4453490Poems — Tracy De Vore and Hubert GreyEliza Cook
TRACY DE VORE AND HUBERT GREY.
a romaunt.
Know ye not the stripling child That strolls from the castle wall; To play with the mate he likes the best, By the mountain waterfall?
With delicate hand, and polish'd skin, Like Parian marble fair; Know ye him not? 'Tis Tracy de Vore, The Baron’s beautiful heir,
'Tis Tracy de Vore, the Castle’s pride; The rich, the nobly born; Pacing along the sun-lit sod With the step of o playful fawn,
The waving plume in his velvet cap Is bound with a golden band; His rich and embroider'd suit exhales The breath of Arabia’s land
His light and fragile form is graced With a girdle of silver'd blue; And of matchless azure the belt would seem, Were it not for his eyes' own hue.
Look on those eyes, and thou wilt find A sadness in their beam; Like the pensive shade that willows cast On the sky-reflecting stream.
Soft flowing curls of an auburn shade Ave falling around his brow; There's a mantling flush that dwells on his cheek, Like a rose-leaf thrown on the snow.
There's a haleyon smile spread o'er his face, Shedding a calm and radiant grace; There's a sweetness of sound in his talking tones, Betraying the gentle spirit he owns.
And scarcely an accent meets his ear But the voices of praise and love; Caress' and caressing, he lives in the world Like a petted and beautiful dove.
He is born to bear the high command Of the richest domain in Switzerland; And the vassals pray that fame and health May bless the child of rank and wealth. Oh! truly does every lip declare What a cherub-like boy is Lord Tracy's heir. And now on the green and sedgy bank Another stripling form is seen: His garb is rough, his halloo loud; He is no baron's heir, I ween.
Know ye him not?—'tis the mountain child, Born and rear'd 'mid the vast and wild; And a brighter being ne'er woke to the day Than the herdsman's son, young Hubert Grey.
There's a restless flashing in his eye, That lights up every glance; And now he tracks the wheeling bird; And now he scans the distant herd; And now he turns from earth and sky, To watch where the waters dance.
A ruddy tinge of glowing bronze Upon his face is set; Closely round his temples cling Thick locks of shaggy jet.
Mark him well! there's a daring mien In Hubert Grey, that's rarely seen; And suiting that mien is the life he leads, Where the eagle soars, and the chamois feeds.
He loves to climb the steepest crag, Or plunge in the rapid stream; He dares to look on the thunder-cloud, And laugh at the lightning's gleam.
The snow may drift, the rain may fall, But what does Hubert care, As he playfully wrings with his hardy hand His drench'd and dripping hair?
He can tread through the forest, or over the rocks, In the darkest and dreariest night, With as sure a step, and as gay a song, As he can in the noon-day's light.
The precipice, jutting in ether air, Has naught of terror for him; He can pace the edge of the loftiest peak Without trembling of heart or limb.
He heeds not the blast of the winter storm, Howling on o'er the pine-cover'd steep; In the day he will whistle to mimic its voice, In the night it lulls him to sleep.
And now he has brought, from his mountain home- (With feet and forehead bare), A tiny boat, and lancewood bow, The work of his own young hand, I trow, To please the Baron's heir. And now, at the waterfall, side by side, Stand the Herdsman's son and the Castle's pride!
Tracy de Vore hath high-born mates Invited to share his play; But none are half so dear to him, As lowly Hubert Grey.
He hath a spaniel taught to mark, And wait his word with a joyous bark; He hath a falcon taught to fly When he looses its silver chain; To range at his bidding round the sky, Then seek his hand again.
His ear is used to the softest song; To the lute, and gay guitar; But the echoing call of the herdsman's son Is sweeter to him by far.
He hath toys and trinkets, bought with gold; And a palfrey in the stall: But Hubert's bow and Hubert's boat,— Oh, they are worth them all!
And Hubert Grey hath learnt to love. The smile of Tracy de Vore; He delights in leading the timid boy Where he never trod before.
He teaches him how to note the hours, By where the sunbeams rest; He wades for him where the virgin flowers Gracefully bend 'neath the cascade's showers; To pluck the whitest and best.
He tells him the curious legends of old, Known by each mountaineer; He tells him the story of ghost and fay; Waking his wonder and fear.
Never so joyful is Hubert's shout As when his eagle eyes look out, And spy afar in the plain below, Young Tracy's cap, with its plume of snow.
Never so glad is Tracy de Vore. As when he can steal away From his father's watchful, doting care, To rove with Hubert Grey.
And now, at the waterfall, side by side, Stand the Herdsman's son and the Baron's pride. The summer beams are falling there On the mountain boy and the noble heir. Time flies on; a year has sped, And summer comes again; The sun is shining warm and bright, O'er forest, hill, and plain.
But never again will Tracy de Vore Stroll from the castle wall, To play with the one he loves the best, By the mountain waterfall.
There's silence in the mansion now: Loud mirth is turned to sighing; The Baron weeps, the vassals mourn; For the noble heir is dying!
Look on the lip that so sweetly smiled, The cheek that was freshly fair; Oh, cruelly sad is the tale they tell! Consumption revels there.
With panting breath and wasting frame, The languid boy lives on; With just enough of life to show That life will soon be gone.
Pallid and weak, he is slowly led, Like an infant, from his downy bed; He turns his dimm'd and sunken eye. To look once more upon the sky: But, ah! he cannot bear the rays Of a glowing sun to meet his gaze. He breathes a sigh, and once again Looks out upon the grassy plain; He sees his milk-white palfrey there; His own pet steed, so sleek and fair: But there's no silken rein to deck The beauty of its glossy neck; No saddle-cloth is seen to shine Upon its sides-the steed doth lack A coaxing hand, and seems to pine; Missing the one that graced its back.
Young Tracy stands,—his azure eye Dwells fondly on the petted brute; The struggling tear-drop gathers fast; But still his lip is mute.
He looks once more in the castle court; The scene of many a festive sport: He sees his spaniel dull and lone; He hears its plaintive, whining tone; He looks beyond the castle wall, Where he used to play by the waterfall; He thinks on the days of health and joy, When he roved abroad with the mountain boy; And the gushing tears start down his cheek; His eyelids fall—he cannot speak—
He turns away—a gentle breast Receives his fainting form: Exhausted, trembling, pale; he sinks Like a lily from the storm.
His mother sits beside his couch, Her arm around him thrown; And bitterly she grieves above Her beautiful, her own.
With pallid lip he murmurs forth The name of Hubert Grey— "Where? where is he I love so well? Why comes he not to-day?
"Oh! bring him to me ere I die"— Enough-away; away! With eager speed, dash man and steed, To summon Hubert Grey.
And where is he? the herdsman's son, The bold, the bright, the dauntless one? The dew is off the shadiest spot; The noon is nigh, why comes he not?
Long since, the mountain boy was brought Within the castle gate; For none could soothe the pining heir, Like his old and lowly mate.
And, true as sunrise, with the dawn Has Hubert bent his steps at morn Over the crags where torrents roar, To tarry till night with Tracy de Vore. But where is he now? the sun is hot, The noon is past-why comes he not?
The vassal, Oswald, wends his way, To Hubert's home he hies; To the herdsman's hut that stands alone, Where cataract streams dash wildly on; Where giant mountains rise.
He calls aloud: "Hist, Hubert Grey! Quick, back with me on my gallant bay; Why have ye kept so long away? The darling heir is dying fast; This day, this hour, may be his last;— Come, haste thee, quick, I say !"
The door flings back-the herdsman's wife Comes forth with wondering look; "Tis strange!" she cries, "three hours ago He started, with his staff and how, And the castle way he took!
"He talk'd of gathering for the heir A bunch of wild flowers, sweet and rare— He talk'd of climbing Morna's height, Where the large blue-bells grow; They overhang-yes, yes-oh heaven! That dark ravine below!
"Hubert! my child! where art thou gone? Thy mother calls to thee!" No answer!" To the rock!" she cries— "On, Oswald! on, with me!"
Together, up the craggy path, Speed Oswald and the herdsman's wife: She calls and listens—calls again— Her heart with fear is rife.
And Oswald gives the well-known sign; He whistles shrill and clear; He winds his horn, and blows the blast, That Hubert loved to hear.
But ah! the whistle and the horn Are only echoed back; No Hubert comes-and now they reach The highest mountain track.
The foot of Oswald presses on, Right cautiously, and slow; For few would dare, like Hubert Grey, Near Morna's edge to go.
The dark gulf breaks with frightful yawn, Terrific to the gaze; A murky horror shades the spot, Beneath meridian rays.
But hush!—that sound—a hollow moan— Again, a stifled, gurgling groan! The mother stands, nor speaks nor moves, Transfixed with mute dismay! The vassal fears, his footsteps shrink; He trembles as he gains the brink: He shudders, looks with straining eyes Adown the abyss—"O Heaven!" he cries, "Tis he 'tis Hubert Grey!"
Yes, yes, 'tis he! the herdsman's son— The bold, the bright, the daring one. He hath bent him o'er to reach the flowers. That spring along the dreaded steep: His brain grows dizzy—yet again— He snatches, totters, shrieks, in vain— He falls ten fathoms deep!
The groan that met his mother's ear, Gave forth his latest breath: The mountain boy is sleeping fast, The dreamless sleep of death.
Thrown wildly back, his clotted hair Leaves his gash'd forehead, red and bare. Look on his cheek—his dauntless brow There's blood, warm blood, upon them now! His hand is clench'd with stiffen'd clasp; The wild flowers still within its grasp;
The vulture, perch'd upon the crag, Seems waiting for its prey; The vulture that at morning's light, His halloo scared away.
Stretch'd like a lion-cub he lies; As free he lived, as lonely dies; The mountain-born; the free, the brave; Too soon hath found a mountain-grave.
And many an eye shall weep his fate; And many a heart shall rue the day: For a brighter being ne'er had life Than the herdsman's son; young Hubert Grey. And Tracy de Vore, the Baron's heir, The meek; the cherub-like; the fair: He is sinking to eternal rest; Soft pillow'd on his mother's breast; He knows not that his lowly mate Has met so terrible a fate.
No dark convulsion shakes his frame; No change comes o'er his face: The icy hand hath touch'd his heart; But left no scathing trace.
One murmuring sigh escapes his lip; The sweetest toned, the last: Like the faint echo harpstrings give Of thrilling music past.
The signet seal of other worlds. Falls softly on his brow: He seem'd but sleeping when it came, He seems but sleeping now.
For Death steals soft and smilingly To close his earthly day; Like the autumn breeze that gently wafts The summer leaf away.
The Baron weeps; his look declares All hope, all joy has fled. His soul's adored; his house's pride; His only born, is dead.
The Castle is dark—no sound is heard But the wailing of deep despair. The lord and the vassal are mourning aloud For the well-loved, noble heir. Oh! truly does every heart deplore The young and beautiful Tracy de Vore. And Sorrow has found a dwelling-place In the herdsman's lowly hut. The door is fast against the sun; The casement is closely shut.
Death gave no warning there; but struck With a fierce and cruel blow: Like the barb that sinks from hand unseen In the heart of the bounding foe.
The mother laments with a maniac's grief; Her sobbing is bitterly loud: Her eye is fix'd on her mangled boy, As he lies in his winding shroud.
The herdsman's voice hath lost its tone; His brow is shaded o'er: There's a hopeless anguish in his breast, That he never felt before.
There's a tear on his check when the sun gets up; He sighs at the close of day: His mates would offer the cheering cup; But he turns his lip away. He mourns for the one that promised well To walk his land like another Tell.
The doleful tidings speed swiftly on Of the promising spirits for ever gone: And the words fall sadly on the ear Of every listening mountaineer.
They grieve for their own, their free-born child; Nestled and rear'd 'mid the vast and wild: For there trod not the hills a dearer one To the hearts of all than the herdsman's son.
They sigh to look on the turrets below; And think 'tis the lordly abode of woe: They sigh to miss from the waterfall's side, The mountain boy and the Baron's pride.
And many a tongue shall tell the tale, And many a heart shall rue the day; When the Hut and Castle lost their hopes In Tracy de Vore and Hubert Grey!
