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Title: The Storm-Beat Maid
Author: Joanna Baillie [
More Titles by Baillie]
SOMEWHAT AFTER THE STYLE OF OUR OLD ENGLISH BALLADS.
All shrouded in the winter snow,
The maiden held her way;
Nor chilly winds that roughly blow,
Nor dark night could her stay.
O'er hill and dale, through bush and briar,
She on her journey kept;
Save often when she 'gan to tire,
She stop'd awhile and wept.
Wild creatures left their caverns drear,
To raise their nightly yell;
But little doth the bosom fear,
Where inward troubles dwell.
No watch-light from the distant spire,
To cheer the gloom so deep,
Nor twinkling star, nor cottage fire
Did thro' the darkness peep.
Yet heedless still she held her way,
Nor fear'd the crag nor dell;
Like ghost that thro' the gloom to stray,
Wakes with the midnight bell.
Now night thro' her dark watches ran,
Which lock the peaceful mind;
And thro' the neighb'ring hamlets 'gan
To wake the yawning hind.
Yet bark of dog, nor village cock,
That spoke the morning near;
Nor gray-light trembling on the rock,
Her 'nighted mind could cheer.
The whirling flail, and clacking mill
Wake with the early day;
And careless children, loud and shrill,
With new-made snow-balls play.
And as she pass'd each cottage door,
They did their gambols cease;
And old men shook their locks so hoar,
And wish'd her spirit peace.
For sometimes slow; and sometimes fast,
She held her wav'ring pace;
Like early spring's inconstant blast,
That ruffles evening's face.
At length with weary feet she came,
Where in a shelt'ring wood,
Whose master bore no humble name,
A stately castle stood.
The open gate, and smoking fires,
Which cloud the air so thin;
And shrill bell tinkling from the spires,
Bespoke a feast within.
With busy looks, and hasty tread,
The servants cross the hall;
And many a page, in buskins red,
Await the master's call.
Fair streaming bows of bridal white
On ev'ry shoulder play'd;
And clean, in lily kerchief dight,
Trip'd every houshold maid.
She ask'd for neither lord nor dame,
Nor who the mansion own'd;
But straight into the hall she came,
And sat her on the ground.
The busy crew all crouded nigh,
And round the stranger star'd;
But still she roll'd her wand'ring eye,
Nor for their questions car'd.
"What dost thou want, thou storm-beat' maid,
That thou these portals past?
Ill suiteth here thy looks dismay'd,
Thou art no bidden guest."
"O chide not!" said a gentle page,
And wip'd his tear-wet cheek,
"Who would not shun the winter's rage?
The wind is cold and bleak.
"Her robe is stiff with drizly snow,
And rent her mantle grey;
None ever bade the wretched go
Upon his wedding-day."
Then to his lord he hied him straight,
Where round on silken seat
Sat many a courteous dame and knight.
And made obeisance meet,
"There is a stranger in your hall,
Who wears no common mien;
Hard were the heart, as flinty wall,
That would not take her in.
"A fairer dame in hall or bower
Mine eyes did ne'er behold;
Tho' shelter'd in no father's tower,
And turn'd out to the cold.
"Her face is like an early morn,
Dimm'd with the nightly dew;
Her skin is like the sheeted torn,
Her eyes are wat'ry blue.
"And tall and slender is her form,
Like willow o'er the brook;
But on her brow there broods a storm,
And restless is her look,
"And well her troubled motions shew
The tempest in her mind;
Like the unshelter'd sapling bough
Vex'd with the wintry wind.
"Her head droops on her ungirt breast,
And scatter'd is her hair;
Yet lady brac'd in courtly vest
Was never half so fair."
Reverse, and cold the turning blood
The bridegroom's cheek forsook:
He shook and stagger'd as he stood,
And falter'd as he spoke.
"So soft and fair I know a maid,
There is but only she;
A wretched man her love betrayed,
And wretched let him be."
Deep frowning, turn'd the bride's dark eye,
For bridal morn unmeet;
With trembling steps her lord did hie
The stranger fair to greet.
Tho' loose in scatter'd weeds array'd,
And ruffled with the storm;
Like lambkin from its fellows stray'd,
He knew her graceful form.
But when he spy'd her sunken eye,
And features sharp and wan,
He heav'd a deep and heavy sigh,
And down the big tears ran.
"Why droops thy head, thou lovely maid,
Upon thy hand of snow?
Is it because thy love betray'd,
That thou art brought so low?"
Quick from her eye the keen glance came
Who question'd her to see:
And oft she mutter'd o'er his name,
And wist not it was he.
Full hard against his writhing brows
His clenched hands he prest;
Full high his lab'ring bosom rose,
And rent its silken vest.
"O cursed be the golden price,
That did my baseness prove!
And cursed be my friends advice,
That wil'd me from thy love!
"And cursed be the woman's art,
That lur'd me to her snare!
And cursed be the faithless heart
That left thee to despair!
"Yet now I'll hold thee to my side,
Tho' worthless I have been,
Nor friends, nor wealth, nor dizen'd bride,
Shall ever stand between.
"When thou art weary and depress'd,
I'll lull thee to thy sleep;
And when dark fancies vex thy breast,
I'll sit by thee and weep.
"I'll tend thee like a restless child
Where'er thy rovings be;
Nor gesture keen, nor eye-ball wild,
Shall turn my love from thee.
"Night shall not hang cold o'er thy head,
And I securely lie;
Nor drizly clouds upon thee shed,
And I in covert dry.
"I'll share the cold blast on the heath,
I'll share thy wants and pain:
Nor friend nor foe, nor life nor death,
Shall ever make us twain."
[The end]
Joanna Baillie's poem: Storm-Beat Maid
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