Sir Eldred of the bower: and the bleeding rock: two legendary tales. By Miss Hannah More.

THE BLEEDING ROCK: A LEGENDARY TALE.

—The annual wound allur'd The Syrian damsels to lament his fate, In amorous ditties all a summer's day, While smooth Adonis from his native Rock Ran purple to the sea, suppos'd with blood Of Thammuz yearly wounded.

MILTON.

THE BLEEDING ROCK: A LEGENDARY TALE.

WHERE beauteous Belmont rears its modest brow To view Sabrina's silver waves below, Liv'd LINDAMIRA; fair as Beauty's Queen, The same sweet form, the same enchanting mien; With all the softer elegance of mind By genius helghten'd, and by taste refin'd. Yet early was she doom'd the child of care, For love, ill-fated love subdued the fair. Ah! what avails each captivating grace, The form enchanting, or the finish'd face? Or what, each beauty of the heav'n born mind, The soul superior, or the taste refin'd? Beauty but serves destruction to insure, And sense, to feel the pang it cannot cure; Each neighb'ring Youth aspir'd to gain her hand, And many a suitor came from many a land. But all in vain each neighb'ring Youth inspir'd, And distant suitors all in vain admir'd, Averse to hear, yet fearful to offend, The lover she refus'd she made a friend: Her meek rejection wore so mild a face, More like acceptance seem'd it, than disgrace.

Young POLYDORE, the pride of rural swains, Was wont to visit Belmont's blooming plains. Who has not heard how POLYDORE cou'd throw Th' unerring dart to wound the flying doe? How leave the swiftest at the race behind, How mount the courser, and outstrip the wind? With melting sweetness, or with magic fire, Breathe the soft flute, or strike the louder lyre? From that fam'd lyre no vulgar music sprung, The Graces tun'd it, and Apollo strung.

Apollo too was once a shepherd swain, And fed the flock, and grac'd the rustic plain. He taught what charms to rural life belong, The social sweetness, and the sylvan song; He taught, fair Wisdom in her grove to woo, Her joys how precious, and her wants how few! The savage herds in mute attention stood, And ravish'd Echo fill'd the vocal wood; The sacred Sisters, stooping from their sphere, Forgot their golden Harps, intent to hear. Till Heav'n the scene survey'd with jealous eyes, And Jove, in envy, call'd him to the skies.

Young POLYDORE was rich in large domains. In smiling pastures and in flowery plains: With these, he boasted each exterior charm, To win the prudent, and the cold to warm; To act the tenderness he never felt, In sorrow soften, and in anguish melt, The sigh elaborate, the fraudful tear, The joy dissembled, and the well feign'd fear, All these were his; and his the treach'rous art That steals the guileless and unpractis'd heart.

Too soon he heard of LINDAMIRA's fame, 'Twas each enamour'd Shepherd's fav'rite theme; Return'd the rising, and the setting sun, The shepherd's fav'rite theme was never done.

They prais'd her wit, her worth, her shape, her air! And even inferior beauties thought her fair.

Such sweet perfection all his wonder mov'd; He saw, admir'd, nay, fancied that he lov'd: But POLYDORE no real passion knew, Lost to all truth in feigning to be true. No sense of tenderness could warm a heart Too proud to feel, too selfish to impart.

Cold as the snows of Rhodope descend, And with the chilling waves of Hebrus blend; So cold the breast where Vanity presides, And mean Self-love the bosom-feelings guides.

Too well, he knew to make his conquest sure, Win her soft heart, yet keep his own secure. So oft he told the well imagin'd tale, So oft he swore, —how shou'd he not prevail? Too unsuspecting not to be deceiv'd, The well imagin'd tale the nymph believ'd: She lov'd the youth, she thought herself belov'd, Nor blush'd to praise whom every maid approv'd, Alas! that youth, from LINDAMIRA far, For newer conquests wages cruel war; With other nymphs on other plains he roams, Where injur'd LINDAMIRA never comes; Laughs at her easy faith, insults her woe, Nor pities tears himself had taught to flow.

And now her eyes soft radiance seem'd to fail, And now the crimson of her cheek grew pale; The lily there, in faded beauty, shews Its sickly empire o'er the vanquish'd rose, Devouring Sorrow marks her for his prey, And slow and certain mines his silent way, Yet, as apace her ebbing life declin'd, Increasing strength sustain'd her woman's mind.

O had my heart been hard as his,"she cried, An hapless victim thus I had not died: If there be gods, and gods there surely are, lnsulted virtue doubtless is their care. Then hasten, righteous Heaven ! my tedious fate, Shorten my woes, and end my mortal date: Quick let your power transform this failing frame, Let me be any thing but what I am ! And since the cruel woes I'm doom'd to feel, Proceed, alas ! from having lov'd too well; Grant me some form where love can have no part, Nor human weakness reach my guarded heart: If pity has not left your blest abodes, Change me to flinty adamant, ye Gods; To hardest rock, or monumental stone, Rather than let me know the pangs I've known: So shall I thus no farther torments prove, Nor taunting rivals say, ' she died for love. For sure if aught can aggravate our fate, 'Tis scorn, or pity from the breast we hate." She said, —the Gods accord the sad request; For when were pious pray'rs in vain addrest?

Now, strange to tell! if rural folks say true, To harden'd Rock the stiffening damsel grew; No more her shapeless features can be known, Stone is her body, and her limbs are stone; The growing Rock invades her beauteous face, And quickly petrifies each living grace; The stone her stature nor her shape retains, The nymph is vanish'd, but the Rock remains; Yet wou'd her heart its vital spirits keep, And scom'd to mingle with the marble heap.

When babbling Fame the fatal tidings bore, Grief seized the soul of perjur'd POLYDORE; Despair and horror robb'd his soul of rest, And deep compunction wrung his tortur'd breast.

Then to the fatal spot in haste he hied, And plung'd a deadly poniard in his side; He bent his dying eyes upon the stone, And, "Take, sweet maid,"he cried, "my parting groan." Fainting, the steel he grasp'd, and as he fell, The weapon pierc'd the Rock he lov'd so well; The guiltless steel assail'd the mortal part, And stabb'd the vital, vulnerable heart. The life-blood issuing from the wounded stone, Blends with the crimson current of his own. And tho' revolving ages since have past, The meeting torrents undiminish'd last; Still gushes out the sanguine stream amain, The standing wonder of the stranger swain.

Now once a year, so rustic records tell, When o'er the heath resounds the midnight bell; On eve of Midsummer, that foe to sleep, What time young maids their annual vigils keep, The * 1.1 tell-tale shrub fresh gather'd to declare The swains who false, from those who constant are; When ghosts in clanking chains the church-yard walk, And to the wondering ear of Fancy talk: When the scar'd maid steals trembling thro' the grove, To kiss the tomb of him who died for love: When, with long watchings, Care, at length opprest, Steals broken pauses of uncertain rest; Nay, Grief short snatches of repose can take, And nothing but Despair is quite awake: Then, at that hour, so still, so full of fear, When all things horrible to thought appear, Is perjur'd POLYDORE observ'd to rove A ghastly spectre thro' the gloomy grove; Then to the Rock, the Bleeding Rock repair, Where, sadly sighing, it dissolves to air. Still when the hours of solemn rites return, The village train in sad procession mourn;

Pluck every weed which might the spot disgrace, And plant the fairest field-flow'rs in their place. Around no noxious plant, or floweret grows, But the first daffodil, and earliest rose: The snow drop spreads its whitest bosom here, And golden cowslips grace the vernal year: Here the pale primrose takes a fairer hue, And every violet boasts a brighter blue. Here builds the wood lark, here the faithful dove Laments her lost, or wooes her living love. Secure from harm is every hallow'd nest, The spot is sacred where true lovers rest.

To guard the Rock from each malignant sprite, A troop of guardian spirits watch by night; Aloft in air each takes his little stand, The neighb'ring hill is hence call'd Fairy Land.* 1.2

THE END.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Midsummer-men, consulted as oracular by village maids.
• * 1.2

  By contraction Failand, a hill well known in Somerset|shire: not far from this is The Bleeding Rock, from which con|stantly issues a crimson current.