Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Haunted Lake

The Haunted Lake.

There is a wood which few dare tread,
So gloomy are the hoary trees:
The vaulted chambers of the dead
Scarce fill the soul with half the dread
You feel while standing under these.

Deep in its centre stands a lake,
Which the o'erhanging umbrage darkens;
No roaring wind those boughs can shake,
Ruffle the water's face, or break
The silence there which ever hearkens.

No flowers around that water grow,
The birds fly over it in fear,
The antique roots about it bow,
The newt and toad crawl deep below,
The black snake also sleepeth there.

Few are the spots so deathly still,
So wrapt in deep eternal gloom:
No sound is heard of sylvan rill,
A voiceless silence seems to fill
The air around that liquid tomb.

The ivy creepeth to and fro,
Along the arching boughs which meet;
The fir and dark-leaved mistletoe
Hang o'er the holly and black-sloe,
In darkness which can ne'er retreat.

For there the sunbeams never shine,
That sullen lake beholds no sky;
No moonbeam drops its silvery line
No star looks down with eye benign:
Even the white owl hurries by.

The huntsman passes at full speed,
The hounds howl loud and seem to fear it;
The fox makes for the open mead,
Full in the teeth of man and steed—
He will not deign to shelter near it.

No woodman's axe is heard to sound
Within that forest night or day;
No human footstep dents the ground,
No voice disturbs the deep profound,
No living soul dare through it stray.

For shrieks are heard there in the night,
And wailings of a little child;
And ghastly streams of lurid light
Have flashed upon the traveller's sight,
When riding by that forest wild.

For there hath human blood been shed
Beside the tangling bramble's brake,
And still they say the murdered dead,
Rise nightly from their watery bed,
And wander round the Haunted Lake.

'Tis said she is a lady fair,
In silken robes superbly dressed,
With large bright eyes that wildly glare,
While clotted locks of long black hair
Drop o'er the infant at her breast.

She speaks not, but her white hand raises,
And to the lake with pointed finger
Beckons the step of him who gazes;
Then shrieking seeks the leafy mazes,
Leaving a pale blue light to linger.

But who she is no one can tell,
Nor who her murderer might be,—
But one beside that wood did dwell,
On whom suspicion darkly f ell:
A rich, unhappy lord was he.

In an old hall he lived alone,
No servant with him dared to stay;
For shriek and yell, and piercing groan,
And infant's cry, and woman's moan,
Rang through those chambers night and day.

He was indeed a wretched man,
And wrung his hands, and heat his breast:
His cheeks were sunken, thin and wan,
Remorse had long deep furrows run
Across his brow,—he could not rest.

He sometimes wandered round the wood,
Or stood to listen by its side;
Or bending o'er the meadow-flood,
Would try to wash away the blood,
With which his guilty hands seemed dyed.

He never spoke to living soul;
Oh, how an infant made him quake!
For then his eyes would wildly roll,
And he would shriek, and curse, and growl,
As if he felt the burning lake.