The hail-blast had drifted away upon the wings of the gale
of autumn. The sun looked from between the clouds, pale as
the wounded hero who rears his head feebly on the heath when
the roar of battle hath passed over him.
Finele, the Lady of the Castle, came forth to see her
maidens pass to the herds with their leglins [Milk-pails].
There sat an orphan maiden beneath the old oak-tree of
appointment. The withered leaves fell around her, and her
heart was more withered than they.
The parent of the ice [poetically taken from the frost]
still congealed the hail-drops in her hair; they were like
the specks of white ashes on the twisted boughs of the
blackened and half-consumed oak that blazes in the hall.
And the maiden said, “Give me comfort, Lady, I am an orphan
child.” And the Lady replied, “How can I give that which I
have not? I am the widow of a slain lord,--the mother of a
perished child. When I fled in my fear from the vengeance
of my husband’s foes, our bark was overwhelmed in the tide,
and my infant perished. This was on St. Bridget’s morn,
near the strong Lyns of Campsie. May ill luck light upon
the day.” And the maiden answered, “It was on St. Bridget’s
morn, and twelve harvests before this time, that the
fishermen of Campsie drew in their nets neither grilse nor
salmon, but an infant half dead, who hath since lived in
misery, and must die, unless she is now aided.” And the Lady
answered, “Blessed be Saint Bridget and her morn, for these
are the dark eyes and the falcon look of my slain lord; and
thine shall be the inheritance of his widow.” And she
called for her waiting attendants, and she bade them clothe
that maiden in silk, and in samite; and the pearls which
they wove among her black tresses, were whiter than the
frozen hail-drops.
of autumn. The sun looked from between the clouds, pale as
the wounded hero who rears his head feebly on the heath when
the roar of battle hath passed over him.
Finele, the Lady of the Castle, came forth to see her
maidens pass to the herds with their leglins [Milk-pails].
There sat an orphan maiden beneath the old oak-tree of
appointment. The withered leaves fell around her, and her
heart was more withered than they.
The parent of the ice [poetically taken from the frost]
still congealed the hail-drops in her hair; they were like
the specks of white ashes on the twisted boughs of the
blackened and half-consumed oak that blazes in the hall.
And the maiden said, “Give me comfort, Lady, I am an orphan
child.” And the Lady replied, “How can I give that which I
have not? I am the widow of a slain lord,--the mother of a
perished child. When I fled in my fear from the vengeance
of my husband’s foes, our bark was overwhelmed in the tide,
and my infant perished. This was on St. Bridget’s morn,
near the strong Lyns of Campsie. May ill luck light upon
the day.” And the maiden answered, “It was on St. Bridget’s
morn, and twelve harvests before this time, that the
fishermen of Campsie drew in their nets neither grilse nor
salmon, but an infant half dead, who hath since lived in
misery, and must die, unless she is now aided.” And the Lady
answered, “Blessed be Saint Bridget and her morn, for these
are the dark eyes and the falcon look of my slain lord; and
thine shall be the inheritance of his widow.” And she
called for her waiting attendants, and she bade them clothe
that maiden in silk, and in samite; and the pearls which
they wove among her black tresses, were whiter than the
frozen hail-drops.