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I left you.
calm ; his friends became uneasy, but still his On such employment! With far other thoughts optimism prevailed; he could afford to wait. And although he did at last admit the great Ord. (A side.) Ha! he has been tampering with her. movement was somewhat tardy, and that the Alv. O high-souled maiden! and more dear to me audience seemed rather patient than interested,
Than suits the stranger's name ! he did not lose his confidence till the tumult
I swear to thee
I will uncover all concealed guilt. arose, and then he submitted with quiet dignity
Doubt, but decide not! Stand ye from the altar. to the fate of genius, too lofty to be understood
[Here a strain of music is heard from behind the by a world as yet in its childhood.'
scene. The next new play was also by a man of dis With no irreverent voice or uncouth charm tinguished genius, and it also was unsuccessful. I call up the departed ! Julian and Agnes, by WILLIAM SOTHEBY, the
Soul of Alvar! translator of Oberon, was acted April 25, 1800. Hear our soft suit, and heed my milder spell : 'In the course of its performance, Mrs Siddons, So may the gates of paradise, unbarred, as the heroine, had to make her exit from the Cease thy swift toils ! Since happily thou art one scene with an infant in her arms. Having to
Of that innumerable company, retire precipitately, she inadvertently struck the
Who in broad circle, lovelier than the rainbow, baby's head violently against a door-post. Hap
Girdle this round earth in a dizzy motion,
With noise too vast and constant to be heard : pily, the little thing was made of wood, so that
Fitliest unheard ! For oh, ye numberless her doll's accident only produced a general laugh,
And rapid travellers ! what ear unstunned, in which the actress herself joined heartily.' This What sense unmaddened, might bear up against "untoward event' would have marred the success The rushing of your congregated wings?
[Music. of any new tragedy; but Mr Sotheby's is deficient Even now your living wheel turns o'er my head ! in arrangement and dramatic art.
[Music expressive of the movements and images The tragedies of Coleridge, Scott, Byron, Proc
that follow. ter, and Milman-noticed in our account of these Ye, as ye pass, toss high the desert sands, poets—must be considered as poems rather than
That roar and whiten like a burst of waters, plays. Coleridge's Remorse was acted with some
A sweet appearance, but a dread illusion success in 1813, aided by fine original music, but
To the parched caravan that roams by night! it has not since been revived. It contains, how
And ye, build up on the becalmed waves
That whirling pillar, which from earth to heaven ever, some of Coleridge's most exquisite poetry
Stands vast, and moves in blackness! Ye, too, split and wild superstition, with a striking romantic The ice mount ! and with fragments many and huge plot. We extract one scene :
Tempest the new-thawed sea, whose sudden gulfs
Suck in, perchance, some Lapland wizard's skiff ! Incantation Scene from. Remorse.'
Then round and round the whirlpool's marge ye dance,
Till from the blue swollen corse the soul toils out, Scene-A Hall of Armoury, with an altar at the back of the stage. And joins your mighty army. Soft music from an instrument of glass or steel.
[Here, behind the scenes
, a voice sings the three VALDEZ, ORDONIO, and Alvar in a Sorcerer's robe, are
words, 'Hear, sweet spirit.' discovered.
Soul of Alvar! Ordonio. This was too melancholy, father.
Hear the mild spell, and tempt no blacker charm! Valdez. Nay,
By sighs unquiet, and the sickly pang My Alvar loved sad music from a child.
Of a half-dead, yet still undying hope, Once he was lost, and after weary search
Pass visible before our mortal sense! We found him in an open place in the wood,
So shall the church's cleansing rites be thine, To which spot he had followed a blind boy,
Her knells and masses, that redeem the dead ! Who breathed into a pipe of sycamore Some strangely moving notes, and these, he said, Song behind the scenes, accompanied by the same instrument Were taught him in a dream. Him we first saw
as before. Stretched on the broad top of a sunny heath-bank :
Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell, And lower down poor Alvar, fast asleep,
Lest a blacker charm compel! His head upon the blind boy's dog. It pleased me
So shall the midnight breezes swell To mark how he had fastened round the pipe
With thy deep long lingering knell. A silver toy his grandam had late given him.
And at evening evermore, Methinks I see him now as he then looked
In a chapel on the shore, Even so! He had outgrown his infant dress,
Shall the chanters, sad and saintly, Yet still he wore it.
Yellow tapers burning faintly, Alvar. My tears must not flow!
Doleful masses chant for thee,
Miserere, Domine !
Hark! the cadence dies away
On the yellow moonlight sea : here,
The boatmen rest their oars and say, And I submit; but-Heaven bear witness for me
Miserere, Domine! My heart approves it not ! 'tis mockery.
[A long pause. Ord. Believe you, then, no preternatural influence? Ord. The innocent obey nor charm nor spell ! Believe you not that spirits throng around us?
My brother is in heaven. Thou sainted spirit, Ter. Say rather that I have imagined it
Burst on our sight, a passing visitant ! A possible thing: and it has soothed my soul
Once more to hear thy voice, once more to see thee, As other fancies have ; but ne'er seduced me
Oh, 'twere a joy to me! To traffic with the black and frenzied hope
Alv. A joy to thee ! That the dead hear the voice of witch or wizard. What if thou heardst him now? What if his spirit [To Alvar.] Stranger, I mourn and blush to see you Re-entered its cold corse, and came upon thee here
With many a stab from many a murderer's poniard ?
What if-his steadfast eye still beaming pity thus extending over the long period of thirtyAnd brother's love he turned his head aside, eight years. Only one of her dramas has ever Lest he should look at thee, and with one look been performed on the stage; De Montfort was Hurl thee beyond all power of penitence?
brought out by Kemble shortly after its appearVald. These are unholy fancies ! Ord. (Struggling with his feelings.] Yes, my father, introduced in 1821, to exhibit the talents of Kean
ance, and was acted eleven nights. It was again He is in heaven ! Alv. [Still to Ordonio.] But what if he had a
in the character of De Montfort; but this actor brother,
remarked that, though a fine poem, it would never Who had lived even so, that at his dying hour be an acting play. The author who mentions The name of heaven would have convulsed his face this circumstance, remarks : 'If Joanna Baillie More than the death-pang ?
had known the stage practically, she would never Vald. Idly prating man !
have attached the importance which she does Thou hast guessed ill : Don Alvar's only brother to the development of single passions in single Stands here before thee-a father's blessing on him ! tragedies; and she would have invented more He is most virtuous.
stirring incidents to justify the passion of her Alv. [Still to Ordonio.) What if his very virtues Had pampered his swollen heart and made him proud? which, though peculiarly predominant in the
characters, and to give them that air of fatality And what if pride had duped him into guilt ? Yet still he stalked a self-created god,
Greek drama, will also be found, to a certain Not very bold, but exquisitely cunning;
extent, in all successful tragedies. Instead of this, And one that at his mother's looking-glass
she contrives to make all the passions of her main Would force his features to a frowning sternness!
characters proceed from the wilful natures of the Young lord ! I tell thee that there are such beings beings themselves. Their feelings are not precipiYea, and it gives fierce merriment to the damned tated by circumstances, like a stream down a To see these most proud men, that loathe mankind, declivity, that leaps from rock to rock; but, for At every stir and buzz of coward conscience, want of incident, they seem often like water on a Trick, cant, and lie; most whining hypocrites !
level, without a propelling impulse.'* The design Away, away! Now let me hear more music.
[Music again. the elucidation of one passion, appears certainly
of Miss Baillie in restricting her dramas each to Ter. 'Tis strange, I tremble at my own conjectures to have been an unnecessary and unwise restraint, But whatsoe'er it mean, I dare no longer Pe present at these lawless mysteries,
as tending to circumscribe the business of the This dark provoking of the hidden powers !
piece, and exclude the interest arising from varied Already I affront-if not high Heaven
emotions and conflicting passions. It cannot be Yet Alvar's memory! Hark! I make appeal said to have been successful in her own case, Against the unholy rite, and hasten hence
and it has never been copied by any other author. To bend before a lawful shrine, and seek
Sir Walter Scott has eulogised Basil's love and That voice which whispers, when the still heart listens, Montfort's hate' as something like a revival of the Comfort and faithful hope! Let us retire.
inspired strain of Shakspeare. The tragedies of
Count Basil and De Montfort are among the best JOANNA BAILLIE.
of Miss Baillie's plays ; but they are more like the
works of Shirley, or the serious parts of Massinger, The most important addition to the written than the glorious dramas of Shakspeare, so full drama at this time was the first volume of JOANNA of life, of incident, and imagery. Miss Baillie's BAILLIE's plays on the Passions, published in style is smooth and regular, and her plots are both 1798 under the title of A Series of Plays: in original and carefully constructed ; but she has which it is attempted to delineate the Stronger no poetical luxuriance, and few commanding situPassions of the Mind, each Passion being the ations. Her tragic scenes are too much connected Subject of a Tragedy and a Comedy. To the with the crime of murder, one of the easiest volume was prefixed a long and interesting intro- resources of a tragedian ; and partly from the ductory discourse, in which the authoress dis- delicacy of her sex, as well as from the restrictions cusses the subject of the drama in all its bearings, imposed by her theory of composition, she is and asserts the supremacy of simple nature over deficient in that variety and fulness of passion, the all decoration and refinement. Let one simple form and pressure of real life, which are so trait of the human heart, one expression of passion, essential on the stage. The design and plot of genuine and true to nature, be introduced, and it her dramas are obvious almost from the first act will stand forth alone in the boldness of reality, -a circumstance that would be fatal to their whilst the false and unnatural around it fades success in representation. away upon every side, like the rising exhalations of the morning. This theory—which anticipated the dissertations and most of the poetry of Words
Scene from ' De Montfort.' worth--the accomplished dramatist illustrated in De Montfort explains to his sister Jane his hatred of Rezenvelt, her plays, the merits of which were instantly deepening of this malignant passion, and its frightful catastrophe,
which at last hurries him into the crime of murder. The gradual recognised, and a second edition called for in a are powerfully depicted. We may remark, that the character of few months. Miss Baillie was then in the thirty; his settled gloom, and the violence of his passions, seem to have
De Montfort, his altered habits and appearance after his travels, fourth year of her age. In 1802 she published been the prototype of Byron's Manfred and Lara. a second volume, and in 1812 a third. In the interval, she had produced a volume of miscellane
De Montfort. No more, my sister ; urge me not
again; ous dramas (1804), and The Family Legend (1810),
My secret troubles cannot be revealed. a tragedy founded on a Highland tradition, and From all participation of its thoughts brought out with success at the Edinburgh theatre. My heart recoils : I pray thee, be contented. In 1836 this authoress Published three more volumes of plays, her career as a dramatic writer
* Campbell's Life of Mrs Siddons.
Fane. What! must I, like a distant humble friend, De Mon. (Raising her, and kneelings]
Thus let him kneel who should the abased be, In timid silence, whilst with yearning heart
And at thine honoured feet confession make. I turn aside to weep? O no, De Montfort !
I'll tell thee all—but, oh! thou wilt despise me A nobler task thy nobler mind will give;
For in my breast a raging passion burns, Thy true intrusted friend I still shall be.
To which thy soul no sympathy will own-
Feel like the oppressive, airless pestilence.
Jane. Say not so:
A lover's jealousy and hopeless pangs
De Mon. A lover's, say'st thou ?
Which thus hath driven me forth from kindred peace, So sadly orphaned : side by side we stood,
From social pleasure, from my native home, Like two young trees, whose boughs in early strength To be a sullen wanderer on the earth, Screen the weak saplings of the rising grove,
Avoiding all men, cursing and accursed ! And brave the storm together.
Fane. De Montfort, this is fiend-like, terrible! I have so long, as if by nature's right,
What being, by the Almighty Father formed Thy bosom's inmate and adviser been,
Of flesh and blood, created even as thou, I thought through life I should have so remained, Could in thy breast such horrid tempest wake, Nor ever known a change. Forgive me, Montfort; Who art thyself his fellow? A humbler station will I take by thee;
Unknit thy brows, and spread those wrath-clenched The close attendant of thy wandering steps,
hands. The cheerer of this home, with strangers sought, Some sprite accursed within thy bosom mates The soother of those griefs I must not know.
To work thy ruin. Strive with it, my brother ! This is mine office now : I ask no more.
Strive bravely with it; drive it from thy heart; De Mon. O Jane, thou dost constrain me with thy 'Tis the degrader of a noble heart. love
Curse it, and bid it part. Would I could tell it thee!
De Mon. It will not part. I've lodged it here too long. Fane. Thou shalt not tell it me. Nay, I 'll stop mine With my first cares, I felt its rankling touch. ears,
I loathed him when a boy. Nor from the yearnings of affection wring
Fane. Whom didst thou say? What shrinks from utterance. Let it pass, my brother. De Mon. Detested Rezenvelt! I'll stay by thee ; I'll cheer thee, comfort thee ; E'en in our early sports, like two young whelps Pursue with thee the study of some art,
Of hostile breed, instinctively averse, Or nobler science, that compels the mind
Each 'gainst the other pitched his ready pledge, To steady thought progressive, driving forth
And frowned defiance. As we onward passed All floating, wild, unhappy fantasies,
From youth to man's estate, his narrow art Till thou, with brow unclouded, smil'st again; And envious gibing malice, poorly veiled Like one who, from dark visions of the night,
In the affected carelessness of mirth, When the active soul within its lifeless cell
Still more detestable and odious grew. Holds its own world, with dreadful fancy pressed There is no living being on this earth Of some dire, terrible, or murderous deed,
Who can conceive the malice of his soul, Wakes to the dawning morn, and blesses Heaven. With all his gay and damned merriment, De Mon. It will not pass away ; 'twill haunt me To those by fortune or by merit placed still.
Above his paltry self. When, low in fortune, Jane. Ah! say not so, for I will haunt thee too, He looked upon the state of prosperous men, And be to it so close an adversary,
As nightly birds, roused from their murky holes, That, though I wrestle darkling with the fiend, Do scowl and chatter at the light of day, I shall o'ercome it.
I could endure it; even as we bear De Mon. Thou most generous woman !
The impotent bite of some half-trodden worm, Why do I treat thee thus? It should not be
I could endure it. But when honours came, And yet I cannot_O that cursed villain !
And wealth and new-got titles fed his pride ; He will not let me be the man I would.
Whilst flattering knaves did trumpet forth his praise, Fane. What say'st thou, Montfort ? Oh, what words And grovelling idiots grinned applauses on him; are these!
Oh, then I could no longer suffer it ! They have awaked my soul to dreadful thoughts. It drove me frantic. What, what would I giveI do beseech thee, speak !
What would I give to crush the bloated toad, By the affection thou didst ever bear me;
So rankly do I loathe him ! By the dear memory of our infant days;
Jane. And would thy hatred crush the very man By kindred living ties-ay, and by those
Who gave to thee that life he might have taken ? Who sleep in the tomb, and cannot call to thee,
That life which thou so rashly didst expose
To aim at his? Oh, this is horrible !
De Mon. Ha! thou hast heard it, then! From all Then, if affection, most unwearied love,
the world, Tried early, long, and never wanting found,
But most of all from thee, I thought it hid.
Jane. I heard a secret whisper, and resolved
Didst thou receive my letter?
De Mon. I did! I did ! 'Twas that which drove Here I entreat thee on my bended knees.
me hither. Alas, my brother!
I could not bear to meet thine eye again.
Fane. Alas! that, tempted by a sister's tears, And noble travellers, and neighbouring friends, I ever left thy house! These few past months, Both young and old. Within my ample hall, These absent months, have brought us all this woe. The worn-out man of arms shall'o' tiptoe tread, Had I remained with thee, it had not been.
Tossing his gray locks from his wrinkled brow And yet, methinks, it should not move you thus. With cheerful freedom, as he boasts his feats You dared him to the field ; both bravely fought ; Of days gone by. Music we 'll have ; and oft He, more adroit, disarmed you ; courteously
The bickering dance upon our oaken floors Returned the forfeit sword, which, so returned,
Shall, thundering loud, strike on the distant ear You did refuse to use against him more ;
Of ’nighted travellers, who shall gladly bend And then, as says report, you parted friends.
Their doubtful footsteps towards the cheering din. De Mon. When he disarmed this cursed, this Solemn, and grave, and cloistered, and demure worthless hand
We shall not be. Will this content ye, damsels ? Of its most worthless weapon, he but spared
Every season From devilish pride, which now derives a bliss
Shall have its suited pastime : even winter In seeing me thus fettered, shamed, subjected
In its deep noon, when mountains piled with snow, With the vile favour of his poor forbearance ;
And choked-up valleys, from our mansion bar Whilst he securely sits with gibing brow,
All entrance, and nor guest nor traveller And basely baits me like a muzzled cur,
Sounds at our gate ; the empty hall forsaken, Who cannot turn again.
In some warm chamber, by the crackling fire, Until that day, till that accursed day,
We'll hold our little, snug, domestic court, I knew not half the torment of this hell
Plying our work with song and tale between.
Fears of Imagination.
Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast, For this most impious wish.
Winging the air beneath some murky cloud De Mon. Then let it light.
In the sunned glimpses of a stormy day, Torments more fell than I have known already
Shiver in silvery brightness ? It cannot send. To be annihilated,
Or boatmen's car, as vivid lightning flash What all men shrink from ; to be dust, be nothing,
In the faint gleam, that like a spirit's path Were bliss to me, compared to what I am!
Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake? Fane. Oh, wouldst thou kill me with these dreadful
Or lonely tower, from its brown mass of woods, words?
Give to the parting of a wintry sun De Mon. Let me but once upon his ruin look,
One hasty glance in mockery of the night Then close mine eyes for ever ! —
Closing in darkness round it? Gentle friend ! Ha! how is this?' Thou 'rt ill ; thou 'rt very pale ;
Chide not her mirth who was sad yesterday,
And may be so to-morrow,
Speech of Prince Edward in his Dungeon.
Doth the bright sun from the high arch of heaven, Turn, turn thee not away! Look on me still!
In all his beauteous robes of fleckered clouds, Oh, droop not thus, my life, my pride, my sister ! And ruddy vapours, and deep-glowing flames, Look on me yet again.
And softly varied shades, look gloriously? Jane. Thou, too, De Montfort,
Do the green woods dance to the wind ? the lakes In better days was wont to be my pride.
Cast up their sparkling waters to the light? De Mon. I am a wretch, most wretched in myself, Do the sweet hamlets in their bushy dells And still more wretched in the pain I give.
Send winding up to heaven their curling smoke Oh, curse that villain, that detested villain !
On the soft morning air ? He has spread misery o'er my fated life ;
Do the flocks bleat, and the wild creatures bound He will undo us all.
In antic happiness ? and mazy birds Fane. I've held my warsare through a troubled Wing the mid air in lightly skimming bands? world,
Ay, all this is--men do behold all this And borne with steady mind my share of ill ;
The poorest man. Even in this lonely vault, For then the helpmate of my toil wast thou.
My dark and narrow world, oft do I hear But now the wane of life comes darkly on,
The crowing of the cock so near my walls, And hideous passion tears thee from my heart,
And sadly think how small a space divides me Blasting thy worth. I cannot strive with this.
From all this fair creation.
Description of Fane de Montfort.
The following has been pronounced to be a perfect picture of
Mrs Siddons, the tragic actress. Each little cottage of my native vale
Page. Madam, there is a lady in your hall Swells out its earthen sides, upheaves its roof,
Who begs to be admitted to your presence. Like to a hillock moved by labouring mole,
Lady. Is it not one of our invited friends ? And with green trail-weeds clambering up its walls, Page. No ; far unlike to them. It is a stranger. Roses and every gay and fragrant plant
Lady. How looks her countenance ? Before my fancy stands, a fairy bower,
Page. So queenly, so commanding, and so noble, Ay, and within it too do fairies dwell.
I shrunk at first in awe ; but when she smiled, Peep through its wreathed window, if indeed
Methought I could have compassed sea and land The flowers grow not too close ; and there within To do her bidding. Thou 'lt see some half-a-dozen rosy brats,
Lady. Is she young or old ? Eating from wooden bowls their dainty milk
Page. Neither, if right I guess; but she is fair, Those are my mountain elves. Seest thou not
For T'ime hath laid his hand so gently on her,
As he too had been awed.
Lady. The foolish stripling!
Page. So stately and so graceful is her form,
Save the hoarse raven croaking o'er his towers, I thought at first her stature was gigantic;
And the dank weeds muffling his stagnant moat. But on a near approach, I found, in truth,
Bertram. I'll ring a summons on his barred portal She scarcely does surpass the middle size.
Shall make them through their dark valves rock and Lady. What is her garb ?
ring. Page. I cannot well describe the fashion of it:
Pri. Thou 'rt mad to take the quest. Within my She is not decked in any gallant trim,
memory But seems to me clad in her usual weeds
One solitary man did venture thereOf high habitual state ; for as she moves,
Dark thoughts dwelt with him, which he sought to Wide flows her robe in many a waving sold,
vent. As I have seen unfurled banners play
Unto that dark compeer we saw his steps, With the soft breeze.
In winter's stormy twilight, seek that pass Lady. Thine eyes deceive thee, boy;
But days and years are gone, and he returns not. It is an apparition thou hast seen.
Bert. What fate befell him there? Freberg. [Starting from his seat, where he has been Pri. The manner of his end was never known.
sitting during the conversation between Bert. That man shall be my mate. Contend not the Lady and the Page.]
with me It is an apparition he has seen,
Horrors to me are kindred and society: Or it is Jane de Montfort.
Or man, or fiend, he hath won the soul of Bertram. This is a powerful delineation. Sir Walter Scott Bertram is afterwards discovered alone, wandering near the conceived that Fear was the most dramatic fatal tower, and describes the effect of the awful interview which
he had courted. passion touched by Miss Baillie, because capable of being drawn to the most extreme paroxysm on
Bert. Was it a man or fiend? Whate'er it was, the stage.
It hath dealt wonderfully with me
The invisible blast to which the dark pines groan,
The unconscious tread to which the dark earth echoes, The Rev. CHARLES ROBERT MATURIN, author
The hidden waters rushing to their fall;
These sounds, of which the causes are not seen, of several romances, produced a tragedy named
I love, for they are, like my fate, mysterious ! Bertram, which, by the influence of Lord Byron, How towered his proud form through the shrouding was brought out at Drury Lane in 1816. It was gloom, well received ; and by the performance and publi How spoke the eloquent silence of its motion, cation of his play, the author realised about £ 1000. How through the barred visor did his accents Sir Walter Scott considered the tragedy 'grand Roll their rich thunder on their pausing soul ! and powerful, the language most animated and And though his mailed hand did shun my grasp, poetical, and the characters sketched with a mas And though his closed morion hid his feature, terly enthusiasm. The author was anxious to
Yea, all resemblance to the face of man, introduce Satan on the stage-a return to the
I felt the hollow whisper of his welcome, style of the ancient mysteries by no means suited
I felt those unseen eyes were fixed on mine,
If eyes indeed were thereto modern taste. Mr Maturin was curate of St Peter's, Dublin. The scanty income derived from
Forgotten thoughts of evil, still-born mischiess,
Foui fertile seeds of passion and of crime, his curacy being insufficient for his comfortable
That withered in my heart's abortive core, maintenance, he employed himself in assisting Roused their dark battle at his trumpet-peal : young persons during their classical studies at
So sweeps the tempest o'er the slumbering desert, Trinity College, Dublin. The novels of Maturin Waking its myriad hosts of burning death : which will be afterwards noticed-enjoyed con So calls the last dread peal the wandering atoms siderable popularity ; and had his prudence been Of blood, and bone, and flesh, and dust-worn fragments, equal to his genius, his life might have been
In dire array of ghastly unity, passed in comfort and respect. He was, however,
To bide the eternal summonsvain and extravagant-always in difficulties (Scott
I am not what I was since I beheld himat one time generously sent him £50), and pursued
I was the slave of passion's ebbing swayby bailiffs. When this eccentric author was en
All is condensed, collected, callous, now
The groan, the burst, the fiery flash is o'er, gaged in composition, he used to fasten a wafer on
Down pours the dense and darkening lava-tide, his forehead, which was the signal that if any of
Arresting life, and stilling all beneath it. his family entered the sanctum they must not speak to him! The success of Bertram induced
Enter two of his band, observing him. Mr Maturin to attempt another tragedy, Manuel, First Robber. Seest thou with what a step of pride which he published in 1817. It is a very inferior
Trod with such step, or flashed with eye like thine.
Bert. [Turning on him suddenly.) Thy hand is A passage of great poetical beauty,' says Sir Walter Scott,'in chilled with fear. Well, shivering craven, which Bertram is represented as spurred to the commission of his Say I have seen him—wherefore dost thou gaze? great crimes by the direct agency of a supernatural and malevolent being.'
Long'st thou for tale of goblin-guarded portal?
Of giant champion, whose spell-forged mail
Crumbled to dust at sound of magic hornPrior. The dark knight of the forest,
Banner of sheeted flame, whose foldings shrunk So from his armour named and sable helm,
To withering weeds, that o'er the battlements Whose unbarred visor mortal never saw.
Wave to the broken spell-or demon-blast He dwells alone ; no earthly thing lives near him, Of winded clarion, whose fell summons sinks