Rogvald; an epic poem, in twelve books

Front matter

R O G V A L D. ROGVALD; AN EPIC POEM, IN TWELVE BOOKS. BY J. F. PENNIE, Author of The Royal Minstrel, an Epic Poem, fyc. -Sfc. Power and high titles men are fond to gain As they could bring content, or make a chain To fix inconstant Fortune ; — but in vain ! For often those who climbed the dangerous way,'; And reached the pinnacle where honours lay, Envy, like lightning, tumbled headlong down, And in the grave they sunk who wore the crown. Dryden's Lucret., lib. v. LONDON: PRINTED FOR G. AND W. B. WHITTAKER, AVE-MARIA LANE. MDCCCXXIH. LONDON , PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES, NortliuiiiWrlniiil < onrt, Stran.t TO THE REV. JOSIAH ALLPORT, THIS EPIC POEM is dedicated, as a testimony of the highest respect for his professional character, virtues, and talents, and of the warmest acknowledgment of his great friendship, BY HIS VERY GRATEFULLY OBLIGED, AND MOST SINCERE FRIEND, J. F. PENNIE.

Preface

. " Aristotle observes," says a great Author, in his criticism on Milton's Paradise Lost, " that the Fable of an Epic Poem should abound in circumstances that are both credible and astonishing ; or, as the French Critics choose to phrase it, the Fable should be filled with the probable and the marvellous. This rule is as fine and just as any in Aristotle's whole art of Poetry. If the Fable is only probable, it differs nothing from a true History ; if it is only marvellous, it is no better than a Romance. The secret, therefore, of Heroic Poetry, is to relate such circumstances as may produce in the Reader at the same time both belief and astonishment. This is brought to pass by a well-chosen Fable, by the account of such things as have really happened, or at least of such things as have happened according to the received opinions of mankind.

The next method of re conciling miracles with credibility, is by a happy inven tion of the Poet ; as in particular, when he introduces agents of a superior nature, who are capable of effecting

PREFACE.

. what is wonderful, and what is not to be met with in the ordinary course of things."— The Fable of Rogvald is drawn from an obscure and barbarous age, to which fictions, says Dr. Johnson, are most easily and properly adapted. The supernatural agents, or what is otherwise termed the machinery, which I have adopted, is per fectly agreeable to those dark ages of half paganism and superstition, in which the action of the Poem is sup posed to have taken place. I have avoided representing the power of Pagan or Scandinavian deities as real, (which, in my opinion, is a glaring error in some modern poems of considerable celebrity.) — The assumption of great and warlike names by the demons of darkness, under which they have in all ages and in all countries encouraged a false worship, diametrically opposite to that of the true God, has enabled me reasonably to account for the delusions of northern witchcraft, carried on by the power of the Prince of the Air.

In support of other parts of the machinery, which I have made use of in this and a former Epic Poem, I shall make a few quotations from Dr. Dwight's " System of Theology." " Proofs of the power with which these exalted beings are endowed, and of the amplest kind, are in several in stances recorded in the Scriptures. An angel destroyed

PREFACE.

. IX threescore and ten thousand persons out of Judah and Israel, in three days, in consequence of the sin of David in numbering the people. An angel destroyed, in one night, the army of Sennacherib, an hundred fourscore and five thousand men ! Angels also are exhibited, in the Revelations of St. John, as holding the four winds of heaven, and as executing, in a long succession, the judg ments of God upon this evil world, with a series of efforts demanding power utterly incomprehensible by us. In the twentieth chapter of this book particularly, one of them is exhibited as binding that fierce and strong spirit, the Prince of the power of the air, who has so extensively and dreadfully distressed this unhappy world ; as casting him into the bottomless pit, and as setting a seal upon him that he should deceive the nations no more until the thousand years should be fulfilled.

In all these instances angels are exhibited as endowed with might to which other intelligent creatures can make no pretensions, and of which man cannot even form any adequate con ception." " Angels hold the first employments and offices in the universe. " Virtuous angels are declared to be all-ministering spirits, sent forth to minister to the heirs of salvation, and are throughout the Scriptures exhibited as being

PREFACE.

. X really, continually, and extensively concerned in the affairs of the present world. With the same clearness are fallen angels also declared to be thus employed. " Nor is there any presumption against this interfer ence of either. We, it is true, could not know this fact, unless it were declared to us ; or unless we were to become acquainted with it by experimental evidence. But that the rational inhabitants of one world should be interested in the concerns of another, and, if allowed by God thus to act, interfere in them in a manner suited to their respective dispositions, is in a high degree pro bable fie, certainly, if we were able, and were per mitted to visit the planetary worlds, should take such a part in the important concerns of their inhabitants as suited our dispositions. If we were governed by benevo lent motives, we should save or relieve them so far as was in our power, from dangers and sufferings ; if by malevolent ones, we should promote their distress and ruin.

We do in reality thus act in this world ; not in our own affairs, but in those of others ; in the affairs of strangers as well as those of friends, and of those in distant nations and countries as well as our own. But there is nothing more unnatural or improbable in our interference, if it were permitted, in the concerns of distant worlds, than in those of distant nations."

PREFACE.

. XI As for the will and power of evil spirits to interfere in the concerns of mankind, we need no further authorities for making use of their agency than the first chapter of the Book of Job. There we find what the devil can do by the permission of his Maker. Should the following poem be thought by some readers to wander too widely into the wild and unlimited regions of fancy, I cannot better reply to such persons than in the words of the Author on the genius and character of the unfortunate Dermody, in the London Magazine for June 1820.

" The great poet, however, is not satisfied in vivid descriptions of external nature alone ; in narrating things which are, his imagination is fettered and cannot run riot, without control, over the fields of fancy, or expa tiate upon the beauties of forms unseen, or which only float across the eternal vision of the mind. 'Tis when he gives ' to airy nothing a local habitation and a name ;' when he pictures to the imagination things which are not, and impresses his own frenzy on the prepared tablet of our brain ; when, like a mighty wizard, he hurries us to regions unknown, save in sweet song, and brings in dread array the mighty dead around ; when he per sonifies the passions, and all the attributes of men and angels ; when, by abrupt transition, he makes us soar to P R E F A C E . the heavens above, or descend to the earth beneath, or dives with us still deeper into the profound recess of the ocean, or unbars the adamantine gates of hell, when he exhibits the vulture of remorse preying upon the conscience, and lays bare before us the mechanism of the mind, with all its varied movements, its greatness and its guilt. 'Tis when he does all this, and more, that the Poet stands before us crowned with immortality, and glorying in the sublimity of his strength.

Without the stretch of the imaginative faculty, his numbers may delight and improve, but they never can inspire others with that animating breath which Rides on the vollied lightnings thro' the heavens, Or yoked with whirlwinds, and the northern blast, Sweeps the long track of day !" I have chosen England for the scene of an Epic Poem — England This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-Paradise. This fortress built by nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war ; This precious stone set in the silver sea ; Which serves it in the office of a wall. Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands ; Thi« nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings PREFACF.. Feared for their breed, and famous by their birth.

Renowned for their deeds This dear, dear land, Dear for her reputation through the world, is truly poetic ground. So widely different in their customs, manners, and religions were the various na tions that ages ago successively invaded this island, and obtained the sovereignty of its fertile and beautiful pro vinces, that its early History is replete with all that constitutes the charm of poetry ; while, in spite of mo dern improvement, its surface still bears those venerable Celtic, Roman, Saxon, Danish, and Norman vestiges of ancient days in its tumuli, temples, theatres, camps, monastic remains, fyc., which so much delight the anti quarian in his wandering researches, and awaken in the bosom of the poet the inspiring rapture of romantic enthusiasm- Should any lines in the following Poem appear to some readers to have the least bearing on either polemics or modern politics, I must beg leave to protest against any such inference, and declare, that the plot, or tale, and many parts of the poem were written several years ago. Lulwortli Cottage, April 1822. K0GVALD.

Book I

" Think now first of noble birth, if any one should glory in this, how idle and fruitless would that glory be ! because every one knows that all men come from one father and mother." King Alfred's Addition to Boetius's Remarks on Nobility. " Where great additions swell, and virtue none, It is a dropsied honour- Good alone Is gooil without a name ; vileness is so The property by what it is should go, Not by the title * * * * * * * # Honours best thrive When rather from our acts we them derive, Than nur fore-goers — the mere word's a slave Debauched on every tomb, on every grave A lying trophy, and as oft is dumb, Where dust and damned oblivion is the tomb Of honoured bones indeed." All's well that ends well. Act II. Sc. 3. ROGVALD.

BOOK I.

1 HE sun beneath thy purple mountain heights, O lofty Malvern, That the rosy vale Of Glevum overlooks, is set in pomp The western sky, In radiant tints, that to the eye portray A magic scene of Alps, Of tower, and isle, With intervening lake and emerald mead, Glows with unusual splendours, Which impart To the wood-skirted mere and craggy steep, Tints of the richest crimson. — Now is heard Aerial, wavering music, soft and wild Through Druid forest, hawthorn bower, and grove, B As if of Seraphs a cloud-vestured choir Had to our world kind visitation paid, And touched their golden wires With skill divine, The prelude of some happy news from heaven To man ! The birds on every bloomy spray, In strains responsive, Join th' harmonious chime Of falling waters ; while balm-breathing winds The hymn of their eternal pilgrimage Sweetly rehearse. — It is the hour, When o'er the dark-brown wood, and twilight vale, Her ever-sparkling star, The lover's guide, Resplendent Venus lights — The virgin lifts Her blue eye upward, rivalling its beams, And blesses the soft radiance As she moves Onward to meet her warrior's stolen embrace, By yon cascade, Where bounds from rock to rock The mountain-stream, in sheeted silver clad; Where, mid the willow shades, the minstrel bird, With warbled lay, Soothingly sad, Closes the dim eye of expiring day.

But see ! what form of beauty hither moves, Beneath the deepening shade Of those tall oaks, That bosom Erkenwulf's dark-frowning towers, By Avon's lucid stream * With Dian's grace the violet-lawn it treads Inimitable ! — Is it the vision of some female saint, In cloud of fragrance shrined, The tutelary guardian of the line Of princely Erkenwulf ? — Ah ! no it is A mortal maid, Last of that honoured house ; In whom its martial glory and high fame Now centred, Show like the broad setting sun, When, of its fierce And noontide blazings robbed, It sheds a mild effulgence — Maid of grief, Though tears the lustre of thine eyes bedim, Yet from their orbs such diamond sparkles break As shame the twinkling stars ! Though pale the rose Of beauty on thy cheek, yet chiefs and kings Would barter pearls and rubies, B [Book I. 4 ROGVALD.

To kiss off The liquid gem that trembles there so bright ! Her amber-shining tresses, unconfined. Float like a golden banner on the breeze : — Not e'en Euphrosyne, The sweetest grace, So graceful moved, Nor Psyche, Love's beloved maid. With her might be compared, Nor she, Callirhoe, who such numbers drew. To lanquish at her feet in vain ; Nor Helen famed. For whom an empire fell ; Nor Thais, when She sat beside the monarch of the world. On Persia's golden throne ! — Nor looked so sweetly sad Love's beauteous goddess, when she wounded fled The Phrygian fields of fight ;— But hark ! she speaks — The whispering winds are hushed — such stillness reigns, That you her sigh May hear as it perfumes the air, But at each pause of her sweet voice, The far-off Avon, Rushing o'er his bed of rocks. Like an accordant sympathy Of sounds, wild and melodious, strike the ear.

" Let blackest clouds and storms blot out yon stars, And deluge earth a second time with tears ! The sun forget the orient climes to gild, Nor rise again above the ocean-surge, That deepest midnight may for ever reign ; Shed all thy roses, O thou favourite bower, Nor let the breeze, with odoriferous wing, The glittering dew-drop from thy blossoms shake Into the purple lap of smiling dawn — Ye lilies, fade and die ; ye primrose-flowers, No longer bloom : be leafless all the year, Ye lofty shades, and let the howling storms Of an eternal winter on you blow ! Let thunders split your giant-limbs, ye oaks, Sons of the sacred grove, that have unmoved, In all your verdant pride, seen ages pass Successively away ; let lightnings scath Your dark-green foliage, till you blasted stand Half fire-consumed, and desolately bare ! — Ye birds, that haunt this dim sequestered spot, Where purple violets hang at noon their heads, Gemmed with night's crystal tears, love-songs to pour, Wail in the deepest, saddest strains of woe, Then, broken-hearted, with Elburga die, That music's voice may here be heard no more, But storms and thunders, mingled with the skrieks Of fierce despair, loud as the sounding seas That roared above my Rogvald's watery bier !

" Thus to the shades The sweet Elburga spoke, With sorrow-streaming eye and gesture wild, As rose night's full-orb'd planet o'er those groves, That hemmed the embattled towers of Erkenwulf, In majesty supreme. A moon-ray pale, As on the lunar orb her eye she fix'd, Kissed her still paler cheek ; And on a lip, That regal conquerors sighed in vain to press, Played wantonly. — O ! 'twas a sweeter bed, Than it could in the opening musk-rose find, When evening with her balmy dew impearls Its deeply-blushing leaf ! " O sainted love, Tho' Ruthless floods have washed thee from these arms To some far distant isle or barbarous shore Yet we again shall meet, and I behold In happier climes my Rogvald heaven-enshrined.— Perhaps in thy fair sun-reflecting fields, Queen of the night, that shinest so bright, he strays, Companion of a happy sinless race Of pure immortals — or, on seraph wings, Art thou, my Rogvald, fled to yonder star, That, 'twixt the golden skirts of those dim clouds, Looks out to cheer the lonely lover's gaze. — Ah ! does no thought of thy Elburga, left On these dark shores of grief, thy pleasures mar ? — Oh ! when shall I this cumbrous load cast off, Of dull mortality, and fly to thee ! — " With pride elate, my flinty-hearted sire Enjoys those dreams his wild ambition paints, And dooms his child to splendid wretchedness !

Ah, what avails to gain a pompous name, High-sounding titles, dazzling rank, or power, From gentle blood, or royalty, derived? While worth and nobler merit pine obscure, Beneath the chilling frown of base contempt. — If love be absent, not the courtly train, The glittering diadem, the gorgeous pall Of regal purple, nor the bended knee, The sceptre, throne, nor coronation shouts, Can yield the vacant heart substantial joy ; All are but gilded cares that steal our peace, And cheat us with a dream of happiness. Yes, I will hence — ere yon full orb can set — Seek the bleak coast where perished my loved lord, And find, amid its cliffs, some surf-beat cave, That looks far off to sea— there cloistered watch The coming storm, and listen to the song, That song of solemn wildness, sweetly sad, When ocean-spirits, with their silver shells, The king of tempests, clad in lightning, wake ; When with their wizard warblings on the gale, That stirs the azure of the main to foam, Comes the shrill echo of the seaman's knell, Along the shores, rung by no mortal hand; — Then, as despitously the wrathful sea Casts in the face of heaven his mountain-surge, I '11 madly climb some savage rock that braves The battling swell of the wide-rolling deep, And from its craggy summit, wrapped in storms, Amid the foamy-dashing breakers plunge !

Despair hath seized mv soul ! for my stern sire, To add a tenfold horror to my fate, Pleased with the splendour blood-stained conquest throws Around th' ambitious victor's laurelled brows — Commands that I my bridal hand shall give To the Britwalda, who in pomp returned (a) From Kent and Anglia's kingdoms, crowned with wreaths Of triumph, won on slaughter's hard-fought fields, Vouchsafes to woo me partner of his throne. O my loved Rogvald, in that fatal hour. When thou wert banished from my father's o-ate, My boding heart presaged, as then I hung On thy fond bosom dumb with agony, That we, on earth, should never meet again ! With what reluctance did I yield him up To all the perils of the stormy sea, As, rushing from my arms he cried — ' I go To win, in fields of glory, wide renown : There, fighting, nobly fall, or thence return More worthy of my bright Elburga's love."

But yonder comes the haughty Mercian king ! Sure 'twas his evil genius that unbarred Those caverns where the winds and tempests sleep, Forth sending them the wrathful deep to vex, And shipwreck, mid the warring elements, The bark that o'er the seas my Rogvald bore ! O Nature ! Nature ! why art thou so calm, When madness, like a whirlwind, tears my soul ! — O ! with my feelings be in unison, And let me sleep beneath the wreck of worlds ! " Thus, half distraught, Elburga fled the grove, but nature still Was calm, nor sympathized With the lorn maid, For 'twas her sabbath hour — The nightingale her richly-varied tones Poured with a more than common fullness forth : So still the passing wind, Its tuneful sigh Shook not a dew-drop from the modest rose, That, blushing, hung her head, as if t' avoid Its wanton kiss so sweet, — The fierce, huge mountain-stag (b) Slumbered in mossy lair, Lulled by the winged beetle's drowzy hum : Where the white bison on the brown heath couched, His savageness forgetting, Fluttered low The purling night-hawk wakeful for her prey : The eagle slept High on her craggy peak, involved in mist ; Around her giant form bright meteors shot In lambent lines, as though she still retained The lightning-bolt of Jove !

The wolf forebore The stars to bay, as if by music charm'd ; While from a silver-lined cloud walked forth, In all her majesty of light, The empress regent of the spangled sky, A flood of glory showering o'er the scene — There in the glassy mirror of the lake, Fringed by the linden and o'erhanging oak, Her image she With conscious pride beheld, While here the lily that so loves To bloom in her pale shining All its bosomed sweets, To woo her kisses, lavishly disclosed. — Is it the chequered shade of some dark pine, That falls on the green bosom of the lawn ? Is it the spirit of some warrior chief, Renown'd for mighty deeds in Scaldic song, Whose ashes on the hill of battles sleep, That hither moves, enwrapt in misty cloud, So solemnly majestic and august ? 'Tis Ethelred, the child of Cridda's blood, (c) The boasted offspring of her nation's god !

Fresh from the plains of war, with laurels crowned, And battle-sword yet reeking with the blood Of British princes, and the mightiest chiefs The ocean-circled isle of Albion boasts ! It is the shadow of his waving plumes That stretches o'er the bosom of the lawn — His kingly port and most commanding form Seem to betoken him of god-like line. Yet is there, e'en in triumph's gloried hour, When the red field with shouts of conquest rings, A spot on that bright sun, a cloud of care, Shading those lofty brows, as dark mists hang High on th' illumined mountain's topmost steep. Revenge, that mortals shudder to behold, Is in his glance severe ; pride curls his lip, Ambition's ardent glow his features flush, Save when the ghastly paleness of grim fear, For some dark deed of death, usurps its seat. But love, at times, can all its sternness melt To bright complacency, soften the fires Of a proud eye, as mountain eagle's keen, To beams of tenderness, and o'er him throw The magic of its influence, as the moon On the rude landscape of the desert casts Her silver light gilding its darkest rocks.

" Was not that fair Elburga's goddess form That with the fairy step of Freya, who Weeps golden tears in love's delicious bowers, Glided betwixt the shades of yonder glen ?" Said Ethelred to Osmond, his loved friend, Now sole attendant on his regal lord — " By Odin's glory, father of our line, Not half the joy swell 'd this ambitious soul When with my war-axe on Deira plains, Amid the rout of arms, the casque I clove Of Elfwin, and the princely warrior laid Dead at my feet ; nor when around the towers Of royal Redbangurb I mountains piled Of blazing wood and compassed it with flames, Laughing to hear the death-shrieks, yells, and groans, Of those shut up within its fiery walls ! — (d) Nor when that I on blood-stained Tyne unhorsed Oswald, the king of those fair realms that lie Beyond wide Humber's flood, to where are fixt The boundaries of Pictavia, and then led The wounded prince a captive to my tent.

Amid the thundering shouts of my glad host ; No, — nor, my Osmond, when this daring hand Plucked boldly from young Clito Kenred's brows (e) The glittering circle of imperial power, Despite of faction, and the glorious wreath Placed, in exulting triumph, on mine own — Not half the joy, I say, this bosom filled As when I think and speak of yon sweet maid !" " And yet your queen" " Perdition seize the wretch ! — No language can my hatred to her paint ! — O, let me ever dwell in durance dark Where speckled snakes engender, and around My dungeon-couch their monster volumes roll. There let the vapour-fed and bloated toad Sit on my sordid pillow and distil Its venom on my lips in poisonous dews ; And with his dismal death-howl be my guard The hyaena fell, rather than her I loath These once-fond doating arms again should fill, Or I be e'en polluted with her touch !"• — " Shield of thy people, lion of the war, Well do I know that thou to her hast long Borne deep and deadly hate— but in thy words Some horrid mystery lies" " Thee I will trust — Yes, the long-prison'd anguish of my soul, That, oft, despite my firmness, clouds this brow, ROGVALD. [Book I. 14 Shall, like the hidden and struggling fire, burst forth, And those I hate destroy ! — Thou art the first Ordained to hear me say My wife was false !

Osmond, by yon blue heaven, ere I did lead The wanton to the altar she had given Her honour to another ! — for which deed May all the pangs that priests and Scaldi paint In Hela's dire abodes her portion be ! — O, I, who held her pure as Christian saint, Was duped, befooled, and my most honoured love Wounded beyond the power of balm to heal ! At Cridda's castle, whose proud towers o'erlook The Severn's dark blue waters, twelve long years Have I the traitress a close prisoner kept ; But ere three days do pass I have decreed That she shall die, my honour's wound to heal !" " But may I ask what proofs your Highness had Of this Offrida's falsehood ?" " Proofs ! saidst thou * — Hear all my tale, and then be judge if proofs Were wanting to confirm my just revenge. 'Twas when amid the shout-resounding halls Of Cridda's palace, as my brother came In triumph from some blood-dyed field of strife, That I did first behold her — O ! she seem'd Among the virgins of the Anglo court (f) Like yonder moon so beauteously that shines Above those lights pale-twinkling in her train !

Book L] ROGVALD. 15 Her eye was bluer than yon infinite Of cloudless sapphire, brighter than thy beams O evestar, that from Malvern's hill-top gleam So sparkingly serene ! — Her tuneful voice Far sweeter-toned than those night-warbled notes Of yonder mournful bird — O madness ! death ! Why do I, like a maniac, rave of charms That though with combination sweet they formed The centre of my heaven, dishonour changed To blackest hell ! — Her princely sire approved My ardent love — nay, to the altar forced My unconsenting bride — How weak was I To think that virgin fear and coy reserve Tinged the still-changeful colour of her cheek, Where guilt and hatred held alternate rule ! — Those days which followed that accursed hour Were cheerless all ! the nuptial paradise Was drowned in tears ! — No sweetly smiling sun Of warm desires e'er dawned, the infant buds Of swelling bliss to cherish, and expand Love's roses into full maturity ; But all was chilling gloom, and cloud, and storm, Till every hope, and every flower expired !

Suspicion set my soul upon the rack, And I her actions scanned with lynx-like glance. One night — O, night of never-dying shame, Of wild revenge, and murder ! — at a feast Given by her sire in honour of herbirth, Amid his bannered halls, with rage I marked Her ill-timed absence— from the festal board In wrathful mood I rose, and hastening left The towers of chivalry and noisy mirth.— In robber's garb concealed, roaming alone, Thro' forest glen, thro' grove and deep defile, I reached, at length, a peasant's lonely hut Reared in the sheltering bosom of a wood, From hamlet, tower, and city, hid afar. Where, by the glimpses of the wandering moon, — Yon very moon that winked upon my shame, And smiling seemed to say — ' Behold thy wife !' — I saw Offrida, near the cottage door, Holding a rosy urchin in her arms, Whom to her bosom she right fondly strained.

With ardent kiss on kiss, and called him son. Her angel boy, the image of his sire ! Frantic with rage I from the thicket sprang. That darkling in its shades had me concealed, And seizing by the throat the damned imp. My dagger in his mother's bosom plunged, Then bore him screaming from her struggling arms. Till, wild with desperation and revenge, I reached the Severn's bank, and in its flood, Loaded with maledictions, hurled the brat !— From shore to shore the shriek of death was heard — Then all was still — I listened, but no sounds Save the soft rippling of the silvery wave Fell on mine ear, till soon methought I heard, In the low lapses of the wailing blast, The dismal cry of ' Murder !' loud and shrill, Ringing through forest, glade, and valley dim !

I felt my curdling blood transformed to ice, Nor longer on the death-stream dared to gaze, But fled with curses from the fatal spot ! — The queen was to the castle brought, ere morn, By peasants, who reported they had found The lady faint and bleeding near the walls, Wounded by robbers — palsied be this arm That failed to strike the poniard to her heart ! — Then, her in guileful art surpassing, I Offered rewards to find the assassins out ; With mournful tenderness hung o'er her couch, As on his mangled victim, blood-besmeared, Weeps the fell alligator of the Nile, And with dissembled fondness sought to assuage Those agonies of mind she ill concealed — Not so did I her curst confederates treat, That in the forest dwelt At dead of night I thither flew, and, while its inmates lay Buried in sweet oblivious slumbers, fired The reedy cottage ! — Dark a storm arose, On which rode the fell demon of revenge, And with his sail-broad wings fanned the red flames That, mounting upward, o'er the dusky woods A ghastly radiance flung ; the thunder's voice, Re-echoing through the forest, drowned the shrieks c [Book T. ROGVALD. 18 Of the flame-circled victims as they sunk Amid the fiery gulf, and ere the morn The cries of anguish ceased, the flames expired.