XLVI. THE SOMNAMBULIST. [THIS poem might be dedicated to my friends, Sir G. Beaumont and Mr. Rogers jointly. While we were making an excursion together in this part of the Lake District we heard that Mr. Glover, the artist, while lodging at Lyulph's Tower, had been disturbed by a loud shriek, and upon rising he had learnt that it had come from a young woman in the house who was in the habit of walking in her sleep. In that state she had gone down stairs, and, while attempting to open the outer door, either from some difficulty or the effect of the cold stone upon her feet, had uttered the cry which alarmed him. It seemed to us all that this might serve as a hint for a poem, and the story here told was constructed and soon after put into verse by me as it now stands.] LIST, ye who pass by Lyulph's Tower* At eve; how softly then Doth Aira-force, that torrent hoarse, Fit music for a solemn vale! And holier seems the ground Not far from that fair site whereon The Pleasure-house is reared, As story says, in antique days A stern-browed house appeared; * A pleasure-house built by the late Duke of Norfolk upon the banks of Ullswater. FORCE is the word used in the Lake District for Water-fall. There set, and guarded well; To win this bright Bird from her cage, Full happy season, when was known, Known chiefly, Aira! to thy glen, Thy brook, and bowers of holly; Where Fact with Fancy stooped to play; But in old times Love dwelt not long Best throve the fire of chaste desire, They parted.-Well with him it fared. On woman's quiet hours; Though faint, compared with spear and shield, The solace beads and masses yield, And needlework and flowers. Yet blest was Emma when she heard Or when a bold heroic lay She warbled from full heart; Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills Received the light hers loses. He ranges on from place to place, But what her fancy breeds. His fame may spread, but in the past And that would now content her. "Still is he my devoted Knight ?” The tear in answer flows; Month falls on month with heavier weight; In sleep She sometimes walked abroad, Deep sighs with quick words blending, Like that pale Queen whose hands are seen With fancied spots contending; But she is innocent of blood,— The moon is not more pure That shines aloft, while through the wood She thrids her way, the sounding Flood Her melancholy lure! While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe, In white arrayed, glides on the Maid And to a holly bower; By whom on this still night descried ? A wandering Ghost, so thinks the Knight, Within whose shade they parted. Hush, hush, the busy Sleeper see! Perplexed her fingers seem, What means the Spectre? Why intent Thought Eglamore, by which I swore, Here am I, and to-morrow's sun, To her I left, shall prove That bliss is ne'er so surely won So from the spot whereon he stood, He recognised the face; And whispers caught, and speeches small, Some to the green-leaved tree, Some muttered to the torrent-fall ;— "Roar on, and bring him with thy call; "I heard, and so may He!" Soul-shattered was the Knight, nor knew If Emma's Ghost it were, Or boding Shade, or if the Maid Her very self stood there. He touched; what followed who shall tell? The soft touch snapped the thread Of slumber-shrieking back she fell, And the Stream whirled her down the dell Along its foaming bed. |