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Poem by Mary Robinson
Lewin and Gynneth
”WHEN will my troubled soul have rest?” The beauteous LEWIN cried; As thro’ the murky shade of night With frantic step she hied. ”When shall those eyes my GYNNETH’S face, My GYNNETH’S form survey ? When shall those longing eyes again Behold the dawn of day ?” Cold are the dews that wet my cheek, The night-mist damps the ground; Appalling echoes strike mine ear, And spectres gleam around. The vivid lightning’s transient rays Around my temples play; ’Tis all the light my fate affords, To mark my thorny way. From the black mountain’s awful height, Where LATHRYTH’S turrets rise; The dark owl screams a direful song, And warns me as she flies ! The chilling blast, the whistling winds, The mould’ring ramparts shake; The hungry tenants of the wood, Their cavern’d haunts forsake. Those tender limbs unus’d to stray Beyond a father’s door; Full many a mile have journey’d forth, Each footstep mark’d with gore. No costly sandals deck those feet, By thorns and briars torn; The cold rain chills my rosy cheek, Whose freshness sham’d the morn ! Slow steals the life-stream at my heart; Dark clouds o’ershade my eyes; Foreboding sorrow tells my soul, My captive Lover dies. Yet if one gentle ray of hope Can sooth the soul to rest; Oh ! may it pierce yon flinty tow’r, And warm my GYNNETH’s breast: And if soft pity’s tearful eye A Tyrant’s heart can move; Ill-fated LEWIN yet may live To clasp her vanquish’d Love. And tho’ stern war with bonds of steel His graceful form shall bind; No earthly spell has pow’r to hold The freedom of his mind ! And tho’ his warm and gallant heart Now yields to fate’s decree; Its feelings spurn the base constraint, And fly to LOVE and ME ! Then, BRANWORTH, Lion of the field ! O, hear a maiden plead; Sheath not thy sword in GYNNETH’S breast, Or too, let LEWIN’S bleed ? To valiant feats of arms renown’d Shall earthly praise be giv’n; But deeds of MERCY, mighty Chief, Are register’d in HEAV’N ! Thy praises shall resounding fill The Palace of thy foe; While down the joyful LEWIN’S cheek The grateful tear shall flow. And sure the tear that VIRTUE sheds, Some rapture can impart; What gem can deck a victor’s throne Like incense from the heart? Now the grey Morning’s silv’ry light, Dawn’d in the eastern skies, When at the lofty lattice grate Her Lover’s form she spies: ”He lives,” she cried, ”My GYNNETH lives !” Youth of the crimson shield ! The graceful Hero of my heart, The glory of the field ! ”Come down, my soul’s delight,” she said, ”Thy blue-ey’d LEWIN see; YRGANVY’S Daughter, thy true Love, Who only breathes for THEE: ”Then haste THEE from thy prison house Ere yet the Foe doth rise ! Oh! haste, ere yet the Morning Sun Doth flame along the skies. ”Ah, speak! my heart is chill’d with fear, My fault’ring voice doth fail; Why are thy darling eyes so dim, Thy cheek so deathly pale ?” ”I am THY GYNNETH’S GHOST, sweet maid, Avoid the madd’ning sight; Those eyes that doated on thy charms, Are lock’d in endless night. ”This loyal heart which beat for thee, Is rent with many a wound; Cleft is my shield, my glitt’ring spear Lies broken on the ground ! ”My bones the eagle hath convey’d To feed her rav’nous brood; The savage BRANWORTH’S cruel hand Hath spilt my purple blood. ”Then hie thee hence, ill-fated maid, Ere greater woes betide; To where LLANGADOC’S silver streams Along the vallies glide. ”There, where the modest PRIMROSE blooms, Pale as thy lover’s shade; My mangled relics shalt thou find Upon the green turf laid. ”Then hie thee hence, with holy hands, Build up a sacred shrine, And oh ! chaste maid, thy faith to prove, Mingle thy dust with mine ?” Ah ! have you seen a mother’s joy In cherub sweetness dress’d, Seiz’d by the numbing hand of death, Expiring at her breast ? Or the fond maid, whom morrow’s dawn Had hail’d a wedded fair; Doom’d to behold her lover’s corse Scorch’d by the lightning’s glare ? So stood the hopeless, frantic maid, YRGANVY’s graceful child, Cold was her cheek, her dove-like eyes Fix’d in amazement wild ! ”This panting heart,” at length she cried ”A sharper pang doth feel, Than thine, brave youth, when rent in twain By BRANWORTH’S poison’d steel. ”No more these sad and weeping eyes, My father’s house shall see; Thy kindred spirit calls me hence. I haste to follow thee.” Beside thy tomb the TRAV’LLER’S tear Shall join the crystal spring; Around the solemn dirge of woe Shall sainted DRUIDS sing; The weary PILGRIM faint and sad, Shall stay his steps awhile; The memory of his OWN hard fate, THY story shall beguile; There wet with many a holy tear, The sweetest buds shall blow, There LEWIN’S ghost shall mark the shrine A monument of woe ! Thrice did he ope the lattice grate, And thrice he bade adieu; When lo, to join the parting shade, The MAIDEN’S SPIRIT FLEW!
Mary Robinson's other poems:
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