Poems (Campbell)/The Spirits of the Hill

by Dorothea Primrose Campbell

Poems.

THE SPIRITS OF THE HILL.^[1]

It was on Burray's seabeat Isle, Where Fairies dwelt in days of yore,That Richard's lowly cottage stood,Near where old Neptune's briny flood Loud dash'd the sounding shore.

Though Richard's hair was blanch'd by time, And Richard's furrow'd cheek was pale,Yet pity's gentle pow'r he felt,And still his kind old heart could melt At sorrow's tender tale.

To him in early youth were giv'n, To soothe the many cares of life,Two sons, dear objects of his love;A daughter, gentle as the dove; A fond industrious wife.

But, ah! tempestuous was the night When on the distant stormy wave,His sons, within their little bark,Were driv'n amid the tempest dark, And found a wat'ry grave.

"Thy will, O Heav'nly Pow'r! be doune;" The suffering father cried.But, ah! beneath the killing stroke,His faithful Jenny's heart was broke,— She sicken'd, droop'd, and died.

Oh! who shall paint the husband's woe, Or who the father's anguish tell!Now one dear pledge alone remain'd,And still on earth his heart detain'd— His ever lovely Belle.

She, milder than the breath of eve, When the blue billows gently play;And fairer than the Nereids brightThat dance upon the sands at night To Cynthia's silver ray:

To soothe his heart, to cheer his woes, With tender love and filial care,Her pious efforts yet were giv'n:For him she lives, for him to Heav'n She breathes the fervent pray'r.

And neat his little cabin seem'd, Deck'd by the lovely maiden's hand;And still as age came stealing on,His fading eye with pleasure shone, Nor felt its with'ring hand.

One early morn the verdant grass Glitt'ring with many a dew-drop lay;The sun just rising from the wave,To nature all his radiance gave, And chac'd dun night away:

'When from the deep and sound repose That Labour's wearied sons enjoy,The aged Richard rais'd his head,And rising from his peaceful bed, Breath'd the pure air with joy.

"Where is my Isabelle?" he cried; "Oh! dearest daughter, hither haste!Oh! come, my child, for now to Heav'nOur orisons should first be giv'n; The wonted hour is past.

"Oh! come, my child, thy guiltless hands With me in warm devotion raise;With me for mercies past rejoice;And let again thy softer voice Resound thy Maker's praise."

Slow, slow, the anxious morning past, Nor yet the gentle maid was seen;Trembling he search'd each fav'rite spot,And ask'd at ev'ry neighb'ring cot If there his child had been?

No one had seen the gentle maid; And fruitless ev'ry effort prov'dTo stop his unavailing tears,To still his bosom's anxious fears, And find the child he lov'd.

Now sober eve, in mantle grey, Veil'd ev'ry scene in twilight's gloom;When, all his weary wand'rings vain,He sought his lonely home again; Mourning his hapless doom.

How chang'd, alas!—no daughter's care To smooth the restless couch of age;No pious child's endearing smile,The woe-worn father to beguile, And all his griefs assuage.

Now night, with her attendant stars, Her drowsy empire 'gan to keep;Waving her wand o'er Burray's Isle,She woo'd the sons of want and toil To sweet repose and sleep.

And all were sunk in balmy rest, When by his peat-fire's dying gleamThe sighing Richard mourning sat,Revolving o'er his fearful fate, Renouncing hope's wild dream!

By fits the trembling light was cast Around on objects faintly seen,When soft unlatch'd the cottage door,And lighter footsteps press'd the floor, Than earthly steps, I ween.

Advancing, thus the Spirit said:— "Old man! let grief no more annoy;Pale victim of despair, arise,And dry the tears that dim thine eyes; Arise to life and joy!

Thy daughter, by our Bokian king, Is to his splendid court convey'd;That stands, unseen by mortal eyes,Where yon dark cliffs majestic rise Our monarch loves the maid.

But vain is ev'ry magic spell, To win th' obdurate fair-one's heart;But come, and urge her to relent;—Cheer'd by thy presence and consent, She'll act a kinder part.

Oh! come, and all thy life shall be With us a summer's day of joy;A thousand Spirits of.our hillShall wait obedient on thy will, And all their arts employ.

Our greatest chieftain thou shalt be; Our empress shall thy daughter reign;Thy willing soul to me consign,The King of Heav'n at once resign, Nor dread his threaten'd pain."

"No—fiend of darkness! hence away; My soul abhors thy king and thee:Though robb'd of her, my age's hope,With thee my spirit yet shall cope, And wait Heav'n's just decree.

Celestial angels shall descend From yon high vault, on orient wing,And waft my child to realms of joy,Where thy curst arts shall ne'er annoy: Where blooms perpetual spring!"

"Curse on thy dreams of heav'n and bliss, Old dotard, with the locks of grey!"—Then, while the rising tempests blow,The spirit, mutt'ring vengeance low, Flew on the winds away.

When night again her ebon wand Wav'd over nature's wide domain,While deep her murky shadow low'rs,The Bokian monarch call'd his pow'rs, And thus address'd the train:—

"Shall we, oh chieftains! far renown'd, And known on many a distant hill,Be thus out-brav'd by vulgar swain?How my breast swelling with disdain, Dark thoughts of vengeance fill!

Go, quick your elfin shafts prepare, His cow, his sheep, his dogs to slay;Destroy each comfort of his age:And this, the mandate of my rage, Be done ere dawns the day.

The maid, in stony fetters bound, By magic arts shall here remain,—My love to deadly hate doth turn:Here long confin'd, she'll deeply mourn Her obstinate disdain."

He spoke, and lowly to the ground His abject slaves submissive bend:—"Great monarch, thou shalt be obey'd!"—When quick, each flutt'ring wing display'd, The airy sprites ascend.

To where fair Isabelle forlorn, Her pale cheeks bath'd in sorrow's dew,Sat in a cave, where jewels bright,And glow-worms shed their mingled light, The Bokian monarch flew.

"Oh, peerless beauty! why thus drench In such a silv'ry show'r of care,Thy starry eyes, so heav'nly bright?—No twinklers in the vault of night May boast a beam so fair!

Match'd with thy cheeks' celestial bloom, The brilliant conch's gay tints must fail;Thy golden locks delight the view,Thy lips are of the coral's hue, Thy breath like Arab's gale.

Oh! dry these tears, and sweetly smile, Nor grieve me thus with proud disdain;—Oh, lovely mortal! share my throne,My heart, my realms, are all thine own; Their empress thou shalt reign!"

"Thy queen! base tyrant! know this heart Will sooner ev'ry torture bear!Hence! for thy flatt'ry ne'er can move;Nor with thy base, detested love, Again pollute mine ear!"

"Ha!—tremble then to dare my rage, And turn my love to deadly hate;In burning torturing chains confin'd,Here thou remain'st!—but, yet be kind, Nor rashly tempt thy fate."

"Proud tyrant! all thy magic charms, And hellish witchery combin'd,Shall never bring th' immortal soulBeneath thy curs'd and dark controul, Nor chain the unfetter'd mind."

Madden'd with rage, the tyrant king Summon'd his hideous cruel train;And to a cavern's dismal shadeThey fiercely drag the trembling maid, And leave her to complain.

While there she pines, in darkness pent, And weeps her melancholy doom,To Richard's dreary cot of care,The Bokians swiftly cleave the air, Veil'd in night's murky gloom.

And fatal night that night had been, To all poor Richard's hard-earn'd store;But virtue's ready guardians still,The green-rob'd fairies of the hill, Watch'd at his lowly door.

'Twas their's, wherever sorrow wept, To come unseen and wipe the tear;Or by the mountain's dang'rous sideThe midnight traversal's steps to guide, And sinking soul to cheer.

Oft on the wand'ring peasant's ear, When passing by some haunted hill,Such soothing melody has stole,As did his rude untutor'd soul With heav'nly visions fill.

Or, when by wicked demons led Far o'er the desert heath astray,Quick burst upon his startled sightTheir little forms so heav'nly bright, And shew'd the safer way.

And now, round Richard's humble home Their glitt'ring ranks embattled stood;And march'd with firm undaunted mien,As slowly on the dewy green, Descends th' infernal brood.

"Stop, stop!" they shout, with one accord; "Bokians! your wicked work forbear;Swift to your cruel, bloody king,Again ascend on hasty wing, Or dread to meet us here!"

"What! here again, our ancient foes!" Their sable chieftain, Obin, cried;"How dare ye still to thwart our way,And rob us of our lawful prey?— Your vengeance is defied!"

Sudden, with wild, determin'd air, Each warrior grasp'd his well-tried bow;And while their deadly arrows fly,Mad frenzy lights each gleaming eye, And scowls on ev'ry brow.

The frighted Nereids drop their shells, Rush to their sea-caves, shrieking loud,And tremble in their native streams,While Cynthia veils her sick'ning beams Behind a sable cloud.

And wilder still the battle rag'd;— The burn ran red with Fairy gore,And many a gasping Bokian lay,The life-blood ebbing fast away, Upon that fatal shore.

But soon the shouts of vict'ry rise; Vain is the vanquish'd Bokian's grief,For Richard's guardian friends succeed;Dismay'd the routed squadrons bleed, And captive is their chief!

"In magic chains our pris'ners bind!" The Fairy-leader shouted bold;"Some warriors now on swiftest wing,Fly instant to the Bokian king, And thus our will be told:

Tell him, not one of all his train, Not Obin's self, that fiend ador'd,He e'er again must hope to see,Till the fair Isabelle is free, And to her sire restor'd."

Soon to the Bokian court they flew, On flutt'ring pinions light convey'd:The proud king curs'd the hard decree,Yet glad to set his vassals free, Releas'd the captive maid,

Ob! how her gentle bosom throbb'd, As pois'd in air she quickly flew,And reach'd once more her native cot;—But, ah! upon the bloody spot, What horrors met her view!

"Start not, sweet maid!" the conqueror cried, "In virtue's cause we bleed with joy;Nor fear again the Bokian pow'rShall reach thee in an evil hour, And all our work destroy.

Go, seek thy sorrowing aged sire; Be peace and happiness your lot!Be virtuous thus and pious still,The green-rob'd Fairies of the hill Shall guard thy lowly cot.

Aurora now with rosy hands, Unlocks the golden gates of morn,And we to hail our king must flyTo courts unseen by mortal eye, On downy pinions borne."

He ceas'd, and quickly from her sight They vanish'd like a passing dream;No more was seen the bloody stain,The dew-drop sparkled on the plain, Unsullied flow'd the stream.

Now blue-ey'd peace, and rose-lip'd joy, Again on Richard's cottage smil'd;Yet oft he shook his silv'ry head,And told with fear and solemn dread, The story of his child.

With grateful heart he knelt to Heav'n, Nor night nor morn his praises cease;And, many a happy year gone by,Poor Richard breath'd his latest sigh, And clos'd his days, in peace.

1. The Inhabitants of Zetland suppose their hills to be haunted by certain fantastical beings, whom they denominate Bokies, and Fairy-folk, or Fairies: the former of whom are imagined to be spirits of Evil, and the latter spirits of Good.