Emma and Sir Eglamore. — A Legend of Ullswater
About a quarter of a mile from Lyulph’s Tower, a hunting seat of the late Duke of Norfolk, on the banks of Ullswater, is a lonely brook, the Airey or Aira, which, at Aira Force, falls over the rocks a height of 80 feet, into a beautiful and deep glen, covered with luxuriant foliage of fern and sweet-scented hawthorns. A picturesque bridge unites the precipitous rocks down which the foaming torrent pursues its ceaseless course.
This beautiful waterfall is the scene of the touching legend of the “Somnambulist,” which has been versified by Wordsworth. The tale is, that Emma, a beautiful lady, betrothed to one Sir Eglamore, was walking in her sleep on the banks of the fall; and that her lover, who had unexpectedly returned after a long absence—so long as to have affected her health—was struck with the apparition of the maid, who had become subject to night wanderings. He watched her for some time plucking the twigs from the trees, and casting them into the stream, uncertain whether she were a real object, or a mere phantom of his imagination. He touched her, and, suddenly breaking her slumber, the affrighted maid shrieked, and, starting back, fell down the rocks into the stream below. The knight plunged in after her, and rescued her; but, though consciousness returned for a short period, and she recognised him, she expired within a few minutes upon the bank. The heart-broken knight built a cell upon the edge of the fall, and lived there in solitude for several years, shunning all intercourse with the world.
List, ye who pass by Lyulph’s Tower
At eve, how softly then
Doth Aira Force, that torrent hoarse,
Speak from the woody glen!
Fit music for a solemn vale!
And holier seems the ground
To him who catches on the gale
The spirit of a mournful tale,
Embodied in the sound.
Not far from that fair sight whereon
The pleasure-house is reared,
As story says, in antique days,
A stern-brow’d house appeared;
Foil to a jewel rich in light
There set, and guarded well;
Cage for a bird of plumage bright,
Sweet voiced, nor wishing for a flight
Beyond her native dell.
To win this bright bird from her cage,
To make this gem their own,
Came barons bold, with store of gold,
And knights of high renown;
But one she prized, and only one;
Sir Eglamore was he;
Full happy season, when was known,
Ye dales and hills! to you alone
Their mutual loyalty.
Known chiefly, Aira! to thy glen,
The brook, and bowers of holly;
Where passion caught, what nature taught,
That all but love is folly;
Where fact and fancy stooped to play,
Doubt came not, nor regret,
To trouble hours that wing their way,
As if through an immortal day,
Whose sun could never set.
But in old times love dwelt not long
Sequester’d with repose;
Best throve the fire of chaste desire,
Fanned by the breath of foes.
“A conquering lance is beauty’s test,
And proves the lover true;”
So spake Sir Eglamore, and pressed
The drooping Emma to his breast,
And looked a blind adieu.
They parted,—Well with him it fared
Through wide-spread regions errant;
A knight of proof in love’s behoof,
The thirst of fame his warrant:
And she her happiness can build
On woman’s quiet hours;
Though faint, compared with spear and shield,
The solace beads and masses yield,
And needlework and flowers.
Yet blest was Emma when she heard
Her champion’s praise recounted;
Though brain would swim, and eyes grow dim,
And high her blushes mounted;
Or when a bold heroic lay
She warbled from full heart;
Delightful blossoms for the May
Of absence! but they will not stay,
Born only to depart.
Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills
Whatever path he chooses;
As if his orb, that owns no curb,
Received the light hers loses.
He comes not back; an ampler space
Requires for nobler deeds;
He ranges on from place to place,
Till of his doings is no trace,
But what her fancy breeds.
His fame may spread, but in the past
Her spirit finds its centre;
Clear sight she has of what he was,
And that would now content her.
“Still is he my devoted knight?”
The tear in answer flows;
Month falls on month with heavier weight;
Day sickens round her, and the night
Is empty of repose.
In sleep she sometimes walked abroad,
Deep sighs with quick words blending,
Like that pale queen, whose hands are seen
With fancied spots contending;
But she is innocent of blood:
The moon is not more pure
That shines aloft, while through the wood
She threads her way, the sounding flood
Her melancholy lure.
While ’mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe,
And owls alone are waking,
In white arrayed glides on the maid,
The downward pathway taking,
That leads her to the torrent’s side,
And to a holly bower;
By whom on this still night descried?
By whom in that lone place espied?
By thee, Sir Eglamore!
A wandering ghost, so thinks the knight,
His coming step has thwarted,
Beneath the boughs that heard their vows,
Within whose shade they parted.
Hush, hush, the busy sleeper see!
Perplexed her fingers seem,
As if they from the holly tree
Green twigs would pluck, as rapidly
Flung from her to the stream.
What means the spectre? Why intent
To violate the tree,
Thought Eglamore, by which I swore
Unfading constancy?
Here am I, and to-morrow’s sun,
To her I left, shall prove
That bliss is ne’er so surely won
As when a circuit has been run
Of valour, truth, and love.
So from the spot whereon he stood
He moved with stealthy pace;
And, drawing nigh with his living eye,
He recognised the face:
And whispers caught, and speeches small,
Some to the green-leaved tree,
Some mutter’d to the torrent-fall:—
“Roar on, and bring him with thy call;
I heard, and so may he!”
Soul-shattered was the knight, nor knew
If Emma’s ghost it were,
Or bodying shade, or if the maid
Her very self stood there.
He touched; what followed who shall tell?
The soft touch snapped the thread
Of slumber—shrieking back she fell,
The stream it whirled her down the dell
Along its foaming bed.
In plunged the knight!—when on firm ground
The rescued maiden lay;
Her eyes grew bright with blissful light,
Confusion passed away;
She heard, ere to the throne of grace
Her faithful spirit flew,
His voice—beheld his speaking face;
And, dying, from his own embrace,
She felt that he was true.
So was he reconciled to life:
Brief words may speak the rest;
Within the dell he built a cell,
And there was sorrow’s guest;
In hermit’s weeds repose he found,
From vain temptations free,
Beside the torrent dwelling, bound
By one deep heart-controlling sound,
And awed to piety.
Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course,
Nor fear memorial lays,
Where clouds that spread in solemn shade,
Are edged with golden rays!
Dear art thou to the light of heaven,
Though minister of sorrow;
Sweet is thy voice at pensive even;
And thou, in lovers’ hearts forgiven,
Shalt take thy place with Yarrow.