"Her widow'd mother's pride and joy, They liv'd a lone, sequester'd pair; Nought could their guileless hearts annoy, Nor chill'd by want, nor cross'd by care. "But sorrow sought their lonely bow'r, "Physicians tried to banish pan; Confessors came to whisper peace; The Abbot left his hallow'd fane, From sin and sorrow to release. "He bow'd above the matron's bed; But often glanc'd, with gloating eye, And turn'd aside his rev'rend head, To gaze on Mary, weeping nigh. "The shaft of Death descended slow, And kind the pious Abbot's care; To cheer the mourner's house of woe, Each evening sun beheld him there. "The hour approach'd-Death claim'd his prize; And now was heard the mourner's wail, As Mary clos'd her mother's eyes, And press'd her lips, now cold and pale. "The present for the corpse was paid, With liberal hand, and pious love; And holy Monks their masses said, To guide the soul to bliss above. "But still her mother's troubled sprite Appear'd to find no place of rest; And in the lone and darksome night Shot terror through the daughter's breast; "For it would glide across the room, With folded hands, and mournful air; Then vanish in the viewless gloom, And leave poor Mary in despair. "Mass after mass was duly said, And Ave-Maries many a one; And o'er her beads the troubl'd maid Would weep from morn to setting sun. "The Abbot's sympathetic soul Led him to soothe the frighted fair; • The corpse-present was an exaction by the church, of a certain sum, according to the circumstances of a family, on the death of any member thereof; and being levied with great rigour, was often found very oppressive.-See Lindsay of Pitscottie's History; Works of Sir David Lindsay of the Mount; and Dr M'Crie's Life of John Knox. "For he would have a heart of stone Who would not wish a spirit rest; Or who could leave a maid alone Such terrors thrilling in her breast. "And when, at midnight's dreary hour, Approach'd the restless, wand'ring sprite, He could not leave the haunted bow'r, Till morning smil'd with cheering light. "For, in his presence, all would cease; But nightly visits still began; Nor was the mansion e'er at peace, Unhallow'd by the holy man. "Week after week had pass'd away, And nightly the intruder came; Nor Monk nor Priest would it obey; The Abbot only it could tame. "From Mary's cheek the rose had fled, The lustre faded in her eyes; The Abbot all his pow'rs array'd, The restless sprite to exorcise. "On Christmas-eve the twilight sky Saw him to Edenknow repair; Resolv'd to make the phantom fly, And leave his benediction there. "He spent the long and ling'ring night With candle, book, and sacred bell; But morning shew'd her dawning light Ere success crown'd the priestly spell. "The wand'ring spirit laid to rest, No more appears at evening's gloom; But peace has fled from Mary's breast, Her cheek shews no returning bloom! "Her flow'ry carpet spring has spread; The green birch scatters fragrance round; The verdant hawthorn lifts his head With scented snow-white blossoms crown'd. ""Tis now the merry month of May, And gladness rings in glen and grove; The blithesome plough-boy whistles gay, The milk-maid trills her song of love. "But, who is she that strays alone, A moping, melancholy maid? With downcast look, all woe-begone, At twilight hour who seeks the shade? "Her eye in faded lustre shines Like stars, when fogs float on the gale; And lost in thought, she musing pines, With sallow cheek, lips blanch'd and pale. "Erewhile she tript as lambkin light, Now slow her steps, with pensive mien; Her broider'd girdle seems too tight, And much too short her kirtle green! "And she her lonely couch must press, In vain invoking balmy sleep; Or, plung'd in dreams of dire distress, Will wake, her wayward fate to weep. "Alas! that one so young, so fair, Should drink such bitter draughts of woe! And shame to him who spread the snare For Mary Scott of Edenknow! "But there is one who talks of love, And bids the mourner weep no more; Who says, his truth he'll fondly prove, And guide her to a distant shore. "There, blest with wealth and beauty's charms, To care and busy tongues unknown, He'll clasp her in his shelt'ring arms, And live for love and her alone. "You cannot save my soul from shame, Nor hide me from myself!' she cried; 'Forgot for ever be my name! Would I had in my cradle died! "I loathe to live-yet dread to die Till tears have wash'd my guilt away! Forlorn-I know not where to fly But here I cannot-will not stay!' "I'll bear you hence,' he softly said, Where, all unknown, your shame shall cease: My love! of phantoms why afraid? Your guilt absolv'd-repose in peace!' "He gaz'd upon her faded charms, And strove to banish all her fears; He clasp'd her fondly in his arms, And sought to kiss her streaming tears; "She turn'd her head aside, and said: "Your lips my cheek must never press, Till your protecting hand has led Me from this home of wretchedness. "If you from shame, from death, would "The vesper bell has ceas'd to ring, And murky darkness veils the sky; And Mary, sadly sorrowing, Has turn'd to heave her parting sigh. "The Abbey towers, amidst the gloom, Were dimly seen, in dusky air; She thought upon her mother's tomb, And wish'd that she were slumb'ring there! "With trembling frame she forward press'd; She fear'd-yet knew not what to dread; But sad foreboding fill'd her breast, Of ills impending o'er her head. "Saint Ringan's well flows at her feet, And chilly blows the hollow wind; But where is he she came to meet, Whom still her heart half fears to find? "He comes!-her trembling hand he takes, And bids her still her heart's alarms; But every limb with terror shakes For she is in a stranger's arms! "A burning torch, with frightful glare, Shed lustre o'er the gloom profound; He forward led the trembling fairThen paus'd-and bade her look around. "A hasty glance the fair one gave, But started back in wild affright; She saw a deep and yawning grave Beneath the torch's baleful light. "Behold,' he cried, your bridal bed, And this the couch where you must rest; That sod the pillow for your head, And there a turf to wrap your breast!' "Her throbbing brain with terror beat, And horror chain'd her parched tongue; She bow'd before the ruffian's feet, And round his knees in silence clung! "A brutal fire gleam'd in his eyes, And deep his dark brow seem'd to lower : Exulting o'er his beauteous prize, He thus address'd the drooping flower: "I would not wound a lady's ear; But time admits not of delay; I'll bear you hence ere break of day. "Full well I know your virgin bloom Was given to bless the Abbot's arms; And he rewards you-with a tomb! There seeks to hide your angel charms! "Come! let me lead you to yon bower; 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; She felt her brain like burning flame; "Although I am a wretch forlornThough plung'd in sin-not lost to shame! "No farther guilt my soul shall stain; My bleeding heart deplores the past! Since every earthly hope is vain, I here shall find repose at last!' "He laid his arm around her waist; (The trembling fair could hardly stand) One hand her throbbing bosom press'd, The other way'd a glittering brand. "Now, love-or death!' the ruffian said, 'Or in my arms-or there you lie !'. 'Monster! stand off!-my choice is made!— Your task fulfil-and let me die!' "Darkness and silence reign around, Except one deep and rending groan! The grave re-echoes back the sound!"Tis past-the deed of death is done! "Deep, in her dark unhallow'd bed, A Beyond the reach of human woe, "So when the chill and pelting shower "The torrent comes with sudden sweep, "The Abbot lives-Time speeds his flight, And seven long years have roll'd away; Still he can taste of love's delight, In wine and wassail spend the day. "No tear for Mary's fate is given; Forgot that face he deem'd so fair; But all her wrongs are writ in heaven; The Abbot's guilt recorded there. "There is a Monk who cannot rest; Who raves about St Ringan's well; Some secret guilt is in his breast, He cannot hide-and fears to tell. "And oft alone he wanders there And when he to his cell returns, He looks the image of despair, "The monks have heard with wond'ring ear, And to the Abbot bear the tale; And though he careless seems to hear, His purple cheek grows ghostly pale. "At midnight hour he seeks the cell; The Monk is mumbling o'er a pray'r; But cries,Now, for Saint Ringan's well! The moon shines bright, I'll guide you there! "There is a spot with flow'rs emboss'd, "There spring expands her earliest bloom; And autumn's ling'ring flowerets glow; They blossom on the lonely tomb Of Mary Scott of Edenknow! "The banks are green, the flow'rs are fair, Around Saint Ringan's crystal well; Yet Mary's spirit rests not there, But nightly haunts me in my cell. "I see her weep, I see her sigh, Her tears are blood, her sighs are flame! Her breath has scorch'd my hot brain dry! Her tears have chill'd my shiv'ring frame!' "The Abbot fear'd this frantic fool Might secret deeds long past reveal; And soon resolv'd his brain to cool, His babbling lips in silence scal. "He said, "You want both food and rest; I'll fetch a flask of generous wine, "Twill soothe and warm your aching breast, A safe and sovereign anodyne.' "The Abbot has return'd with speed; The Monk has drain'd the goblet deep; The potent beverage must succeed; For it has laid him sound asleep! "Yes; it has cool'd his burning brain; His crimes, and griefs, and suff'rings o'er ; He slumbers, ne'er to wake again, Till time and death shall be no more! "Saint Ringan's well is bubbling clear, Its crystal streamiet speeds away; A grassy hillock rises near, With blooming wild-flow'rs ever gay. "The snow-white daisy rears its crest, The yellow king-cup, hare-bell blue, And through the long night sadly The wild rose spreads its blushing breast, mourns. "He says, his hands have spots of blood, And beauty's tears his bosom stain; To wash them clean, the ocean flood Would all its waters pour in vain. And woodbine scents the morning dew. "But who is he, that musing stands, And gazes on the turf so green, With trembling knees and folded hands, And horror pictur'd on his mein? "The purple twilight softly glows, And still the maniac lingers there; He talks and raves of crimes and woes, And wrings his hands in wild despair. "The waning moon in cloudy skies, Sees him on Mary's tomb reclin'd; His deep'ning groans and hollow sighs Are mingling with the midnight wind! "The morning sun his lustre shed; The frenzied maniac lay at rest; On lovely Mary's grassy bed, His blood had stain'd the dairy's breast. "So sure the stroke his hand essay'd, "They dug his grave by Mary's side; A green grass turf was o'er it spread ; But there each blade of verdure died; No dew-drop falls above his bed! "Pray for the Abbot's sinful sprite, His dust, dishonour'd, lies below! LETTER TO LADY MORGAN; BY THE REVIEWER OF HER "ITALY" IN THE MILADI! Let the gall'd jade wince, our withers are unwrung. WHEN a woman of violent and irrepressible passions, and inordinate conceit 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 that, 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;-I shall cordially, and pro bono publico, accept your Ladyship's challenge: And, before I have done, you will probably feel, to you have 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), 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 bookselling 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 Nonsense-as 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 confederacy' was entered into, this petticoated ultra-radical has not deigned 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 recompence 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 women 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 havc 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 "chastens" her. |