"Though those eyes light up a cloister now,
Little she recks of the veil and the vow;
And let but the well yield its gold to-night,
And St. Valerie's nun will soon take flight."
Black and more black the midnight grew,
Black and more black was the water's hue;
Then a ghastly sound on the silence broke,
And I thought of the dead beneath the oak.
"Thank God, thank God for light below,
'Tis the charmed cup that is flashing now;"
"No thanks to God," my comrade cries,
"'Tis our own good skill that has won the prize."
There came a flash of terrible light,
And I saw that my comrade's face was white;
The golden cup rose up on a foam,
Then down it plunged to its mystical home.
Then all was night—and I may not tell
What agony there on my spirit fell;
But I pray'd for our Lady's grace as I lay,
And the pain and the darkness past away.
Years have past, yet that sinful man,
Though his hair is gray and his face is wan,
Keeps plunging his line in the gloom of that well;
He is under the Evil Spirit's spell.
'Twas the fairies carved that cup's bright mould,
What have we to do with their gold?
Now our Lady forgive my hour of sin,
That ever I sought that cup to win.
I am indebted to a communication from Mr. Clarke for this legend. He has not stated the attempt to gain the golden cup, hidden in the well, to be an act so reprehensible as I have made it. However, I only follow common custom, in putting upon any act the worst possible construction.
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