Sir Guy the Seeker

Matthew Gregory Lewis

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                 Like those in the head of a man just dead
                    Are his eyes, and his beard's like snow;
        But when here he came, his glance was a flame,
          And his locks seemed the plumes of the crow.

            Since then are o'er forty summers and more;
                         Yet he still near the castle remains,
                  And pines for a sight of that lady bright,
                              Who wears the wizard's chains.

                    Nor sun nor snow from the ruins to go
                                     Can force that aged wight;
                  And still the pile, ball, chapel, and aisle,
                                     He searches day and night:

                    But find can he ne'er the winding stair,
                            Which he past that beauty to see,
                 Whom spells enthrall in the haunted hall,
                               Where none but once may be.

              That once, regret will not let him forget! --
                            'Twas night, and pelting showers
       Did patter and splash, when the lightning's flash
                      Showed Dunstanburgh's grey towers.

             Raised high on a mound that castle frowned
                                            In ruined pagean-trie;
               And where to the north did rocks jut forth,
                                   Its towers hung o'er the sea.

                Proud they stood, and darkened the flood;
                   For the cliffs were so rugged and steep,
	Had a plummet been dropt from their summit unstopt
                        That plummet had reached the deep.

                Nor flower there grew; nor tree e'er drew
                                 Its nurture from that ground;
                Save a lonely yew, whose branches threw
                                   Their baleful shade around.

                Loud was the roar on that sounding shore
                          Yet still could the Knight discern,
                      Louder than all, the swell and the fall
                           Of the bellowing Rumble Churn!

             With strange turmoil did it bubble and boil,
                                And echo from place to place;
       So strong was its dash, and so high did it splash,
                                That it washt the castle's base:

              The spray, as it broke, appeared like smoke
                                 From a sea-volcano pouring;
      And still did it rumble, and grumble, and tumble,
                                       Rioting! raging! roaring!

                 Up the hill Sir Guy made his courser fly,
                   And hoped, from the wind and the rain,
             That he there should find some refuge kind;
                                 But he sought it long in vain;

                 For fast and hard each portal was barred,
                                 And against his efforts proof;
              Till at length he espied a porch spread wide
                                          The shelter of its roof.

        -- "Gramercy, St. George!" quoth glad Sir Guy,
                           And sought the porch with speed;
                  And fast to the yew, which near it grew,
                                  He bound his Barbary steed;

               And safety found on that sheltered ground
                           From the sky's increasing gloom;
       From his brow he took his casque, and he shook
                     The rain off, that burthened its plume.

                   Then long he stood in mournful mood,
                                         With listless sullen air,
             Propt on his lance, and with indolent glance
                             Watcht the red lightning's glare;

                            And sadly listened to the shower,
                               On the clattering roof that fell;
                         And counted twice the lonely hour,
                                   Tolled by some distant bell.

                  But scarce that bell could midnight tell,
                           When louder roared. the thunder,
                  And the bolt so red whizzed by his head,
                                  And burst the gates asunder.

           And, lo! through the dark a glimmering spark
                                        He espied of lurid blue;
                      Onward it came, and a form all flame
                            Soon struck his wondering view!

                       'Twas an ancient man of visage wan,
                                        Gigantic was his height;
            And his breast below there was seen to flow
                                     A beard of grizzled white:

                 And flames o'er-spread his hairless head,
                         And down his beard they streamed;
                              And in his hand, a radiant wand
                                      Of burning iron gleamed.

                       Of darkest grain, with flowing train,
                                    A wondrous robe he wore,
                With many a charm, to work man's harm,
                                        In fire embroidered o'er;

               And this robe was bound his waste around
                                    With a triple chain red-hot!
              And still came nigher that phantom of fire,
                            Till be reacht the self-same spot,

     Where stood Sir Guy, while his hair bristled high,
                       And his breath he scarce could draw;
            And lie crost his breast, for, I wot, he guesst,
                          'Twas Belzebub's self that he saw!

                And full on the Knight that ghastly Wight
                                Fixt his green and glassy eyes;
   And he clanked his chain, and he howled with pain,
                            Ere his words were heard to rise.

       -- "Sir Knight, Sir Knight! if your heart be right,
                           And your nerves be firm and true,
                    Sir Knight, Sir Knight! a beauty bright
                                       In durance waits for you.

	  But, Sir Knight, Sir Knight! if you ever knew fright,
                                   That Dame forbear to view;
	Or, Sir Knight, Sir Knight! that you feasted your sight,
                          While you live, you'll sorely rue!"

                            "That mortal ne'er drew vital air,
                                    Who witnessed fear in me:
            Come what come will, come good, come ill,
                                     Lead on! I'll follow thee!"

                       And now they go both high and low,
                                      Above and under ground,
                      And in and out, and about and about,
                          And round, and round, and round!

                     The storm is husht, and lets them hear
                                   The owlet's boding screech,
                     As now through many a passage drear
                                    A winding stair they reach.

      With beckoning hand, which flamed like a brand,
                                         Still on the Wizard led;
          And well could Sir Guy hear a sob and a sigh,
                                 As up the first flight he sped!

             While the second he past with foosteps fast,
                                  He heard a death-bell toll! --
        While he climbed the third, a whisper he heard,
                              -- "God's mercy on thy soul!" --

                    And now at the top the wanderers stop
                                             A brazen gate before
                       Of massive make; and a living snake
                          Was the bolt, which held the door.

               In many a fold round the staple 'twas rolld
                                 With venom its jaws ran o'er;
                  And that juice of hell, where-ever it fell,
                                 To a cinder burned the floor.

          When the monster beheld Sir Guy, he swelled
                          With fury, and threw out his sting;
	Sparks flasht from each eve, and he reared him on high,
                    And prepared on the Warrior to spring;

                But the Wizard's hand extended his wand,
                           And the reptile drooped his crest,
                       Yet strove to bite, in impotent spite,
                            The ground which gave him rest!

                         And now the gate is heard to grate,
                                    On its hinges turning slow;
                  Till on either side the valves yawn wide,
                                       And in the wanderers go.

              'Twas a spacious hall, whose sides were all
                                     With sable hangings dight;
          And whose echoing floor was diamonded o'er
                                 With marble black and white

                   And of marble black as the raven's back
                               A hundred steeds stood round;
                    And of marble white, by each, a knight
                                   Lay sleeping on the ground;

                 And a hundred shafts of laboured bronze
                                        The fretted roof upheld;
        And the ponderous gloom of that vaulted room
                                     A hundred lights dispelled

                  And a dead man's arm by a magic charm
                                  Each glimmering taper bore,
              And where it was lopt, still dropt and dropt
                                   Thick gouts of clotted gore.

              Where ends the room, doth a chrystal tomb
                                     Its towering front uphold;
              And one on each hand two skeletons stand,
                      Which belonged to two giants of old:

                That on the right holds a faulchion bright,
                                          That on the left a horn;
                        And crowns of jet with jewels beset
                                    Their eyeless skulls adorn:

                         And both these grim colossal kings
                                     With fingers long and lean
           Point towards the tomb, within whose womb
                                        A captive Dame is seen.

               A form more fair than that prisoner's ne'er
                          Since the days of Eve was known;
           Every glance that flew from her eyes of blue,
                            Was worth an Emperor's throne,
                 And one sweet kiss from her roseate lips
                     Would have melted a bosom of stone.

                            Soon as Sir Guy bad met her eye,
                                  Knelt low that captive maid;
                And her lips of love seemed fast to move,
                              But be heard not what she said.

           Then her hands did she join in suppliant sign,
                           Her hands more white than snow;
               And like dews that streak the rose's cheek,
                                        Her tears began to flow.

                       The warrior felt his stout heart melt,
                          When he saw those fountains run:
               -- "Oh! what can I do," he cried, "for you?
                     What mortal can do, shall be done!" --

                            Then out and speaks the Wizard;
                                        Hollow his accents fall!
               -- "Was never man, since the world began,
                               Could burst that chrystal wall.

              For the hand, which raised its magic frame,
                                    Had oft claspt Satan's own;
 And the lid bears a name......Young Knight, the same
                                  Is stamp'd on Satan's throne;

             At its maker's birth long trembled the earth;
                            The skies dropt showers of gore;
      And she, who to light gave the wonderous wight,
                                  Had died seven years before;

     And at Satan's right hand while keeping his stand,
                                        The foulest fiend of fire
          Shrunk back with awe, when the babe he saw,
                                    For it shock-t its very sire!

                     But hark, Sir Knight! and riddle aright
                                   The riddle I'll riddle to thee;
                           Thou'lt learn a way without delay
                                         To set yon damsel free.

                       Seest yonder sword, with jewels rare
                                      Its dudgeon crusted o'er?
                             Seest yonder horn of ivory fair?
                                  'Twas Merlin's horn of yore!

                     That horn to sound, or sword to draw,
                           Now, youth, your choice explain!
    But that which you choose, beware how you lose,
                             For you never will find it again:

                    And that once lost, all hopes are crost,
                                 Which now you fondly form;
                  And that once gone, the sun ne'er shone,
                                       A sadder wight to warm:

                    But such keen woe, as never can know
                                       Oblivion's balmy power,
                  With fixed despair your soul will share,
                                   Till comes your dying hour.

           Your choice now make for yon Beauty's sake
                               To burst her bonds endeavour;
	     But that which you choose, beware how you lose
                                  Once lost, 'tis lost for ever!"

                         In pensive mood awhile now stood
                                    Sir Guy, and gazed around;
        Now he turned his sight to the left, to the right,
                                 Now he fixt it on the ground.

            Now the faulchion's blaze attracted his gaze;
                                     On the hilt his fingers lay;
       But he heard fear cry,--"you're wrong, Sir Guy!"
                                And be snatcht his hand away!

	Now his steps he addrest towards the North and the West;
        	Now he turned towards the East and the South;
         Till with desperate thought the horn he caught,
                                      And prest it to his mouth.

        Hark! the blast is a blast so strong and so shrill,
                            That the vaults like thunder ring;
   And each marble horse stamps the floor with force,
                        And from sleep the warriors spring!

                         And frightful stares each stony eye,
                                As now with ponderous tread
                     They rush on Sir Guy, poising on high
                              Their spears to strike him dead.

             At this strange attack full swift sprang back,
                                      I wot, the startled Knight!
                          Away he threw the horn, and drew
                               His faulchion keen and bright.

                   But soon as the horn his grasp forsook,
                                       Was heard a cry of grief;
                           It seemed the yell of a soul in hell
                                       Made desperate of relief!

           And straight each light was extinguisht quite,
                                  Save the flame so lurid-blue
           On the Wizard's brow, (whose flashings now
                                        Assumed a bloody hue),
             And those sparks of fire, which grief and ire
                            From his glaring eye-balls drew!

          And he stampt in rage, and be laught in scorn,
                        While in thundering tone he roared,
     "Now shame on the coward who sounded a horn,
                 When he might have unsheatht a sword!"

                  He said, and from his mouth there came
                                       A vapour blue and dank,
    Whose poisonous breath seemed the kiss of death,
                              For the Warrior senseless sank.

                             Morning breaks! again he wakes
                                        Lo! in the porch he lies,
                      And still in his heart he feels the dart,
                        Which shot from the captive's eyes.

        From the ground he springs! as if he had wings,
                                      The ruin he wanders o'er,
             And with prying look each cranny and nook
                                      His anxious eyes explore:

                    But find can he ne'er the winding stair,
                        Which he climbed that Dame to see
                 Whom spells enthrall in the haunted hall,
                                Where none but once may be.

                             The earliest ray of dawning day,
                                     Beholds his search begun:
                            The evening star ascends his car,
                                     Nor yet his search is done:

        Whence the neighbours all the Knight now call
                                 By "Guy, the Seeker's" name;
                     For never he knows one hour's repose
                             From his wish to find the Dame

                         But still he seeks, and aye he seeks,
                                 And seeks, and seeks in vain;
                         And still he repeats to all he meets,
                         -- "Could I find the sword again!"

                    Which words he follows with a groan,
                                   As if his heart would break;
                 And oh! that groan has so strange a tone,
                                    It makes all hearers quake!

                 The villagers round know well its sound,
                                And when they hear it poured,
                -- "Hark! hark" they, cry; "the Seeker Guy
                         Groans for the Wizard's sword." --

            Twice twenty springs on their fragrant wings
                     For his wound have brought no balm;
            For still he's found.....But, hark! what sound
                                  Disturbs the midnight calm?

                Good peasants, tell, why rings that knell?
                               "'Tis the Seeker-Guy's we toll;
                      His race is run; his search is done." --
                                      God's mercy on his soul!.