The Erl-King . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . [Walter Scott] The Water-King . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . [M.G. Lewis] Lord William. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . [Robert Southey] Poor Mary, The
Maid of the Inn . .
. . . . . . . . . [Robert Southey] The Chase . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . [Walter Scott] William and Helen . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . [Walter Scott] Alonzo the Brave
and Fair Imogene . .
. . . . . . [M.G. Lewis] Arthur and Matilda . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . [John Aikin] The Erl-King’s
Daughter . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . [M. G. Lewis] |
[It is
necessary that the Reader should be informed, that in the legends of German[1]
superstition, certain mischievous Spirits are supposed to preside over
the different Elements, and to amuse themselves with inflicting calamities on
O! Who rides by night thro’ the woodland
so wild?
It is the fond Father embracing his
child;
And close the Boy nestles within his
lov’d arm,
From the blast of the tempest to keep
himself warm.
“O Father! see yonder, see yonder!” he
says. 5
“My Boy, upon what dost thou fearfully
gaze?”
“O! ’tis the ERL-KING with his staff and
his shroud!”
“No, my Love! it is but a dark wreath of
the cloud.”
[The Phantom Speaks]
“O! wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest
Child!
By many gay sports shall thy hours be
beguil’d; 10
My Mother keeps for thee many a fair toy,
And many a fine flow’r shall she pluck
for my Boy.”
“O Father! my Father! and did you not
hear,
The ERL-KING whisper so close in my ear?”
“Be still, my lov’d Darling, my Child be
at ease! 15
It was but the wild blast as it howl’d
thro’ the trees.”
[The Phantom]
“O wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest
Boy!
My Daughter shall tend thee with care and
with joy;
She shall bear thee so lightly thro’ wet
and thro’ wild,
And hug thee, and kiss thee, and sing to
my Child.” 20
“O Father! my Father! and saw you not
plain
The ERL-KING 's pale daughter glide past
thro’ the rain?”
“O no, my heart’s treasure! I knew it
full soon,
It was the Grey Willow that danc’d to the
moon.”
[The Phantom]
“Come with me, come with me, no longer
delay! 25
Or else, silly Child, I will drag thee
away.”
“O Father! O Father! now, now, keep your
hold!
The ERL-KING has seiz’d me—his grasp is
so cold!”
Sore trembled the Father; he spurr’d
thro’ the wild,
Clasping close to his bosom his
shuddering Child; 30
He reaches his dwelling in doubt and in
dread;
But, clasp’d to his bosom, the Infant was
dead!
1. In the edition of this poem found in Ballads and Lyrical Pieces (1806), the
word “German” is dropped, and that of “Danish” substituted (165). Goethe’s poem
was inspired by the Danish ballad translated as the “Erlkönigs
Tochter” [Erl-King’s Daughter] in Herder’s Volkslieder (1778-1779). The reference to the other element-kings
in Scott’s head-note alludes not to the Danish source material but to a
discussion of them in Lewis’s The Monk
and to Lewis’s plan to include a series of ballads on element-kings in his Tales of Wonder. See footnote
#1 to “The Water-King” for more information on the element-king ballads.
2. Scott’s note. Scott’s translation of
Goethe’s famous ballad must have been written during the period in 1797 when,
having finally obtained “copies of Bürger, Schiller, Goethe, and other standard
German works,” Scott says that he “began to translate on all sides” (“Essay”
43). In a letter to Miss Christian Rutherford in 1797, Scott sent a copy of his
“Erl-King” with the following note: “I send a goblin story, with best
compliments to the misses. … I assure you, there is no small impudence in
attempting a version of that ballad, as it has been translated by Lewis”
(Lockhart 1: 239).
WITH gentle murmur flow’d the tide, [1]
While by its fragrant flowery side
The lovely maid, with carols gay,
To Mary’s church pursued her way.
The Water-Fiend’s malignant eye 5
Along the banks beheld her hie;
Straight to his mother-witch he sped,
And thus in suppliant accents said:
“Oh! mother! mother! now advise,
How I may yonder maid surprise: 10
Oh! mother! mother! now explain,
How I may yonder maid obtain.”
The witch she gave him armour white;
She form’d him like a gallant knight:
Of water clear next made her hand 15
A steed, whose housings were of sand.
The Water-King then swift he went;
To Mary’s church his steps he bent:
He bound his courser to the door,
And paced the churchyard three times
four. 20
His courser to the door bound he,
And paced the churchyard four times
three;
Then hasten’d up the aisle, where all
The people flock’d, both great and small.
The priest said, as the knight drew near, 25
“And wherefore comes the white chief
here?”
The lovely maid she smiled aside;
“Oh! would I were the white chief’s
bride!”
He stepp’d o’er benches one and two;
“Oh! lovely maid, I die for you!” 30
He stepp’d o’er benches two and three;
“Oh! lovely maiden, go with me!”
Then sweetly smiled the lovely maid;
And while she gave her hand, she said,
“Betide me joy, betide me woe, 35
O’er hill, o’er dale, with thee I go.”
The priest their hands together joins;
They dance, while clear the moon-beam
shines:
And little thinks the maiden bright,
Her partner is the Water-Spright. 40
Oh! had some spirit deign’d to sing,
“Your bridegroom is the Water-King!” [2]
The maid had fear and hate confess’d,
And cursed the hand which then she
press’d.
But nothing giving cause to think 45
How near she stray’d to danger’s brink,
Still on she went, and hand in hand
The lovers reach’d the yellow sand.
“ Ascend this steed with me, my dear!
We needs must cross the streamlet here: 50
Ride boldly in; it is not deep;
The winds are hush’d, the billows sleep.”
Thus spoke the Water-King. The maid
Her traitor-bridegroom’s wish obey’d:
And soon she saw the courser lave 55
Delighted in his parent wave.
“Stop! stop! my love! The waters blue
E’en now my shrinking foot bedew.”
“Oh! lay aside your fears, sweet heart!
We now have reach’d the deepest part.” 60
“Stop! stop! my love! For now I see
The waters rise above my knee.”
“Oh! lay aside your fears, sweet heart!
We now have reach’d the deepest part.”
“Stop! Stop! for God’s sake, stop! for
oh! 65
The waters o’er my bosom flow!”
Scarce was the word pronounced, when
knight
And courser vanish’d from her sight.
She shrieks, but shrieks in vain; for high
The wild winds rising, dull the cry; 70
The fiend exults; the billows dash,
And o’er their hapless victim wash.
Three times, while struggling with the
stream,
The lovely maid was heard to scream;
But when the tempest’s rage was o’er, 75
The lovely maid was seen no more.
Warn’d by this tale, ye damsels fair,
To whom you give your love beware!
Believe not every handsome knight,
And
dance not with the Water-Spright! [3]
1.
The source for this poem is Herder’s “Der Wasserman.” This poem originally
appeared in the first edition of The Monk, as the page Theodore
terrifies the too credulous nuns of St. Clare with a ludicrous account of
Danish elemental-king mythology. In an extensive note to this poem in the fourth
edition of the novel, in which he includes his versions of “The Erl-King” and
“The Erl-King’s Daughter,” Lewis explains the source of his interest in the
element-kings: “Many enquiries have been made respecting the elementary
monarchs mentioned a few pages back, I must inform my readers, that all I know
respecting the Water-King (called in the German translation “Der Wasserman”),
and the Erl-King (called in German “Erl-König”), is gathered from the foregoing
ballad, and the two others which I shall here insert. With respect to the
Fire-King and the Cloud-King [both mentioned in Theodore’s account], they are
entirely of my own creation; but if readers choose to ascribe their birth to
the “Comte de Gabalis,” they are very welcome” (466). When soliciting poems for
what would become his Tales of Wonder, Lewis asked Scott and his friend
John Leyden to contribute, respectively, ballads on the Fire-King and the
Cloud-King. Both complied. Scott’s “The Fire-King” appeared in Lewis’s
collection, but Lewis felt that Leyden’s poem lacked the necessary elemental
characteristics and re-titled it “The Elfin-King” (Tales of Wonder #31).
Lewis would go on to compose his own “Cloud-King” for the collection.
2.
The text of the poem in the fourth edition of The Monk reads
“bridegroom” instead of “partner.” This and several other minor variants
indicate that Scott was drawing from an earlier edition of the novel (the first
through the third reads “partner”). See the note on the textual variants for
“Alonzo the Brave and Fair Imogine” for further evidence that Scott drew these
two poems from an early edition of The Monk.
3. This rather silly, tacked-on moral, coupled
with the nonsensical repetitions (“paced the church-yard three times four / . .
. four times three”), may indicate that Lewis intended this poem as a parody of
Gothic balladry. Its original context,
Theodore’s outrageous account of the myths of the Danes (who, he tells the
nuns, “are of delicate pea-green, with flame-coloured hair and whiskers”[252]),
lends support to a comic reading. Scott later in his “Essay on Imitations of
the Ancient Ballad” would criticize Lewis for his “attempts at what is called
pleasantry” (51). Syndy Conger discusses how Lewis converts the serious storm
and stress elements of the ballad into melodrama (44-48).
NO eye beheld when William plunged
Young Edmund in the stream;[1]
No human ear but William’s heard
Young Edmund’s drowning scream.
Submissive all the vassals own’d 5
The murderer for their Lord,
And he, the rightful heir, possess’d
The house of Erlingford.
The ancient house of Erlingford
Stood midst a fair domain, 10
And
Roll’d through the fertile plain.
And often the way-faring man
Would love to linger there,
Forgetful of his onward road, 15
To gaze on scenes so fair.
But never could Lord William dare
To gaze on Severn’s stream;
In every wind that swept its waves
He heard young Edmund scream. 20
In vain at midnight’s silent hour
Sleep closed the murderer’s eyes;
In every dream the murderer saw
Young Edmund’s form arise.
In vain, by restless conscience driven, 25
Lord William left his home,
Far from the scenes that saw his guilt,
In pilgrimage to roam.
To other climes the pilgrim fled,
But could not fly despair; 30
He sought his home again, but peace
Was still a stranger there.
Each hour was tedious long, yet swift
The months appear’d to roll;
And now the day return’d that shook 35
With terror William’s soul.
A day that William never felt
Return without dismay,
For well had conscience kalender’d
Young Edmund’s dying day. 40
A fearful day was that! the rains
Fell fast, with tempest roar,
And the swoln tide of Severn spread
Far on the level shore.
In vain Lord William sought the feast, 45
In vain he quaff’d the bowl,
And strove with noisy mirth to drown
The anguish of his soul.
The tempest as its sudden swell
In gusty howlings came, 50
With cold and death-like feelings seem’d
To thrill his shuddering frame.
Reluctant now, as night came on,
His lonely couch he press’d;
And, wearied out, he sunk to sleep, 55
To sleep, but not to rest.
Beside that couch his brother’s form,
Lord Edmund, seem’d to stand,
Such and so pale as when in death
He grasp’d his brother’s hand: 60
Such and so pale his face as when,
With faint and faltering tongue,
To William’s care, a dying charge,
He left his orphan son.
“I bade thee, with a father’s love, 65
My orphan Edmund guard;
Well, William, hast thou kept thy charge!
Now take thy due reward.”
He started up, each limb convulsed
With agonizing fear; 70
He only heard the storm of night—
’Twas music to his ear.
When lo! the voice of loud alarm
His inmost soul appals,
“What ho! Lord William, rise in haste! 75
The water saps thy walls!”
He rose in haste: beneath the walls
He saw the flood appear;
It hemm’d him round, ’twas midnight now,
No human aid was near. 80
He heard the shout of joy, for now
A boat approach’d the wall,
And, eager to the welcome aid,
They crowd for safety all.
“My boat is small,” the boatman cried, 85
“This dangerous haste forbear!
Wait other aid; this little bark
But one from hence can bear.”
Lord William leap’d into the boat,
“Haste—haste to yonder shore! 90
And ample wealth shall well reward,
Ply swift and strong the oar.”
The boatman plied the oar, the boat
Went light along the stream;
Sudden Lord William heard a cry 95
Like Edmund’s drowning scream.
The boatman paus’d, “methought I heard
A child’s distressful cry!”
“’Twas but the howling wind of night,”
Lord William made reply. 100
“Haste, haste—ply swift and strong the
oar!
Haste—haste across the stream!”
Again Lord William heard a cry
Like Edmund’s drowning scream.
“I heard a child’s distressful scream,” 105
The boatman cried again.
“Nay, hasten on—the night is dark—
And we should search in vain.”
“Oh God! Lord William, dost thou know
How dreadful ’tis to die? 110
And can’st thou without pity hear
A child’s expiring cry?
“How horrible it is to sink
Beneath the chilly stream,
To stretch the powerless arms in vain, 115
In vain for help to scream?”
The shriek again was heard. It came
More deep, more piercing loud;
That instant o’er the flood the moon
Shone through a broken cloud. 120
And near them they beheld a child,
Upon a crag he stood,
A little crag, and all around
Was spread the rising flood.
The boatman plied the oar, the boat 125
Approach’d his resting place,
The moon-beam shone upon the child
And show’d how pale his face.
“Now reach thine hand!” the boatman
cried,
Lord William reach and save!” 130
The child stretch’d forth his little
hands,
To grasp the hand he gave.
Then William shriek’d; the hand he
touch’d
Was cold, and damp, and dead!
He felt young Edmund in his arms, 135
A heavier weight than lead.
The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk
Beneath the avenging stream;
He rose, he scream’d!—no human ear
Heard William’s drowning scream. 140
1. First appearing anonymously in The Morning Post
2. The United Kingdom’s longest river,
running from mid-Wales to the
WHO is she, the poor Maniac, whose
wildly-fix’d eyes[1]
Seem a heart overcharg’d to express?
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she
sighs;
She never complains, but her silence
implies
The composure of settled distress. 5
No aid, no compassion, the maniac will
seek,
Cold and hunger awake not her care:
Thro’ her rags do the winds of the winter
blow bleak
On her poor wither’d bosom half bare, and
her cheek
Has the deathly pale hue of despair. 10
Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the
day,
Poor Mary the maniac has been;
The traveller remembers who journey’d
this way,
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,
As Mary the Maid of the
Her cheerful address fill’d the guests
with delight,
As she welcom’d them in with a smile:
Her heart was a stranger to childish
affright,
And Mary would walk by the Abbey at
night,
When the wind whistled down the dark aisle. 20
She lov’d; and young Richard had settled
the day,
And she hop’d to be happy for life;
But Richard was idle and worthless, and
they
Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and
say,
That she was too good for his wife. 25
’Twas in Autumn, and stormy and dark was
the night,
And fast were the windows and door;
Two guests sat enjoying the fire that
burnt bright,
And smoking in silence with tranquil
delight,
They listen’d to hear the wind roar. 30
“’Tis pleasant,” cried one, seated by the
fire-side,
“To hear the wind whistle without.”
“A fine night for the Abbey!” his comrade
replied,
“Methinks a man’s courage might now be
well tried,
Who should wander the ruins about. 35
“I myself like a school-boy, should
tremble to hear
The hoarse ivy shake over my head;
And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by
fear,
Some ugly old Abbot's white spirit
appear,
For this wind might awaken the dead!” 40
“I'll wager a dinner,” the other one
cried,
“That Mary would venture there now.”
“Then wager and lose!” with a sneer he
replied,
“I’ll warrant she’d fancy a ghost by her
side,
And faint if she saw a white cow.” 45
“Will Mary this charge on her courage
allow?”
His companion exclaim’d with a smile;
“I shall win, for I know she will venture
there now,
And earn a New Bonnet by bringing a
Bough,
From the Elder that grows in the aisle.” 50
With fearless good humour did Mary
comply,
And her way to the Abbey she bent;
The night it was dark, and the wind it
was high,
And as hollowly howling it swept through
the sky,
She shiver’d with cold as she went. 55
O’er the path so well known still
proceeded the Maid,
Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight;
Thro’ the gate-way she enter’d, she felt
not afraid,
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and
their shade
Seem’d to deepen the gloom of the night. 60
All around her was silent, save when the
rude blast
Howl’d dismally round the old pile;
Over weed-cover’d fragments still
fearless she past,
And arriv’d in the innermost ruin at
last,
Where the Elder-tree grew in the aisle. 65
Well-pleas’d did she reach it, and
quickly drew near,
And hastily gather’d the Bough:
When the sound of a voice seem’d to rise
on her ear—
She paus’d, and she listen’d, all eager
to hear,
And her heart panted fearfully now! 70
The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over
her head:
She listen’d,—nought else could she hear.
The wind ceas’d, her heart sunk in her
bosom with dread,
For she heard in the ruins distinctly the
tread
Of footsteps approaching her near. 75
Behind a wide column, half breathless
with fear,
She crept to conceal herself there:
That instant the Moon o’er a dark cloud
shone clear,
And she saw in the Moon-light two
ruffians appear,
And between them a CORPSE did they bear! 80
Then Mary could feel her heart-blood
curdled cold!
Again the rough wind hurried by,—
It blew off the Hat of the one, and
behold!
Even close to the feet of poor Mary it
roll’d—
She felt[2]—and
expected to die. 85
“Curse the Hat! (he
exclaims) nay, come on, and first hide
The dead body,” his comrade replies.
She beheld them in safety pass on by her
side,
She seizes the Hat, fear her courage
supplied,
And fast through the Abbey she flies. 90
She ran with wild speed, she rush’d in at
the door,
She gaz’d horribly eager around,
Then her limbs could support their faint
burden no more,
And exhausted and breathless she sunk on
the floor,
Unable to utter a sound. 95
Ere yet her pale lips could the story
impart,
For a moment the HAT met her view;
Her eyes from that object convulsively
start,
For, O God! what cold horror then
thrill’d thro’ her heart,
When the name of her Richard she knew! 100
Where the old Abbey stands, on the common
hard by,
HIS GIBBET IS NOW TO BE SEEN.
Not far from the road it engages the eye,
The traveller beholds it, and thinks with
a sigh
Of poor Mary the Maid of the
1. This poem
first appears in Southey’s Poems (1797)
with the following note: “The story of the following ballad was related to me,
when a school boy, as a fact which had really happened in the North of England.
I have adopted the metre of Mr. Lewis's Alonzo and Imogene—a poem deservedly
popular.” Southey would have learned of
Lewis’s use of anapestic meter from the appearance of “Alonzo” in the first
edition of The Monk. In a letter from December of 1809, Southey
identifies the source for the poem and expresses his opinion about its great
popularity:
They
have made a melo-drama of “Mary the Maid of the Inn,” at one of the Strand
theatres. Did I ever tell you that the story is in Plott’s “Staffordshire?”
[Robert
Plott’s The Natural History of Stafford-shire (1686).] The scene of it was the Black
Meer of Morridge, near Leek; the chief personage a man, and the murder not
discovered, but prevented. If you have the book, you will find it on page 291.
I verily believe that at least half my reputation is owing to that paltry
ballad, which is bad enough to spoil a very fine story. The strolling players
recite it here about the country (Warter 2. 181).
Mary Jacobus argues that “Mary” may also
draw upon Bürger’s “Des Pfarrers Tochter von
Taubenheim,” which had appeared in translation in the Monthly
Magazine in April 1796 (217).
To
view a broadside version of this popular ballad, visit the National Library of
2. The copy
from Southey’s Poems (1797) supplies a
more likely reading: “She fell.”
EARL WALTER winds his bugle horn;[1]
To horse, to horse, halloo, halloo!
His fiery courser snuffs the morn,
And thronging serfs their Lord pursue.
The eager pack, from couples freed, 5
Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake;
While answering hound, and horn, and
steed,
The mountain echoes startling wake.
The beams of God’s own hallow’d day
Had painted yonder spire with gold, 10
And, calling sinful man to pray,
Loud, long, and deep the bell had toll’d.
But still the Wildgrave onward rides;
Halloo, halloo, and hark again!
When, spurring from opposing sides, 15
Two stranger horsemen join the train.
Who was each stranger, left and right,
Well may I guess, but dare not tell:
The right-hand steed was silver white,
The left, the swarthy hue of hell. 20
The right-hand horseman, young and fair,
His smile was like the morn of May;
The left, from eye of tawny glare,
Shot
He wav’d his huntsman’s cap on high, 25
Cry’d, “Welcome, welcome, noble Lord!
What sport can earth, or sea, or sky,
To match the princely chase, afford?”
“Cease thy loud bugle’s clanging knell,”
Cried the fair youth, with silver voice; 30
“And for devotion’s choral swell,
Exchange the rude unhallow’d noise.
“To-day th’ ill omen’d chase forbear;
Yon bell yet summons to the fane:
To-day the warning spirit hear, 35
To-morrow thou may’st mourn in vain.”
“Away, and sweep the glades along!”
The sable hunter hoarse replies;
“To muttering monks leave matin song,
And bells, and books, and mysteries.” 40
The Wildgrave spurr’d his ardent steed,
And, launching forward with a bound,
“Who for thy drowsy priestlike rede
Would leave the jovial horn and hound?
“No! pious fool,
I scorn thy lore; 45
Let him who ne’er the chase durst approve,
Go join with
thee the droning choir,
And leave me to the sport I love.”
O’er moss and moor, o’er holt
and hill, 50
And onward fast
on either side,
The stranger horsemen follow’d still.
Up springs, from yonder tangled thorn,
A stag more white than mountain snow;
And louder rung the Wildgrave’s horn, 55
“Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!”
A heedless wretch has cross’d the way,—
He gasps the thundering hoofs below;
But, live who can, or die who may,
Still forward, forward! On they go. 60
See where yon simple fences meet,
A field with autumn’s blessings crown’d;
See, prostrate at the Wildgrave’s feet,
A husbandman with toil embrown’d.
“O mercy! mercy! noble Lord; 65
Spare the poor’s pittance,” was his cry,
“Earn’d by the sweat these brows have
pour’d
In scorching hour of fierce July.”
Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads,
The left still cheering to the prey: 70
The impetuous Earl no warning heeds,
But furious holds the onward way.
“Away, thou hound, so basely born,
Or dread the scourge’s echoing blow!”
Then loudly ring his bugle-horn, 75
“Hark forward, forward, holla ho!”
So said, so done—a single bound
Clears the poor labourer’s humble pale:
Wild follows man, and horse, and hound,
Like dark December’s stormy gale. 80
And man, and horse, and hound, and horn,
Destructive sweep the field along,
While joying o’er the wasted corn
Fell Famine marks the madd’ning throng.
Again up roused, the timorous prey 85
Scours moss and moor, and holt and hill;
Hard run, he feels his strength decay,
And trusts for life his simple skill.
Too dangerous solitude appear’d;
He seeks the shelter of the crowd; 90
Amid the flock’s domestic herd
His harmless head he hopes to shroud.
O’er moss and moor, and holt and hill,
His track the steady blood-hounds trace;
O’er moss and moor, unwearied still, 95
The furious Earl pursues the chase.
Full lowly did the herdsman fall;
“O spare, thou noble Baron, spare
These herds, a widow’s little all;
These flocks, an orphan’s fleecy care.” 100
Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads,
The left still cheering to the prey;
The Earl nor prayer nor pity heeds,
But furious keeps the onward way.
“Unmanner’d dog! To stop my sport 105
Vain were thy cant and beggar whine,
Though human spirits of thy sort
Were tenants of these carrion kine!”
Again he winds his bugle horn,
“Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!” 110
And through the herd, in ruthless scorn,
He cheers his furious hounds to go.
In heaps the throttled victims fall;
Down sinks their mangled herdsman near;
The murd’rous cries the stag appal, 115
Again he starts, new-nerv’d by fear.
With blood besmear’d, and white with
foam,
While big the tears of anguish pour,
He seeks, amid the forest’s gloom,
The humble hermit’s hut obscure. 120
But man and horse, and horn and hound,
Fast rattling on his traces go;
The sacred chapel rung around
With hark away, and holla, ho!
All mild, amid the route profane, 125
The holy hermit pour’d his prayer:
“Forbear with blood God’s house to stain;
Revere his altar, and forbear!
“The meanest brute has rights to plead,
Which, wrong’d by cruelty, or pride, 130
Draw vengeance on the ruthless head;—
Be warn’d at length, and turn aside.”
Still the fair horseman anxious pleads,
The black, wild whooping, points the prey;
Alas! the Earl no warning heeds, 135
But frantic keeps the forward way.
“Holy or not, or right or wrong,
Thy altar and its rights I spurn;
Not sainted martyrs’ sacred song,
Not God himself, shall make me turn.” 140
He spurs his horse, he winds his horn,
“Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!”
But off, on whirlwinds’s pinions borne,
The stag, the hut, the hermit, go.
And horse and man, and horn and hound, 145
And clamour of the chase was gone:
For hoofs and howls, and bugle sound,
A deadly silence reign’d alone.
Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around;—
He strove in vain to wake his horn, 150
In vain to call; for not a sound
Could from his anxious lips be borne.
He listens for his trusty hounds;
No distant baying reach’d his ears;
His courser, rooted to the ground, 155
The quickening spur unmindful bears.
Still dark
and darker round it spreads,
Dark as the darkness of the grave;
And not a sound the still invades,
Save what a distant torrent gave. 160
High o’er the sinner’s humbled head
At length the solemn silence broke;
And from a cloud of swarthy red,
The awful voice of thunder spoke.
“Oppressor of creation fair! 165
Apostate spirit’s harden’d tool!
Scorner of God! scourge of the poor!
The measure of thy cup is full.
“Be chased for ever through the wood,
For ever roam the affrighted wild; 170
And let thy fate instruct the proud,
God’s meanest creature is his child.”
With yellow tinged the forests brown;
Up rose the Wildgrave’s bristling hair, 175
And horror chill’d each nerve and bone.
Cold pour’d the sweat in freezing rill;
A rising wind began to sing;
And louder, louder, louder still,
Brought storm and tempest on its wing. 180
The earth is
rock’d, it quakes, it rends;
From yawning rifts, with many a yell,
Mix’d with sulphureous flames, ascend
The misbegotten dogs of hell.
What ghastly huntsman next arose, 185
Well may I guess, but dare not tell:
His eye like
His steed the swarthy hue of hell.
The Wildgrave flies o’er bush and thorn,
With many a shriek of helpless woe; 190
Behind him hound, and horse, and horn,
And hark away, and holla, ho!
With wild despair’s reverted eye,
Close, close behind, he marks the throng;
With bloody fangs, and eager cry, 195
In frantic fear he scours along.
Still, still shall last the dreadful
chase,
Till time itself shall have an end;
By day, they scour earth’s cavern’d
space,
At
This is the horn, and hound, and horse,
That oft the lated peasant hears:
Appall’d, he signs the frequent cross,
When the wild din invades his ears.
The wakeful priest oft drops a tear 205
For human pride, for human woe,
When, at his midnight mass, he hears
The infernal cry of holla, ho! [3]
1. In the head-note to this poem from Tales of Wonder, in which the ballad is
entitled “The Wild Huntsman,” Lewis supplies the following information: “The
tradition of the ‘Wild Huntsmen’ (Die
Wilde Jager) is a popular superstition, very generally believed by the
peasants of Germany. Whoever wishes for more information respecting these
imaginary Sportsmen, will find his curiosity fully satisfied, by perusing the
first Volume of the German Romance of ‘the Necromancer;’ (Der Geister-banner). The
original of this Ballad is by Bürger, Author of the well-known ‘Leonora.’” The
full title of the source that Lewis cites is Der Geisterbanner: Eine Wundergeschichte aus mündlichen und
schriftlichen Traditionen gesammelt [The Spectral Banner: A Wondrous Tale Collected from Oral and
Written Traditions] (1792) by Lorenz Flammenburg [pseudonym of Karl Friedrich
Kahlert (1765-1813)]. English translation by Peter Teuthold as The Necromancer; or, The Tale of the
2. Image
taken from the website web eremitage.
3. This poem, Scott’s translation of Bürger’s
“Die Wilde Jäger” [“The Wild Chase”], and “William and Helen” comprise his
first publication, in a “thin quarto,” by Manners and Miller of
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Textual
Variants: in an appendix
to his “Essay on Imitations of the Ancient Ballad,” Scott includes
correspondence from Lewis calling for revision of the ballads Scott submitted
for inclusion in Tales of Wonder. See
the below for the revisions made by Scott for this ballad as it appears in Tales of Wonder.
“Hence, if our manly sport offend:
With pious
fools go chaunt and pray;
Well hast
thou spoke, my dark-brow’d friend,
Halloo! halloo! and hark away!”
The Wildgrave spurr’d his courser light,
O’er moss and moor, o’er holt and hill,
And on the
left, and on the right,
Each stranger horseman follow’d still.
120 [1801 Tales of Wonder]: The humble hermit’s
hallow’d bour.
157 [1801 Tales of Wonder]: Still
dark and darker frown the shades,
181 [1801 Tales of Wonder]: Earth
heard the call—her entrails rend;
FROM heavy dreams fair Helen rose,[1]
And ey’d the dawning red:
“Alas, my love, thou tarriest long!
O art thou false or dead?”
With gallant Fred’rick’s princely power 5
He sought the bold crusade;
But not a word from Judah’s wars
Told Helen how he sped.
With Paynim and with Saracen
At length a truce was made, 10
And ev’ry knight return’d to dry
The tears his love had shed.
Our gallant host was homeward bound
With many a song of joy;
Green wav’d the laurel in each plume, 15
The badge of victory.
And old and young, and sire and son,
To meet them crowd the way,
With shouts, and mirth, and melody,
The debt of love to pay. 20
Full many a maid her true-love met,
And sobb’d in his embrace,
And flutt’ring joy in tears and smiles
Array’d full many a face.
Nor joy nor smile for Helen sad; 25
She sought the host in vain;
For none could tell her William's
fate,
If faithless, or if slain.
The martial band is past and gone;
She rends her raven hair, 30
And in distraction's bitter mood
She weeps with wild despair.
“O! rise my child,” her mother said,
“Nor sorrow thus in vain;
A perjur’d lover’s fleeting heart 35
No tears recall again.”
“O mother, what is gone, is gone,
What's lost, for ever lorn:
Death, death alone can comfort me;
O had I ne’er been born! 40
“O break, my heart, O break at once!
Drink my life-blood despair!
No joy remains on earth for me,
For me in heaven no share.”
“O enter not in judgment, Lord!” 45
The pious mother prays;
“Impute not guilt to thy frail child!
She knows not what she says.
“O say thy pater noster child!
O turn to God and grace! 50
His will that turn’d thy bliss to bale
Can change thy bale to bliss.”
“O mother, mother! What is bliss?
O mother, what is bale?
My William’s love was heaven on earth, 55
Without it earth is hell.
“Why should I pray to ruthless heav’n
Since my lov’d William's slain?
I only pray’d for William's sake,
And all my pray’rs were vain.” 60
“O take the sacrament, my child,
And check these tears that flow;
By resignation’s humble pray’r,
O hallow’d be thy woe!”
“No sacrament can quench this fire, 65
Or slake this scorching pain:
No sacrament can bid the dead
Arise and live again.
“O break, my heart, O break at once!
Be thou my god, Despair! 70
Heav’n’s heaviest blow has fall’n on me,
An vain each fruitless pray’r.”
“O enter not in judgment, Lord,
With thy frail child of clay!
She knows not what her tongue has spoke; 75
Impute it not, I pray!
“Forbear, my child, this desp’rate woe,
And turn to God and grace;
Well can devotion’s heav’nly glow
Convert thy bale to bliss.” 80
“O mother, mother, what is bliss?
O mother, what is bale?
Without my William, what were heav’n,
Or with him, what were hell!”
Wild she arraigns th’ eternal doom, 85
Upbraids each sacred pow’r,
Till spent, she sought her silent room,
All in the lonely tower.
She beat her breast, she wrung her hands,
Till sun and day were o’er, 90
And through the glimm’ring lattice shone
The twinkling of the star.
Then, crash! the heavy draw-bridge fell,
That o’er the moat was hung;
And clatter! clatter! on its boards 95
The hoof of courser rung.
The clank of echoing steel was heard,
As off the rider bounded;
And slowly on the winding stair,
A heavy footstep sounded. 100
And hark! and hark! a knock—Tap! tap!
A rustling stifled noise;
Door latch and tinkling staples ring—
At length a whisp’ring voice.
“Awake, awake, arise, my love! 105
How, Helen, dost thou fare?
Wak’st thou, or sleep’st? laugh’st thou,
or weep’st?
Hast thought on me my fair?”
“My love! my love!—so late by night!—
I wak’d, I wept for thee: 110
Much have I borne since dawn of morn;—
Where, William, could’st thou be?”
“We saddled late—From
I rode since darkness fell;
And to its bourne we both return, 115
Before the matin bell.”
“O rest this night within my arms,
And warm thee in their fold!
Chill howls through hawthorn bush the
wind;—
My love is deadly cold.” 120
“Let the wind howl through hawthorn bush!
This night we must away;
The steed is wight, the spur is bright,
I cannot stay till day.
“Busk, busk, and boune! Thou mount’st
behind 125
Upon my black barb steed:
O’er stock and stile, a hundred miles,
We haste to bridal bed.”
“To-night—to-night a hundred miles?
O dearest William, stay! 130
The bell strikes twelve—dark, dismal
hour!
O wait, my love, till day!”
“Look here, look here—the moon shines
clear—
Full fast I ween we ride;
Mount and away! for ere the day, 135
We reach our bridal bed.
“The black barb snorts, the bridle rings;
Haste, busk, and boune, and seat thee!
The feast is made, the chamber spread,
The bridal guests await thee.” 140
Strong love prevail’d: She busks, she bounes,
She mounts the barb behind,
And round her darling William’s waist
Her lily arms she twin’d.
And, hurry! hurry! off they rode, 145
As fast as fast might be;
Spurn’d from the courser’s thundering
heels
The flashing pebbles flee.
And on the right, and on the left,
Ere they could snatch a view, 150
Fast, fast, each mountain, mead, and
plain,
And cot and castle flew.
“Sit fast—dost fear?— The moon shines
clear—
Fleet rides my barb—keep hold!
Fear’st thou?” “O no!” she faintly said; 155
“But why so stern and cold?
“What yonder rings? what yonder sings?
Why shrieks the owlet grey?”
“’Tis death-bells clang, ’tis funeral
song,
The body to the clay. 160
“With song and clang, at morrow’s dawn,
Ye may inter the dead:
To-night I ride, with my young bride,
To deck our bridal bed.
“Come with thy choir, thou coffin’d
guest, 165
To swell our nuptial song!
Come priest, to bless our marriage feast!
Come all, come all along!”
Ceas’d clang and song; down sunk the
bier;
The shrouded corpse arose: 170
And hurry! hurry! all the train
The thund’ring steed pursues.
And, forward! forward! on they go;
High snorts the straining steed;
Thick pants the rider’s labouring breath, 175
As headlong on they speed.
“O William, why this savage haste?
And where thy bridal bed?”
“’Tis distant far.” “Still short and
stern?”
“’Tis narrow, trustless maid.” 180
“No room for me?” “Enough for both;—
Speed, speed, my barb, thy course.”
O’er thund’ring bridge, through boiling
surge
He drove the furious horse.
Tramp! tramp! along the land they rode; 185
Splash! splash! along the sea;[2]
The steed is wight, the spur is bright,
The flashing pebbles flee.
Fled past on right and left how fast
Each forest, grove and bower; 190
On right and left fled past how fast
Each city, town and tower.
“Dost fear? dost fear?—The moon shines
clear;
Dost fear to ride with me?—
Hurrah! hurrah! The dead can ride!” 195
“O William let them be!
“See there, see there! What yonder swings
And creaks ’mid whistling rain?”
“Gibbet and steel, th’ accursed wheel;
A murd’rer in his chain. 200
“Hollo! thou felon, follow here:
To bridal bed we ride;
And thou shalt prance a fetter dance
Before me and my bride.”
And hurry, hurry! clash, clash, clash! 205
The wasted form descends;
And fleet as wind through hazel bush
The wild career attends.
Tramp! tramp! along the land they rode,
Splash! splash! along the sea; 210
The scourge is red, the spur drops blood,
The flashing pebbles flee.
How fled what moonshine faintly show’d!
How fled what darkness hid!
How fled the earth beneath their feet, 215
The heav’ns above their head!
“Dost fear? dost fear? The moon shines
clear,
And well the dead can ride!
Does faithful Helen fear for them?”
“O leave in peace the dead!” 220
“Barb! Barb! methinks I hear the cock:
The sand will soon be run:
Barb! Barb! I smell the morning air;
The race is well nigh done.”
Tramp! tramp! along the land they rode, 225
Splash! splash! along the sea;
The scourge is red, the spur drops blood,
The flashing pebbles flee.
“Hurrah! hurrah! well ride the dead;
The bride, the bride is come! 230
And soon we reach the bridal bed,
For, Helen, here’s my home.”
Reluctant on its rusty hinge
Revolv’d an iron door,
And by the pale moon’s setting beam 235
Were seen a church and tow’r.
With many a shriek and cry whiz round
The birds of midnight, scared;
And rustling like autumnal leaves
Unhallow’d ghosts were heard. 240
O’er many a tomb and tomb-stone pale
He spurr’d the fiery horse,
Till sudden at an open grave
He check’d the wond’rous course.
The falling gauntlet quits the rein, 245
Down drops the casque of steel,
The cuirass[3] leaves
his shrinking side,
The spur his gory heel.
The eyes desert the naked skull,
The mould’ring flesh the bone, 250
Till Helen’s lily arms entwine
A ghastly skeleton!
The furious barb snorts fire and foam,
And with a fearful bound,
Dissolves at once in empty air, 255
And leaves her on the ground.
Half seen by fits, by fits half heard,
Pale spectres flit along;
Wheel round the main in dismal dance,
And howl the fun’ral song; 260
“E’en when the heart’s with anguish
cleft,
Revere the doom of Heav’n!
Her soul is from her body reft;
Her spirit be forgiv’n!”
1. Scott tells the story of this poem’s
composition in his “Essay.” First hearing about the commotion made by Anna
Lætitia Barbauld’s reading of William Taylor’s translation of Bürger’s “Lenora”
before an Edinburgh literary society, Scott went about obtaining a copy of the
German original and other German ballads and began translating them. He first completed this translation of
“Lenora,” then of Bürger’s “Der Wilde
Jäger,” originally entitled “The Chase,” but later “The Wild Huntsman” (see Tales of Wonder #23). These two poems were printed in a “thin quarto” by Mundell and Son for Manners and Miller of Edinburgh, Scott’s
first publication in 1796. Yet beside
the enthusiastic reception by his growing circle of literary friends, the thin
volume, Scott tells us, “sunk unnoticed” (41), in part, Scott believed, because
of the number of competing Lenora-translations published that year,
pre-eminently Taylor’s. Although for Tales of Wonder Lewis will prefer
Taylor’s translation of Bürger’s “Lenore” to Scott’s, he offered an extensive
criticism of its rhyme and diction—what Lewis called a “severe examination”—in a letter to Scott, which Scott includes as
an appendix to his “Essay” (55-56).
2. These two
lines come directly from Taylor’s “Lenore.” In his “Essay” Scott admits the
plagiarism: “I retained in my translation the two lines which Mr. Taylor had
rendered with equal boldness and felicity” (39), and later notes that he sought
and received Taylor’s forgiveness for “the invasion of his rights” (41).
3. A piece of
armor covering the body from neck to waist.
A WARRIOR so bold and a virgin so bright[1]
Conversed, as they sat on the green;
They gazed on each other with tender
delight:
Alonzo the Brave was the name of the
Knight,
The maid’s was the Fair Imogine. 5
“And, oh!” said the youth, “since
to-morrow I go
To fight in a far-distant land,
Your tears for my absence soon leaving to
flow,
Some other will court you, and you will
bestow
On a wealthier suitor your hand.” 10
“Oh! hush these suspicions,” Fair Imogine
said,
“Offensive to love and to me!
For if you be living, or if you be
dead,
I swear by the Virgin, that none in your
stead
Shall husband of Imogine be. 15
“And if e’er for another my heart should
decide,
Forgetting Alonzo the Brave, [2]
God grant, that, to punish my falsehood
and pride,
Your ghost at the marriage may sit by my
side,
May tax me with perjury, claim me as
bride, 20
And bear me away to the grave!”[3]
To Palestine hasten’d the hero so
bold;
His love, she lamented him sore:
But scarce had a twelvemonth elapsed,
when behold,
A Baron all cover’d with jewels and gold 25
Arrived at Fair Imogine's door.
His treasure, his presents, his spacious
domain,
Soon made her untrue to her vows:
He dazzled her eyes; he bewilder’d her
brain;
He caught her affections so light and so
vain, 30
And carried her home as his spouse.
And now had the marriage been bless’d by
the priest;
The revelry now was begun:
The tables they groan’d with the weight
of the feast;
Nor yet had the laughter and merriment
ceased, 35
When the bell of the castle told—“one!'” [4]
Then first with amazement Fair Imogine
found
That a stranger was placed by her side:
His air was terrific; he utter’d no
sound;
He spoke not, he moved not, he look’d not
around, 40
But earnestly gazed on the bride.
His vizor was closed, and gigantic his
height;
His armour was sable to view:
All pleasure and laughter were hush’d at
his sight;
The dogs, as they eyed him, drew back in
affright; 45
The lights in the chamber burnt blue! [5]
His presence all bosoms appear’d to
dismay;
The guests sat in silence and fear:
At length spoke the bride, while she
trembled: “I pray,
Sir Knight, that your helmet aside you
would lay, 50
And deign to partake of our cheer.”
The lady is silent: the stranger
complies,
His vizor he slowly unclosed:
Oh! God! [6] what a sight met Fair Imogine's eyes!
What words can express her dismay and
surprise, 55
When a skeleton's head was exposed! [7]
All present then utter’d a terrified
shout;
All turn’d with disgust from the scene.
The worms they crept in, and the worms
they crept out,
And sported his eyes and his temples
about, 60
While the spectre address’d Imogine.
“Behold me, thou false one! behold me!”
he cried;
“Remember Alonzo the Brave!
God grants, that, to punish thy falsehood
and pride,
My ghost at thy marriage should sit by
thy side, 65
Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee
as bride,
And bear thee away to the grave!”
Thus saying, his arms round the lady he
wound,
While loudly she shriek’d in dismay;
Then sank with his prey through the
wide-yawning ground: 70
Nor ever again was Fair Imogine
found,
Or the spectre who bore her away.
Not long lived the Baron: and none since
that time
To inhabit the castle presume;
For chronicles tell, that, by order
sublime, 75
There Imogine suffers the pain of her
crime,
And mourns her deplorable doom.
At midnight four times in each year does
her sprite,
When mortals in slumber are bound,
Array’d in her bridal apparel of
white, 80
Appear in the hall with the
skeleton-knight,
And shriek as he whirls her around.
While they drink out of skulls newly torn
from the grave,
Dancing round them pale spectres are seen:
Their liquor is blood, and this horrible
stave 85
They howl: “To the health of Alonzo the
Brave,
And his consort the False Imogine!”
1. In this line Lewis introduces, after an initial iamb, the pulsing anapestic rhythm that animates his ballad:
x \ x x \ x x \ x x \
A Warrior so bold and a virgin so bright
Several
other late nineteenth-century ballad writers admired and imitated this novel
meter (see Southey’s “Poor Mary, The Maid of the Inn”); Coleridge was less
impressed, noting the “effect [was] not unlike that of galloping over a paved
road in a German stage-waggon without springs” (Chapter 16 of Biographia Literaria 2. 33-34).
The most famous of the nine poems in first
edition of The Monk (1796), “Alonzo
the Brave” furnishes the persecuted Antonia’s anxious night-time reading just
before she falls into the clutches of the scheming Matilda and the lecherous
Ambrosio (271-273). In the words of Parreaux, the
ballad “took England by storm” (50), appearing no less than ten times before
the end of 1797 in such periodicals as The
Morning Chronicle, The Star, and The Gentleman’s Magazine. Further
evidence of the ballad’s great popularity can be found in the “long and
flourishing career” at Sadler’s Wells Theatre of an
“Heroic Pantomime Ballet” entitled Alonzo
and Imogen; or The Spectral Bride (Parreaux 63).
2. The fourth edition of The Monk reads “And if e’er for another
my heart should decide, / Forgetting . . .”
This and the other two variants (see notes #4 and #6) indicate that
Scott and Ballantyne were working from a copy of the poem from one of the first
three editions of the novel.
3. Note the simple but effective use of the two
hyper-stanzas (16-21 and 62-67), which with their triple rhymes dramatically
emphasize the dire consequences of the forsaken vow.
4.
The fourth edition of The Monk reads
“tolled.”
5. Dogs howling and blue flames are time-honored Gothic
indicators of the preternatural.
6. The fourth
edition of The Monk reads “then”
instead of “God!” These are small matters, but note how in this revision and the
one recorded in note #2 (wherein Lewis eliminates “lust” as a motive of
Imogine’s betrayal) Lewis responds to the two most frequent charges leveled by
critics at his novel: its indecency and blasphemy.
7. Many contemporary readers associated Lewis’s ballad
with Gottfried August Bürger’s “Lenore,” mainly because both contain the
unexpected nocturnal return of the erring heroine’s lover—now a spectral and
terrifying presence. But it is uncertain that Lewis drew directly upon William
Taylor’s famed translation of “Lenora” because it first appears in The Monthly Magazine of May 1796.
BRIGHT shone the stars, the moon was sunk,[1]
And gently blew the breeze,
As homeward bound the stately ship
Rode o’er the Indian seas.
High on the poop, in lonely watch, 5
Young Arthur pensive stood,
And eyed the quiv’ring light of Heav’n
Reflected in the flood.
But many and many a league his thoughts
O’er land and water roam; 10
They fly to Britain’s distant isle,
To dear Matilda’s home.
His busy fancy paints the Fair
Array’d in all her charms;
He tastes the kiss of sweet return, 15
And folds her in his arms.
Till waken’d from his rapturous dream,
He hears the flapping sails,
And chides, with fond impatience stung,
The tardy-winged gales. 20
“O waft me some kind pow’r,” he cried,
“With speed to Britain’s shore;
Placed by the side of her I love,
I’d ask of Fate no more!
“Blow, blow ye slumbering winds! ye
sails, 25
Catch every fleeting breath;
The stormy blast with danger swells,
But this delay is death.”
Then, as across the watery waste,
He bent his cheerless eyes, 30
From out the gloom a whitening form,
Dim-seen, appear’d to rise.
Swift-gliding on the sight it grew;
And now in prospect plain,
A little Boat was seen to come 35
Self-mov’d athwart the main.
And in the stern in glistering white,
A maiden sat to guide;
Right to the ship she steer’d her course,
And soon was at the side. 40
Young Arthur, speechless with amaze,
Beheld the wond’rous sight,
And seem’d a well-known face to view,
That shone with paly light.
With beating heart and mind disturbed, 45
He gazed upon the maid,
Who upward turn’d an eager look,
And “ Know’st me not?” she said.
“O’er ocean wide, thro’ dashing waves,
Behold Matilda come, 50
To meet her Arthur on his way,
And bear him to her home:
“A home unblest, forlorn, and dark,
Whilst thou art absent still;
A narrow house, but yet a place 55
Is left for thee to fill.
“Long, long enough, with bitter pangs,
My faithful breast was torn;
Long, long enough in sad despair,
I only liv’d to mourn: 60
“But now ’tis o’er!—Again we meet,
But not again to part:
Come then, descend, embark with me,
And trust thy pilot’s art.
“Ere star-light yields to morning-dawn, 65
A thousand leagues we sail,
I care not how the current runs,
Or which way blows the gale.”
“What may this mean!” With falt’ring
voice,
The trembling Arthur cried: 70
“But if Matilda calls! I come,
Whatever may betide.”
Then o’er the ship’s tall side he sprung,
His promis’d bride to meet;
She drew beneath her little boat, 75
To stay his tottering feet.
“Now touch me not! but distant sit,
And trim the boat with heed.”
The youth obey’d; she turn’d the helm;
The vessel flew with speed. 80
“How pale and wan thy face, my love!
How sunk and dead thine eyes!
And sure some corpse’s winding-sheet
Thy cloak and hood supplies!”
“My face may well be pale, my love! 85
The night is dank and cold;
And closer than a winding sheet,
What garment can enfold?”
No more could Arthur speak; for fear
And wonder froze his blood: 90
He wildly eyed Matilda now,
And now the foaming flood.
In awful silence, all the night,
They bounded o’er the tide;
The boat ran rippling thro’ the brine, 95
That foam’d on either side.
At length the stars began to fade,
Down in the western sky,
When dim the land appear’d in view,
With cliffs o’erhung on high. 100
Straight for the shore the pilot maid
Steer’d on her venturous bark,
Where rugged rocks, with hideous yawn,
Disclos’d a cavern dark.
They enter:—Arthur shook with dread, 105
And “Whither now?” he cried:
“Peace! peace! Our voyage is near its
end,”
Her echoing voice replied.
Within the bowels of the ground,
They plung’d in blackest night; 110
Yet still Matilda’s ghastly form
Was seen in blueish light.
The boat now touch’d the further shore,
When straight uprose the maid:
“Now follow, youth! My home is nigh.” 115
The shuddering youth obey’d.
A narrow winding path they take,
Drops trickling over head:
He sees her light before him glide,
But cannot hear her tread. 120
At last, they come where mould’ring bones
Lie strew’d in heaps around,
And opening vaults on either side
Gape in the hollow ground:
And coffins, rang’d in sable rows, 125
By glimm’ring light appear;
Matilda stopt, and wav’d her hand,
And said, “MY HOME IS HERE.”[2]
“If thou Matilda house wilt share,
Behold the narrow space; 130
Then welcome youth! now truly mine,
And take a bride’s embrace!”
Young Arthur stretch’d his doubtful arms
To meet the clasping maid;
When lo! instead of fleshly shape, 135
He grasp’d an empty shade!
The life-blood left his fluttering heart,
Cold dews his face bespread,
Convulsive struggles shook his frame—
And all the vision fled! [3] 140
1. Scott took
this ballad from John Aikin’s Poems (1791),
31-41. Brother to Anna Lætitia Barbauld,
physician, Unitarian, writer, and political reformer, John Aikin (1747-1822)
occupies a minor but interesting place in the first Gothic revival. In 1773 he
wrote with his sister “On the Pleasure Derived from Objects of Terror; with Sir
Bertrand, a Fragment,” an early attempt to distinguish and defend a high,
literarily acceptable form of the literature of terror from its cruder
presentations. Praising Horace Walpole’s Castle
of Otranto (1764) and establishing a line of literary terror from Classical
writers down to Shakespeare, the Aikins argue that when “formed by a sublime
and vigorous imagination,” works of terror “elevate the soul to its highest
pitch” (13). As editor of Monthly Magazine from 1796 to 1807, Aikin
oversaw the publication of the poem that would prove foundational for the
German ballad revival, Gottfried August Bürger’s “Lenore,” although, as his
note to “Arthur and Matilda” attests, he knew of Taylor’s translation years before
then. Taylor was a student of Barbauld at her Palgrave, Suffolk boarding school, and her reading of his “Lenora” for an Edinburgh
literary society in 1793 first sparked Scott’s interest in German ballads. In
his Historic Survey of German Poetry (1830),
Taylor refers to Aikin’s note as proof that his “Lenora” antedates the other
versions of the poem published during the 1790’s (2. 51).
2. In the
version found in Aikin’s Poems, there
are no closing quotation marks after Matilda’s dramatic announcement.
3. In a note from his Poems (1791) Aikin supplies the following information: “The idea
of this piece was taken from a ballad translated by an ingenious friend
from the
German of Buirgher [sic]. The story and scenery are however totally different,
and the resemblance only consists in a visionary journey.” “Arthur and
Matilda” is
noteworthy in that it evokes Bürger’s poetics of
terror only to assign its presentation of otherworldly effects to a “visionary”
or psychological cause. This use of the so-called “explained supernatural”
became the favorite procedure of Ann Radcliffe, whose first novel to employ the
technique, The Romance of the Forest,
also appears in 1791. In his Letters from
a Father to a Son (1793), Aikin reveals his interest in disordered
psychological states in a passage that could well serve as a gloss on “Arthur
and Matilda”: “The mind strongly impressed with an image which has been
haunting it during sleep, is scarcely able to dispel the phantom, whilst the
violent emotion which rouses from sleep, still, in the midst of darkness and
solitude, keeps possession of the feelings” (283). Aikin’s poem is a minor
literary work with little discernible
influence, as most imitators of the “ancient ballad” will prefer supernatural
presentations of terror as more in keeping with their Germanic and folk
inspirations. His use of the “explained supernatural” nevertheless anticipates
a rich vein of psychological literary terror that will characterize later
Gothic fiction.
O’ER mountains, through vallies, Sir Oluf
he wends [1]
To bid to his wedding relations and
friends;
’Tis night, and arriving where sports the
elf band,
The Erl-King’s proud daughter presents him
her hand.
“Now welcome, Sir Oluf! oh! welcome to
me! 5
Come, enter our circle my partner to be.”
“Fair lady, nor can I dance with you, nor
may;
To-morrow I marry, to-night must away.”
“ Now listen, Sir Oluf! oh! listen to me!
Two spurs of fine silver thy guerdon[2] shall be; 10
A shirt too of silk will I give as a
boon,
Which my queen-mother bleach’d in the
beams of the moon.
“Then yield thee, Sir Oluf! oh! yield
thee to me!
And enter our circle my partner to be!”
“Fair lady, nor can I dance with you, nor
may; 15
To-morrow I marry, to-night must away.”
“Now listen, Sir Oluf; oh! listen to me!
An helmet of gold will I give unto thee!”
“ An helmet of gold would I willingly
take,
“ But I will not dance with you, for
Urgela’s sake.” 20
“And deigns not Sir Oluf my partner to
be?
Then curses and sickness I give unto
thee;
Then curses and sickness thy steps shall
pursue:
Now ride to thy lady, thou lover so
true.”
Thus said she, and laid her charm’d hand
on his heart; 25
Sir Oluf, he never had felt such a smart;
Swift spurr’d he his steed till he
reach’d his own door,
And there stood his mother his castle
before.
“Now riddle me, Oluf, and riddle me
right:
Why look’st thou, my dearest, so wan and
so white?” 30
“How should I not, mother, look wan and
look white?
I have seen the Erl-King’s cruel daughter
to-night.
“She cursed me! her hand to my bosom she
press’d;
Death follow’d the touch, and now freezes
my breast!
She cursed me, and said, ‘To your lady
now ride;’ 35
Oh! ne’er shall my lips press the lips of
my bride.”
“Now riddle me, Oluf, and what shall I
say,
When here comes the lady, so fair and so
gay?”
“Oh! say, I am gone for awhile in to the
wood,
To prove if my hounds and my coursers are
good.” 40
Scarce dead was Sir Oluf, and scarce
shone the day,
When in came the lady, so fair and so
gay;
And in came her father, and in came each
guest,
Whom the hapless Sir Oluf had bade to the
feast.
They drank the red wine, and they ate the
good cheer; 45
“Oh! where is Sir Oluf! oh, where is my
dear?”
“ Sir Oluf is gone for awhile to the
wood,
To prove if his hounds and his coursers
are good.”
Sore trembled the lady, so fair and so
gay;
She eyed the red curtain; she drew it
away; 50
But soon from her bosom for ever life
fled,
For there lay Sir Oluf, cold, breathless,
and dead.
1. This Danish ballad first appeared in the Monthly Mirror 2 (October 1796): 371-373.
In the copy from Tales of Wonder (1801), Lewis includes this headnote: “The original is to be found in the
Kiampe-Viiser, Copenhagen, 1739. My version of this Ballad (as also of most of the Danish Ballads in this
collection) was made from a German translation to be found in Herder’s Volkslieder.” Kiampe-viise (or
kæmpevise) is a generic Danish term for the medieval folk ballad, and as there were innumerable
collections of these in the eighteenth-century, it is hard to know the specific reference. The closest one
may be the anonymous Tvende lystige nye Kiempe-viiser [Two humorous new folk ballads] (Copenhagen, no
date). This volume contains a version of the traditional ballad of “Elver-høy” along with a Norwegian ballad,
“Om 12 Kiemper paa Dovre-field.” [I am indebted to Peter Mortensen for this information.] Herder’s title
in the Volkslieder (1778) is “Herr Oluf reitet spät und weit” ["Erlkönigs Tochter"]. This ballad provided
the inspiration for Goethe’s “Erlkönig.”
2. “reward”