SYBILLE.
A NORTHUMBRIAN TALE.
ARGUMENT.
The following Poem was written at the request of a near relation, who wished me to compose a Tale adapted to the picturesque and enchanting scenery of the ancient domains of our family, now in the possession of Bertram Mitford, Esq.
The Lord de Bertram, (one of the followers of William the Conqueror) married Sybille, the heiress of Sir Johannes de Mitford, and died, I believe, in the Holy Land. This is the only historical foundation for the story; but tradition is fertile in incident, and has assigned to the beautiful ruin of Mary's Chapel, a tale nearly similar to the one I have attempted to relate. It has too, within a very few years, been the scene of a most extraordinary occurrence. An unfortunate and guilty female, an inhabitant of Morpeth, resolved, when in the last stage of a consumption, to close her eyes within the sacred precincts of the Lady's chapel. She retired accordingly; and though every effort, that humanity could dictate, was made to remove her to a more comfortable habitation, she resisted, with wild and delirious strength, all attempts to tear her from the situation she had chosen. After lingering a few weeks she died, and was buried on the spot. I have alluded to this circumstance in the sixth stanza of the introductory verses.
Is deck'd with May's bright flowers,
And thy clear waters circling gleam,
Roud Mitford's mossy towers.
By woody mountains bound;
The spire high rises in the dale,
The village smiles around.
Beams in the brightening ray;
Mitford's proud turrets crown the rill,
And all the vale is gay.
When sad November lours;
And through old Bothall's gloomy wood
The foaming torrent pours.
The slippery path-way spread;
The long brown grass the foot deceives,
And mocks the uncertain tread.
Amid the darkening gloom;
Its mouldering walls still brave the air;
The maniac's lonely tomb!
For many a wintry day;
An aged ash high o'er them falls,
With moss and lichens grey.
For in the torrent's swell,
He hears fair Sybille's piercing cries,
Or the sad passing bell.
When the blue lightnings glare,
He sees pale Sybille's shrouded form,
Swift flitting through the air.
The setting sun's resplendent beam
Illum'd fair Mitford's mossy towers,
Tinging with gold the living stream.
Rear'd its proud head in feudal state;
Wav'd the broad banner on the Keep;
Frown'd darkly grim the arched gate.
Rung round Lord Bertram's splendid board;
Dark frowning, like his turrets grey,
Sate at the feast the haughty lord.
De Mitford's lovely heir he saw;
The conqueror own'd his favorite's claim;
And William's word was England's law.
Vainly she spurn'd a foreign yoke;
The king nor love nor pity felt—
She wept, but yielded to the stroke.
Two lovely smiling babes had given,
Still faster flowed the mother's tears,
Till her soul sought its native heaven.
To battle leads his father's power;
And gay, and innocent, and fair,
His Sybille blooms; a northern flower!
His chieftains pass the goblet round,
When from the castle's outer wall
Arose a harp's melodious sound.
But, who the minstrel's power withstands?
Who loves not well the rapturous lay,
Or pleasant tales from distant lands?
The iron gates were backward flung:
And soon the harper's descant wild
Through Mitford's echoing turrets rung.
That sweetly flow'd in Provence tongue;
Of tourneys, lords and ladies gay,
A wondrous tale the minstrel sung.
His manly voice was deep and clear;
And rapture fires the hardy train,
Again their native tongue to hear!
(Long used to Saxon strains uncouth)
The fields of Normandy recall,
And renovate their lusty youth.
Each blooming maid they lov'd so well,
Their earliest and their happiest lot!—
Again their steel-clad bosoms swell.
Of happy love the minstrel sung;
To the rapt poet's blissful dream
The magic chords responsive rung.
He touch'd a wildly plaintive air,
In thrilling tones of deepest woe
He told the hapless lover's care.
Grateful he rais'd his down-cast eye,
But scarce his modest thanks he paid
Ere the half-utter'd accents die.
To the high throne of feudal state;
And hov'ring there, inspir'd, entranc'd,
A lovely vision speechless sate.
Sweetly through recent tears she smil'd,
Loose and unbound her sunny hair
Flow'd round her sylphid figure wild.
Her cheek was like the opening rose,
Wet with the morning's pearly dew,
And pure her bosom's living snows.
Was he, who touch'd the tuneful string,
Dark clustering o'er his polish'd brow,
Hung ringlets like the raven's wing.
High genius sparkled in his eye
Soft'ning from glances wild and keen,
To smiles of cherub infancy.
To airs of love in Mitford tow'r.
Of war, of fame, no more he sung,
But high-born beauty's gentle pow'r.
He knew no father's fostering care,
A widow'd mother rear'd the child,
Deep in the wilds of Provence fair.
He sought Italia's blissful strand,
For Albert long'd the world to roam,
To visit every distant land.
Through vales, where Arno's waters flow,
"Seen the bright dames, Iberia's pride,
"And Grecian nymphs with necks of snow;
"Had he so sweet a valley seen;
"Nor e'er beheld so fair a maid,
As she who tripp'd o'er Mitford green."
And gentle chidings, check'd his praise:
But still she listen'd, still she smil'd,
Whilst Albert pour'd his am'rous lays.
Would e'er the minstrel's vows approve,
For noble youths to Sybille bow'd,
And sought the blue-eyed maiden's love.
The robin twitter'd from the wood,
And scatter'd by th' autumnal blast,
The yellow leaves sail'd down the flood.
A smile half lit her down-cast eye,
"O! if of Sybille's heart possest,
"Albert can ev'ry care defy!
We'll seek some wood-embosom'd cot,
"Content, and innocence, and health,
"With happy love, shall crown our lot.
("How blest to labour, love, for thee!)
"At ev'ning with the village train
"We'll join in rustic revelry.
"E'en now at Mary's chapel waits;
"Thy father loiters at the feast,
The weary warder leaves the gates.
Can scarce her slender form support;
Hope, fear, and love, contending meet,
Scarce can she cross the echoing court.
The maiden's gentle bosom move;
Her azure eyes are dimm'd with tears,
Tears soon dispell'd by mighty love!
No more her ling'ring footsteps stray;
Lightly she trips through Bothall's bow'rs,
Ting'd by the parting beam of day.
By Wansbeck's swiftly-flowing tide,
The holy father blest the pair,
And Albert clasp'd his blushing bride.
Save where the silver moon-beam shone,
Danc'd upon Wansbeck's rippling flood,
Or kiss'd the chapel's holy stone,
Save the clear water's rushing sound,
The night-breeze murm'ring through the oak,
Or the dark bat quick flitting round.
Wild shouts the sleeping echoes rouse!
And Sybille sinks by Mary's shrine,
Where late she pledg'd her stolen vows.
The minstrel draws his trusty blade;
"Revenge" the madden'd father calls,
And furious spurns the weeping maid.
They fight—and desp'rate is the strife;
Still fiercer glows their mutual ire,
Nor heeds the daughter and the wife.
The Baron's sword is dipp'd in gore,
O'er her fair form the life-blood flows,
And Sybille falls—to rise no more!
Who, reckless of the mortal wound,
Hews desp'rate mid the Pajuun band,
Strewing with mangled heaps the ground?
Is taun'd by sun and wet with rain,
Who lies on Mary's pavement bare,
Bathing with tears the bloody stain?
That wretched youth in woe umnov'd,—
That chief is he who gave the blow,
That youth is he whom Sybille lov'd.