Volume 3 — THE CURSE OF SACRILEGE.
Reading edition
[In the suburbs of the ancient and curious city of Angers in France is a beautiful chateau, situated in the midst of extensive and fertile grounds. The chapel contains some very remarkable pieces of statuary, now nearly eight hundred years old. The place was formerly a convent of monks, and wrested from them during the great revolution. The family into whose possession it came, has ever since been afflicted with the sudden death and insanity of its members. The death of the last male heir, a youth of great promise, which occurred but a few years ago, is described in the following verses.]
A youth of twenty summers Sat at his mother's knee; Ne'er saw you a youth more noble, Nor fairer dame than she. Half-reclining he swept the lute-strings, Murmuring an olden rhyme; While the clock in the castle tower Rang out a morning chime: "In the bright and happy spring-time Ring the bells merrily; When the dead leaves fall in autumn, Then toll the bell for me." The face of the lady-mother, Writhed as with sudden pain: "Oh! sing not, my son, so sadly, Choose thou a happier strain." Sang the youth, "When the summer sunshine Falls o'er the lake and lea, And the corn is springing upward, Then you'll remember me." The matron smiled on the singer: "My dear and my only one When I shall not remember, The light will forget the sun." Yet her eyes smiled not, but were standing, Brimful of glimmering tears, Tell-tales of secret anguish, Dead hopes and living fears. For he was the heir, and the only Child of the house of La Barre; A name that was known for its sorrows, By all, both near and far. Lay in a charming valley Its rich and fair domain; But a curse seemed to hang around it, Worse than the curse of Cain. For this was a holy convent Of monks in olden time; From God men had dared to wrest it, Nor recked the awful crime. The mild men of God were driven Houseless and homeless afar: And he who rifled their cloister, Became the Lord of La Barre. But a curse came down on his household, That time did not abate: And ne'er did the mourning hatchment Pass from the castle gate The Lord of La Barre fell suddenly Dead in his banquet-hall; And madness seized his first-born, Bearing the funeral pall. Calamity sudden and fearful. Haunted the sacred place. Striking the lords and their children, And blighting their hapless race. One is thrown from his saddle, Dashing his brains on the ground; One in his bridal chamber. Dead by his bride is found; One is caught by the mill-wheel. And cruelly torn in twain; One is lost in the forest, Ne'er to return again. Death-traps for wolves, the herdsmen Set in the woods with care; The wolves devour the master, Caught in the fatal snare. Killed by the forkèd lightnings; Drowned in the flowing Loire; Crushed by some falling timbers; Conquered and slain in war. Idiots and still-born children, Come as the first-born heirs. Those are seized with madness, Whom death a few years spares. Thus did they all inherit A curse with the rich domain, Who dared on the holy convent To lay their hands profane. The autumn winds are blowing Across the lake and lea, As the youth of twenty summers Sings at his mother's knee. He ceased, and from him casting His lute upon the floor, Listened, as sounds from the court-yard Came through the open door. Hearing the dogs' loud barking, As their keeper his bugle wound; "To-day I go a hunting," Said he, "with hawk and hound." The rustling of dead leaves only Heard the Lady of La Barre, And thought of her lordly husband Drowned in the flowing Loire. The autumn winds were moaning Among the yellow trees, "Stay, Ernest," said she sadly, "My soul is ill at ease. "Shadows of dire mischances Fall on my widowed heart; I could not live if danger Thy life from mine should part." "Fear not," said he, while laughing He kissed her sad fair face; "I hear the hounds' loud baying All eager for the chase. "Over the hill by the river I'll bring the quarry down, And homeward pluck the roses To weave for thee a crown." "The rose-crown, my child, will wither, 'Tis but a passing toy; But thou art the crown of thy mother-- Her only life and joy. "Follow the hunt to-morrow-- With me, love, stay to-day; For dark and sad forebodings My anxious heart affray." The autumn winds are blowing, The dead leaves downward fall, The lawn and flowers covering Like a funeral pall. But he heedeth not the warning, And hies with haste away. The lady seeks the chapel, With heavy heart, to pray. "May God and his blessed Mother Spare me my only one. Yet teach me and strengthen me ever To say, Thy will be done!" Well may the lady tremble, Hearing the wind again; The dead leaves are falling in showers Like to a summer rain. Hark! a sound from the court-yard Blanches the lady's cheek-- The huntsmen call not surely In such a fearful shriek! Say, "Thy will be done," O lady! As thou e'en now hast said, For the last of thy race is lying Stark in the court-yard, dead.
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