Poems (Campbell)/The Spectre of the Lake

by Dorothea Primrose Campbell

THE SPECTRE OF THE LAKE.

The moon-beams shone on the silent lake,
 The night was deadly still;
Not a breath of wind made the tall trees shake,
Not a sound was heard the echoes to wake,
 As the mist crept over the hill.

Sir Gerald, a knight from the Holy Land,
 Journeying his course alone,
Led his weary horse o'er the moonlight sand;
Since last he had trod the well-known strand,
 Full seven long years were gone.

He had left a wife of matchless charms,
 And matchless goodness too;
With their infant son in her circling arms,
When he sought the battle's wild alarms
 Where the holy banner flew.

"And wilt thou leave me?" she madly cried,
 "And this infant pledge of bliss!—
O Gerald, Gerald! woe will betide
The hour I am sever'd from thy side,
 And receive thy parting kiss!

Those lips thou shalt never kiss again"—
 "Oh! hush thee, my dearest life!
Would Emma her Gerald's honour stain,
And thus with a tear his steps detain,
 From the glorious field of strife?"

Drooping and pale as the lily flow'r
 Lady Emma blanch'd away;
While he invok'd each heavenly pow'r
To guard and watch her in evil hour;
 Then tore himself quick away.

On Palestine's plain he had fought and bled,
 And long a captive lay;
And now with sweet hopes, and a heart right glad,
Homeward his weary way he sped,
 To his native mountains grey.

His heart beat high, as a castle gay
 Peep'd through the leaves so green
Of a wood, that skirted the mountain grey,
At whose foot the broad lake slumb'ring lay,
 And reflected the tranquil scene.

For the lofty tow'rs that shone so bright
 In the moonshine, were his own;
And faster he urg'd with a fond delight,
When, lo! the silence of the night
 Was broke by a heavy moan.

It floated o'er the stilly wave
 On the viewless wings of air,
Like the wailings from some unhallow'd grave,
When th' unrequiem'd spirit is heard to rave,
 O'er the mould'ring body there.

And slowly appear'd on the silvery lake
 A phantom, gaunt and dread;
In Sir Gerald's bosom what horrors wake,
As its bloody tresses it seem'd to shake,
 And rose from its oozy bed!

Its shadowy form was wrapp'd in white,
 All stain'd and spotted with gore,
And round it a pale sepulchral light
Glean'd, while the moon hid her lustre bright,
 As the Spectre advanc'd to the shore.

Livid and pale in her gory vest
 A murder'd babe was laid;
Its infant form seem'd fondly press'd,
With many a sigh, to her bleeding breast,
 As thus to the knight she said:—

"Haste! haste thee, belov'd one! the murd'rer is there,
 And blood for blood must flow;
'Tis Robert, false Robert, thy kinsman and heir:
Oh! haste thee—the furies his mansion prepare
 In the courts of death below.

Behold this wound in thy Emma's breast!
 Behold thy murder'd son!—
No holy grave have our bodies press'd,
No requiem been sung for our spirits' rest,
 Since the deed of death was done.

For when silence and slumber wrapp'd the world
 In midnight's deepest gloom,
Thy hapless wife and thy babe were hurl'd,
Far on the lake where the blue-wave curl'd,
 To sleep in a wat'ry tomb.

But my hour is pass'd, and I must be gone—,
 Oh, Gerald! remember me!—
Remember thy wife, and thy infant son,
And let masses be said, and due rites be done
 As Heav'n shall have mercy on thee!

And holy and just be thy actions here,
 Fitting thy faith and creed!
Stay the widow's moan, and the orphan's tear,
And the weary pilgrim with welcome cheer,
 And thou shalt be bless'd indeed.

And I will prepare, as thus thou prove,
 An unfading chaplet for thee;
And thy boy shall greet thee in realms above,
And there we shall live in eternal love,
 From guilt and from sorrow free."

The lily of death on her cheek gave place
 To more than mortal charms;
And beauty beam'd with celestial grace,
On her seraph form and angel face,
 While a cherub smil'd in her arms.

Brighter than day's meridian glow
 Her garments swept the ground,
O'er her polish'd neck, more dazzling than snow,
Her golden tresses profusely flow,
 And breathe rich fragrance round.

From a thousand strings harmonious strains
 Seem'd all around to wake;
Sounds that might soothe the direst pains,
Floated afar o'er the hills and plains,
 As she vanish'd away on the lake.
   ********

Cold the dews of morning shone
 On the fragrant shrubs and flow'rs,
When Sir Gerald, with many a heavy moan,
Spurr'd his weary courser on,
 Till he reach'd his castle tow'rs.

Sir Gerald's sword was sharp and bright,
 And blood for blood must flow;
His arm was strong, for his cause was right,
And in combat he slew the murd'rous knight,
 Sir Robert, his deadly foe.

His wide domains to the church he gave;
 And in solitude and pray'r,
In a monastry built by the lake's blue wave,
He sigh'd, and thought on his Emma's grave—
 And soon he join'd her there.

Peace to the soul of Sir Gerald the brave,
 And Emma the fair and good!
Near yonder ruins, where pine-trees wave,
The peasants point to Sir Gerald's grave,
 And Emma's beneath the flood.