or in my arms or there you lie !
And autumn's ling'ring flowerets glow; • Monster! stand off!--my choice is
They blossom on the lonely tomb made ! Your task fulfil--and let me die!'
Of Mary Scott of Edenknow ! " " The banks are green, the flow'rs are
fair, * Darkness and silence reign around, Around Saint Ringan's crystal well ;
Except one deep and rending groan ! Yet Mary's spirit rests not there, The grave re-echoes back the sound ! But nightly haunts me in my cell. "Tis past-the deed of death is done!
««• I see her weep, I see her sigh, “ Deep, in her dark unhallow'd bed,
Her tears are blood, her sighs are flame! Beyond the reach of human woe, Her breath has scorch'd my hot brain dry! A grassy turf above her head,
Her tears have chill'd my shiv'ring Lies Mary Scott of Edenknow!
frame!' “So when the chill and pelting shower
“ The Abbot fear'd this frantic fool Upon the lily's breast decends,
Might secret deeds long past reveal ; And stains the sweetly spotless flower,
And soon resolv'd his brain to cool, As in the dust its bosom bends :
His babbling lips in silence scal. “ The torrent comes with sudden sweep,
“ He said, “You want both food and rest;
I'll fetch a flask of generous wine, And bears away the blighted bloom ; Midst earth and clay 'tis buried deep,
'Twill soothe and warm your aching breast, Or lost in ocean's ample womb.
A safe and sovereign anodyne.' * The Abbot lives_Time speeds his
“ The Abbot has return'd with speed ; flight,
The Monk has drain’d the goblet deep; And seven long years have roll'd away ;
The potent beverage must succeed; Still he can taste of love's delight,
For it has laid him sound asleep! In wine and wassail spend the day. “ Yes ; it has cool'd his burning brain; “ No tear for Mary's fate is given ;
His crimes, and griefs, and suff'rings Forgot that face he deem'd so fair ; But all her wrongs are writ in heaven;
He slumbers, r.c'er to wake again,
Till time and death shall be no more ! The Abbot's guilt recorded there. + There is a Monk who cannot rest ;
Who raves about St Ringan's well; “ Saint Ringan's well is bubbling clear, Some secret guilt is in his brcast,
Its crystal streamiet speeds away ; He cannot hide-and fears to tell. A grassy hillock rises near,
With blooming wild-flow'rs ever gay. “ And oft alone he wanders there
And when he to his cell returns, “ The snow-white daisy rears its crest, He looks the image of despair,
The yellow king-cup, hare-bell blue, And through the long night sadly The wild rose spreads its blushing breast,
And woodbine scents the morning dew. “ He says, his hands have spots of blood, “ But who is he, that musing stands,
And beauty's tears his bosom stain ; And gazes on the turf so green, To wash them clean, the ocean flood With trembling knees and folded hands,
Would all its waters pour in vain. And horror pictur'd on his mein ?
“ The purple twilight softly glows, “ So sure the stroke his hand essay'd,
And still the maniac lingers there; So soon the seat of life it found,
And wrings his hands in wild despair. And left it in the gaping wound !
A green grass turf was o'er it spread; His deep'ning groans and hollow sighs But there each blade of verdure died ; Are mingling with the midnight wind!
No dew-drop falls above his bed ! “ The morning sun his lustre shed ;
Pray for the Abbot's sinful sprite, The frenzied maniac lay at rest ;
His dust, dishonour'd, lies below! On lovely Mary's grassy bed,
And bid the blooming turf lie light His blood had stain'd the dairy's breast.
On Mary Scott of Edenknow!
LETTER TO LADY MORGAN; BY THE REVIEWER OF HER “ITALY" IN THE
JULY NUMBER OF THE EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
Tíons; Qgorus pero oggi, xs masin, góraig
Let the gall’d jade wince, our withers are unwrung.
Shakespeare. Miladi! When a woman of violent and irrepressible passions, and inordinate con-ceit and vanity, instead of a “flattering unction” laid to her pride and imaginary importance, has the mortification to receive a severe but just castigation for her broadly-blazoned offences against good taste, correct feeling, and sound morals, it is no more than natural that she should rave and vociferate a little, while smarting under the pain of the salutary infliction, and tha
in the orgasm of her rabid but impotent fury, she should even rake into the stercoraceous and putrescent puddles of Billingsgate for filthy missiles to hurl at the head of her antagonist. Pride mortified, pretension exposed, ignorance proclaimed, contempt of principle rendered as notorious as the sun at noon-day, and impiety, folly, and hypocrisy unceremoniously unveiled !-these, truly, are“ sair to bide:"-And it would be as cruel as ungenerous in me were I not to sympathise with your Ladyship in the precious predicament in which, in spite of your “ fair and irregular archery,” you now find yourself. At the same time, were it not for the “ Babylonish dialect” in which your “ Letter to the Reviewers of Italy" is written, there is in it much, very much calculated to afford me the highest degree of pleasure, and even self-gratulation. Formerly I had only to do with the sins, blunders, and nonsense of the Jacobin and Ultra - radical author, whose delinquencies did not then appear so much the result of an obstinate attachment to error, as of an insane infatuation, which, like jaundice, tinged every subject you handled with its morbid and melancholy discoloration ; and hence a large portion of mercy was commingled with the more pungent and nauseous ingredients in the cup of punishment. The case, however, is now altered. Your Ladyship is confessedly“ past redemption:" And as you have boldly come forward to “ return the assault,” “ to take your aim in the garish eye of day,” “ with your device known,” and “ your heart worn on your sleeve for daws to peck at,”-to re-publish your mischievous nonsense, and multitudinous blunders,—to boast of your having had “the benefit of the most liberal and literary society in Europe,"—to defend Countesses and Mesdames of ambiguous reputations,—to misquote, garble, and misrepresent your Reviewers, -and to grace your epistle by calling names like a fish-woman ;-) shall cordially, and pro bono publico, accept your Ladyship's challenge: And, before I have done, you will probably feel, to
your cost, that you have got your own head broken with the “ long pole" with which you had armed yourself to “ stir up” the best-natured man living—the Editor of the Literary Gazette. I am well aware, too, that, in your present “ Letter,” (got up, I have no doubt, at the instigation of Colburn and Co., for purposes that are intelligible enough), “ you have exhausted your woman's garrulity;" that it is written" with little reading, less judgment;" that it betrays" the natural tendency of a female temperament,” and “ the influence of that stirring quality (your Ladyship is surely connected somehow with the “ Pole” family) called Indignation;" and that it is no joke to “ keep down the tone of an Irish novelist's highcolouring fancy:" But, while I cannot help admiring the wonderful candour with which your Ladyship appreciates your own “ trifling talents,” and estimates the value of the present performance, I must not deny myself the pleasure of proceeding, without farther circumlocution, to prove, what your Ladyship, with your usual modesty, takes for granted, namely, that the most imprudent * act of your Ladyship's whole life was the publication, for book selling purposes, of the “ Letter to the Reviewers of Italy.'' Your Ladyship recollects right well that I + had classed the very
first sentence of your
Italy” under the head of Nonsensemas superlatively absurd and unintelligible, from the strange jumble of metaphorical language which it contained. It is this:-“ The fables of antiquity have assigned to the Peninsula of Italy a golden age; and history, sufficiently vague, but better accredited, has peopled its Eden plains with confederated tribes; and has covered regions with numerous flocks and plenteous harvests where desolation now reigns over pestilential marshes.”—* Here,” remarked the Reviewer,
we have 'fables' 'assigning a golden age to a Peninsula;' and ` history,' at once sufficiently vague and better accredited,' ' peopling Eden plains with confederated tribes !'--that is, confederated before they • peopled the Eden plains ;' though, where this confederacywas entered :into, this petticoated ultra-radical has not deigped to inform us. What does your Ladyship reply to all this? Why, first, you call out, as if your olfac
• “ Profit, pleasure, and distinction for myself, and for those for whose sake they would have been most valuable, might,” says Lady Morgan, “ have been the re. compence of a more prudent direction of my trifling talents.” Is it not melancholy to think, that, for the pleasure of inditing nonsense, ultra radicalism, and impiety, · Lady Morgan should have been so deplorably imprudent as to forego "profit, pleasure, and distinction,” and to expose herself to “persecution, privation, and ca. lumny ?” “ This,” adds her Ladyship, “ will not appear a vain boast, when the miserable stuff is considered which fills the periodical sheets of the ministerial press." What! does her Ladyship mean to insinuate that the imprudent direction of her trifling talents” is a national loss, and that a ministry which commands the pens of the Giffords, Crokers, Cannings, and Barrows, would give a gray groat for the penny trumpet of an “ Irish Novelist ?” Lady Morgan knows the value of “ profit, pleasure, and distinction, as well as any of the individuals whom she so lavishly and wantonly vituperates; and no man, at least, will believe that, had the loaves and the fishes ever been put in her refusal, she would not have been quite as ready to laud and extol Lord Londonderry, or John Wilson Croker, as any Jacobin, Bonapartist, or Cicisbeo, of Italy or France. We have lately seen a little farther than heretofore into the Irish character. O'Connel, the furibund political schismatic, no sooner basks in the smile of royalty, than he is metamorphosed into a prostrate Tory, and a palace-building projector. There are two things that regulate the polities of Irishmen, aye, and Irish Novelists too_" Temperament," and the parable of the loaves and the fishes.
+ As a delectable specimen of her Ladyship's talent for guessing, (one in which wornen generally excel,) and of her personal knowledge of her Reviewers, I cannot refuse a place to the following :-“ As my work on Italy could not have reached Edinburgh in time to have been read and reviewed for the July number of the Edinburgh Magazine, I have reason to think it was manufactured in London. It smells of the Quarterly creature !" The “ Quarterly creature" seems to come, like an incubus, over Miladi's terrified imagination, transforming every individual who may chance to arm himself with the critical rod, into the awful form of her arch-enemy, Mr Gifford. Let her find out, if she can, the hand that now “ c!rastons" her.