William Blake

Fair Elenor

THE BELL struck one, and shook the silent tower;  
The graves give up their dead: fair Elenor  
Walk’d by the castle gate, and lookèd in.  
A hollow groan ran thro’ the dreary vaults.  
 
She shriek’d aloud, and sunk upon the steps,        
On the cold stone her pale cheeks. Sickly smells  
Of death issue as from a sepulchre,  
And all is silent but the sighing vaults.  
 
Chill Death withdraws his hand, and she revives;  
Amaz’d, she finds herself upon her feet,    
And, like a ghost, thro’ narrow passages  
Walking, feeling the cold walls with her hands.  
 
Fancy returns, and now she thinks of bones  
And grinning skulls, and corruptible death  
Wrapp’d in his shroud; and now fancies she hears  
Deep sighs, and sees pale sickly ghosts gliding.  
 
At length, no fancy but reality  
Distracts her. A rushing sound, and the feet  
Of one that fled, approaches.—Ellen stood  
Like a dumb statue, froze to stone with fear.  
 
The wretch approaches, crying: ‘The deed is done;  
Take this, and send it by whom thou wilt send;  
It is my life—send it to Elenor:—  
He’s dead, and howling after me for blood!  
 
‘Take this,’ he cried; and thrust into her arms  
A wet napkin, wrapp’d about; then rush’d  
Past, howling: she receiv’d into her arms  
Pale death, and follow’d on the wings of fear.  
 
They pass’d swift thro’ the outer gate; the wretch,  
Howling, leap’d o’er the wall into the moat,  
Stifling in mud. Fair Ellen pass’d the bridge,  
And heard a gloomy voice cry ‘Is it done?’  
 
As the deer wounded, Ellen flew over  
The pathless plain; as the arrows that fly  
By night, destruction flies, and strikes in darkness.  
She fled from fear, till at her house arriv’d.  
 
Her maids await her; on her bed she falls,  
That bed of joy, where erst her lord hath press’d:  
‘Ah, woman’s fear!’ she cried; ‘ah, cursèd duke!  
Ah, my dear lord! ah, wretched Elenor!  
 
‘My lord was like a flower upon the brows  
Of lusty May! Ah, life as frail as flower!  
O ghastly death! withdraw thy cruel hand,  
Seek’st thou that flow’r to deck thy horrid temples?  
 
‘My lord was like a star in highest heav’n  
Drawn down to earth by spells and wickedness;  
My lord was like the opening eyes of day  
When western winds creep softly o’er the flowers;  
 
‘But he is darken’d; like the summer’s noon  
Clouded; fall’n like the stately tree, cut down;  
The breath of heaven dwelt among his leaves.  
O Elenor, weak woman, fill’d with woe!’  
 
Thus having spoke, she raisèd up her head,  
And saw the bloody napkin by her side,  
Which in her arms she brought; and now, tenfold  
More terrified, saw it unfold itself.  
 
Her eyes were fix’d; the bloody cloth unfolds,  
Disclosing to her sight the murder’d head  
Of her dear lord, all ghastly pale, clotted  
With gory blood; it groan’d, and thus it spake:    
 
‘O Elenor, I am thy husband’s head,  
Who, sleeping on the stones of yonder tower,  
Was ’reft of life by the accursèd duke!  
A hirèd villain turn’d my sleep to death!  
 
‘O Elenor, beware the cursèd duke;  
O give not him thy hand, now I am dead;  
He seeks thy love; who, coward, in the night,  
Hirèd a villain to bereave my life.’  
 
She sat with dead cold limbs, stiffen’d to stone:  
She took the gory head up in her arms;
She kiss’d the pale lips; she had no tears to shed;  
She hugg’d it to her breast, and groan’d her last.

Poetical Sketches

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