Poems (Campbell)/Retribution; or, the Hall of St. Garvin

by Dorothea Primrose Campbell

RETRIBUTION; OR, THE HALL OF ST. GARVIN.

"Ah! me, what mournful train is yon,
 That sadly winds along the vale?
How sadly sounds the fun'ral dirge,
 Dull floating on the ev'ning gale!

Why do the lovely maidens weep,
 Distracted o'er yon sable bier?
Why do the gentle shepherds sigh?
 And why the aged drop the tear?

And why, as on the coffin's lid
 The new-rais'd earth again doth fall,
Thus breaks such lamentation loud
 Responsive from the lips of all?"

"Come, gentle stranger, rest with me,
 If sorrow's tale thine ear beguile,
And on this streamlet's grassy bank
 Repose thy weary limbs awhile.

I'll tell thee why the maidens weep
 Distracted o'er that sable bier;
I'll tell thee why the shepherds sigh,
 And why the aged drop the tear.—

Behold amid yon distant hills,
 Whose cloudy tops invade the skies,
An ancient castle's gothic tow'rs
 And dusky battlements arise.

Within that castle's mould'ring walls,
 Now rudely shook by envious time,
The warrior-knight, Sir Edgar, dwells,
 In all the flow'r of manhood's prime.

The pine-tree on the mountain-brow,
 That waves majestic to the breeze,
The willow bending o'er the stream,
 Not vies with Edgar's grace and ease.

But what avails each outward grace,
 Or what the bloom of fading charms,
When no bright virtue fills the breast,
 Nor truth, nor faith, the bosom warms?

Elfrida was the loveliest maid
 That yonder valley ever knew;
Soft blushes mantled on her cheek,
 And beam'd like heav'n her eyes of blue.

And in her mild and gentle heart
 Each softer virtue lov'd to dwell
I've mark'd, when want or woe came by,
 That angel-breast with pity swell.

Nor e'er at fair Elfrida's door,
 The trembling beggar sued in vain;
For still that gen'rous hand was prompt
 To soothe the wand'ring wretch's pain.

But now a cold and breathless corse
 In yonder grave Elfrida lies."———
"Good Heav'n!" the starting stranger cried,
 With madness flashing from his eyes.

In vain the stranger strove to hide
 The pangs that in his bosom bleed;
But soon he check'd the rising groan,
 And bade the wond'ring swain proceed.

"And didst thou know the hapless fair
 That sleeps in yonder lowly bed?
Oh! then for her, the child of grief!
 Do thou the tear of pity shed.

Five years their annual course have run,
 Since first Rinaldo, noble youth,
(Sir Edgar's brother), woo'd the maid,
 And vow'd eternal love and truth.

But, ah! Elfrida's matchless charms
 Had won the guilty Edgar's heart;
Rous'd the wild passions of his breast,
 And bade him act the villain's part.

For while to all he seem'd to bow
 At purest friendship's hallow'd fane,
He did but plot the coward scheme
 Her plighted hand to falsely gain.

But now the direful trump of war
 Invok'd each brother to the field;
Rinaldo left the maid he lov'd,
 For glitt'ring helmet, spear, and shield.

They parted, and Elfrida mourn'd
 Her absent love with streaming eyes;
But, ah! that lover ne'er return'd
 To hush the maiden's ceaseless sighs.

For, oh! that chief in battle fell;
 But when the proud Sir Edgar came,
With joy and triumph, base and bold,
 He soon confess'd th' unhallow'd flame."

"And did the perjur'd false one yield!"
 With wilder looks the stranger cried;—
"Ah! no, but faithful still and true,
 She scorn'd his love," the swain replied.

"And when he press'd the weeping fair,
 With haughty look she still would say—
'Renounce thy hopes, insulting lord,
 Nor think to tempt these tears away.

Oh! leave me still to mourn my loss,
 And let my widow'd heart complain;
A heart that only can repel
 Thy hated love with just disdain.'—

His fame, his wealth, derided thus,
 His proffer'd love with scorn return'd;
Soon chang'd that love to equal hate,
 And fierce revenge his bosom burn'd.

Then from her aged guardian's roof
 By force he tore the trembling maid;
With bleeding heart I saw the fair
 To yonder dreary tow'rs convey'd.

There three long years Elfrida mourn'd,
 Bereft of freedom, joy, and peace;
While mirth rung through the echoing hall,
 And feasts and revels never cease.

There oft, I ween, the midnight moon
 Has witness'd poor Elfrida's woes;
And there last morning's radiant sun
 Upon her breathless corse arose.

Yet when the sun that day went down,
 And ev'ning veil'd yon lofty hill,
From Edgar's castle, on the breeze
 The sounds of mirth were laughing still!

Oh! where has Heav'n his lightning stay'd,
 That doth not flash the tyrant's doom!"—
"It lingers not (the stranger cried),
 The hour of retribution's come.

Oh! dear Elfrida, murder'd maid!
 Oh! linger near—thou soon shalt see,
By this firm hand, thy murd'rer lie
 A bleeding sacrifice to thee.

For not on battle's bloody field
 The foeman laid Rinaldo low;
"Twas Edgar's arm that rais'd the steel,
 A brother's hand that struck the blow.

Though Heav'n, in mercy, spar'd my life,
 Yet many a long and ling'ring day,
Within a dungeon's noisome gloom
 Rinaldo pin'd his hours away."—

With wild amaze, and deep surprise,
 Aghast the wond'ring peasant stands;
Then sobbing sunk upon his knees,
 And bath'd with tears Rinaldo's hand.

"But, come," the warrior fiercely cried;
 "I follow vengeance' bloody call!"—
Then with quick step, and frantic mien,
 He sought St. Garvin's ancient hall.

There 'mid his guests, Sir Edgar sat,
 With splendid dress and haughty air;
But anguish gnawing at his heart,
 Black seat of horror and despair!

He started up with wild affright,
 His brother's faded form he view'd;
Down dropp'd the goblet from his hand,
 And cold damp drops his forehead dew'd!

"Just Heav'n! what ghastly spectre yon!
 Why hast thou left thy bloody tomb?
Or dost thou, dreadful vision! come
 To warn me of approaching doom?"

"If I'm a spectre of the tomb,
 What hand prepar'd that tomb for me?
What ruffian broke Elfrida's heart?
 Say, do I now that ruffian see?"

"Forgive! forgive!" Sir Edgar cried,
 While terror fix'd his stony eye!
Thy brother's crime, oh! yet forgive;
 Forgive, Rinaldo—for I die!"

Rinaldo check'd his lifted arm,
 He sheath'd the glitt'ring sword again;
For tender mercy touch'd his soul,
 But touch'd too late, and pleads in vain.

For cold and chill was Edgar's heart,
 A freezing pang congeal'd his breath;
And down, with many a horrid groan,
 The guilty traitor sunk in death.

Rinaldo sought the cloister's gloom,
 Far from the busy haunts of men;
Where meek religion, calm repose,
 And holy quiet sooth'd his pain.