Classic Poem

A VILLAGE LEGEND .

Keen, the winds of November swept over the wold,
 And stripp'd the dry leaves from the grove;
When Mabel, regardless of danger, or cold,
Softly stole from her cot, when the Curfew-bell toll'd;
 Mutual vows to exchange with her love.

From the ivy-clad Abbey the screech owl's shrill cry
 Fill'd each pause of the deep-swelling blast;
Blue tapers funereal pale gleam'd on her eye,
And meteors portentous shot thro' the dark sky,
 As on to the Church-yard she pass'd.

Long ere she approach'd it, a form cross'd her way
 In the garb of a Pilgrim array'd;
(Though dimly descried by the moon's clouded ray)
Who thus, in low accents, well skill'd to betray,
 Accosted the credulous maid.

Sweet Mabel, a cordial thy spirits to cheer
 By thy true love commission'd, I bring;
Drink a health to thine Alleyn so fond, and sincere;
This pledge of his faith too he begs thee to wear:—
 He said, and presented a ring.

The maid took the chalice—“Most grateful to me
 “Are the gifts of my swain,” she replied,
“Love hallows his tribute: O blest may he be!
“And Peace, courteous stranger, attend upon thee,
 “Where Fortune thy footsteps shall guide.”

Then the path-way pursuing, at length to her view
 The wall of the Church yard appear'd;
(Where spleenwort and maidenhair luxuriantly grew)
And within its inclosures, a wide-spreading yew
 For a century, it's huge trunk had rear'd.

There her love she beheld, as athwart the deep shade
 The moon-light soft chequer'd the place;
The Pilgrim at distance had follow'd the maid,
And now, by a tomb-stone conceal'd, he survey'd
 The Fair in her Alleyn's embrace.

Thrice welcome my dear one! enraptured I press
 The treasure so loved to my heart;
The Damsel with fondness return'd his caress;
But her voice sunk and faultering, could scarcely express
 The emotions she sought to impart.

At length—“O my Alleyn, thy cordial” she cried,
 “By turns chills my blood, and inflames.”
“What cordial?”—the lover astonish'd replied;
Then the counterfeit Pilgrim his garb cast aside,
 Rush'd forth, and thus wildly exclaims.

“Revenge, thou art mine!—Now attend haughty “fair,
 “And prepare to resign thy last breath,
“No longer my soul thy indifference shall bear;
“But my Rival in turn feel the pangs of despair;
 “For the draught that I gave thee—was death .

“No more with soft wishes thy bosom shall heave,
 “Or Love dart his fires from thine eye;
“No more, Hope's gay visions thy fancy deceive,
“Or whisper that Mabel for Alleyn shall live;
 “For Mabel with Hubert shall die!

“With a ring I've espoused thee;—look round and “behold
 “The bride-bed made close by thy side;
“My hands have prepared it,—though narrow, and “cold,
“With a winding-sheet only our limbs to infold:——
 “'Tis there I would sleep with my Bride.”

Then, frantickly laughing, a dagger he drew,
 And sheath'd the keen point in his breast;
Poor Alleyn distracted, his arms fondly threw
Round his now dying Mabel, kind, lovely, and true;
 And his lips to her cold lips he press'd.

On his bosom so faithful her breath she resign'd,
 And her eyelids his trembling hand closed,
Two moons, the sad lover in solitude pined;
Ere the third rose full-orb'd, his pale corse was consign'd
 To the grave where his Mabel reposed.

At the end of the hamlet, where four roads unite,
 The suicide's relicks are laid;
A stake marks the spot, half conceal'd from the sight
By nightshade, and hemlock;—and adders delight
 To lurk mid' the poisonous shade.

Now traditions report, when the year has roll'd round,
 And St. Andrew's vigil returns;
The death-bell is heard deep and solemn to sound,
And Hubert's thin shade thrice encircles the mound
 Where the lovers are buried, and mourns.

But on May's earliest morn, the fair maids of the vale
 O'er the green sward bespangled with dew,
(While they weep at remembrance of Mabel's sad tale)
Strew bright purple pansies, and primroses pale,
 With hare-bells and violets blue.

And at Midsummer oft' by the stars silver light,
 Love-spells o'er the cold earth they weave;
The oracular herb with each mystical rite
On the yew boughs suspending to augur aright,
 If their lovers are true, or deceive.

There too village Brides, with their Bridegrooms repair,
 Ere at Hymen's pure altars they bow;
Join their hands o'er the turf which conceals the fond pair,
While a soft tear to pity from rapture they spare;
 And plight the reciprocal vow.