Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XXIV Part 15

'Twas the hour o' twell by Ballogie's bell, When each with her mantle and hood, They all sallied out in a merry rout, Away through the still greenwood.

s.h.i.+ne out, s.h.i.+ne out, thou silvery maid, And light them to the place; But long ere all this play be played, In sorrow thou'lt hide thy face.

No shadow of this earth ever can A murkier darkness throw, Than what from the sin of cruel man May be cast on thy silvery brow.

The greenwood through, the greenwood through, Ho! there is Ballogie's meer; And deep within its breast they view The moon's face s.h.i.+ning clear.

And down they bent, and forward leant-- Loud laughed the sisters three, As Lillyfair threw back her hair, Yet could no shadow see.

But is not this an old, old dream-- Some nightmare of the brain?

A splas.h.!.+ and, oh! a wild, wild scream, And all is still again.

This was the eclipse which the sisters meant When they would the maid beguile; For sin has the greater a relish in't When lurking beneath a smile.

And now the pale-faced moon serene s.h.i.+nes down on the waters clear, Where deep, deep among the seggs so green Lies Ballogie's Lillyfair.

On Ballogie's dam there sails a swan With wings of snowy white, But never is seen by the eye of man Save in the pale moonlight.

And the miller he looks with upright hair Upon that weird-like thing, And as he peers he thinks he hears It sing as swans can sing.

XVI.

THE LEGEND OF DOWIELEE.

I.

There still is shown at Dowielee, Within the ancient corbeiled tower, A chamber once right fair to see, And called the Ladye Olive's bower.

Right o'er the old carved mantelpiece A portrait hung in frame of gold, O'er which was spread by strange caprice A pall of c.r.a.pe in double fold; And it was said, as still they say, 'Twas spread by good Sir Gregory, And that when it was ta'en away, The Ladye Olive thou might'st see, With eyne of blue so softly bright, Like those we feign in fairie dreams, Where love s.h.i.+nes like that lambent light That in the opal softly swims.

But they could carry maddening fires, As when they inspired Sir Evan's breast, And roused therein those wild desires That stole from Dowielee his rest.

And led to that, oh, fatal night!

When, less beguiling than beguiled, She fled, and left in her maddened flight The good Sir Gregory and her child.

II.

The castle menials hear in bed Their master's foot-fall overhead-- All in the silent midnight hour, All under unrest's chafing power, On and on upon the floor, On and on both back and fore-- Bereaved, betrayed, disgraced, forlorn, His brain on fire, his bosom torn By fancy's images--sad lumber Of man's proud spirit--care and c.u.mber Waxing brighter as they keep From the vexed soul the frightened sleep.

III.

By bal.u.s.trade and corridor That lead him to his lady's bower, He stands before that c.r.a.pe-draped frame-- Its hidden face of _beauteous_ shame-- And holds aloft in his shaking hand The glimmering lamp, nor can withstand The fierce desire to feed his eye With that fair-painted treachery.

He lifts the c.r.a.pe, he peers below-- The fire of wrath upon his brow; He lets it fall--he lifts again, To feed on the _pleasure_ of his _pain_, And gazes without stint or measure To gloat on the _pain_ that is his _pleasure_; He turns the picture upon its face, And reads _the curse of his broken peace_.

He turns the picture round again, Then away to toss in his bed of pain.

IV.

Some moral thrusts can stab the heart, And love bestowed returned in hate May play with some a deadlier part Than strokes that seem of sterner fate.

In yonder vault down by the aisle Thou'lt read the good Sir Gregory's name-- His death the sequel of the tale Inscribed upon that pictured frame.

Yet not forgot while rustic swain Atunes his throat to melodie, And warbles forth the soft refrain, "Alace! alace I for Dowielee."

V.

Her father dead, Burde Olive fair-- Her mother's image--grows apace, And oft she throws in pensive care A glance upon that c.r.a.pe-veiled face: She wonders what may be beneath.

But fears to lift the veil to know; Her father with his latest breath Forbade it, on the pain of woe, Till she to eighteen years had grown, With woman's wisdom duly fraught, When she might take that picture down And learn the lesson which it taught.

Yet as she sat within the bower That bore a mother's sacred name, She felt the heart's divining power And guessed the face within the frame-- Her mother's! who they said was dead: And hence the c.r.a.pe--appropriate sign.

But why debarred the simple meed To look upon her face divine, And as she looked revive again Those lines that had been once impressed By love upon her infant brain, And never thence to be defaced?

Not ever fairest painted theme, Or triumph of the graver's art, Could match the image of her dream Enshrined within a daughter's heart-- So gently kind, so sweetly fair: They were the features she a.s.signed To creatures of yon upper air When they look down on humankind: And oft she sighed that morn would s.h.i.+ne When that dark c.r.a.pe she could remove, And she would feast those eydent eyne On those that taught her first to love; And oft she scanned her own sweet face, Reflected to her anxious view, To see if therein she could trace Those lineaments--the _first_ she knew.

VI.

On Time's swift wing the years have pa.s.sed: The morn has come, the hour is now, When she would feast her heart at last By looking on that sacred brow!

She took the picture from the nail, She held it in her trembling hands, She lifted up the envious veil,-- And there confessed the mother stands.

The charm is wrought! that painted gleam Brought up the lines impressed of yore, As flash of the bright morning beam On twilight things seen long before.

Her mother seemed from death returned; She kissed the lips, the cheeks, the chin; She sobbed, she sighed, she laughed--she mourned To think it was a painted sign; And then at last she turned it round, As if she feared her sire's decree, And there, in written words, she found The dreaded curse of Dowielee:

THE CURSE.

"Than Olive who more beautiful In all that nature could bestow?

Than Olive who more dutiful When first she pledged that holy vow?

What is she now, by sin entoiled?

Dark spirits of yon woods declare, Where I in anguish wander wild, The victim of a dark despair.

"Thank Heaven, I leave no son my heir, Who might another Olive see, And think her as his mother fair-- Fair, but yet a mystery-- With heart so like some alcove deep, Where nightingales may sing their song, And roses blow, and--serpents creep, To sting him as I have been stung.

"The secrets of the living rock, Deep hid from man's divining rod, A spark may open, and the shock Bring forth an ingot or a toad: The secret that is kept for years, One stroke of fate yields to the sight; And if the toad a jewel wears, That jewel may have lost its light.

"Begone ye hopes of tender ties, Of smiling home with wife and child, Of all love's tender sympathies, That once a rugged soul beguiled!

In vain may Beauty deck her crown, And winning Goodness try her plan, I trust no more--the guile of ONE Hath changed me to a savage man.