by Edmund Ollier (uncredited).
Originally published in Household Words (Bradbury & Evans) vol.5 #107 (10 Apr 1852).
Old travellers say, that, in an Eastern land,
And in a field, with mountains nigh at hand,
Are found two marvellous Rose-trees; and they write
That one bears flowers red, the other white—
Red as the fire, and white as snow on wold.
These trees are preternaturally old,
Yet keep their freshness; and from day to day
Wax greener, and more odorous and gay,
As though an angel fed them with his youth:
And the near people tell, for very truth,
An ancient tale, sent down from tongue to tongue,
Of how these trees miraculously sprung;
Which I will here, as best I may, rehearse
In added rhyme, and weav'd into a verse.
There was a maiden, in a time gone by,
Who lived secluded from all company;
For the world's battle fill'd her with more dread
Than silence—and her parents both were dead.
And so she dwelt apart, without a friend,
In a still mansion by the city's end,
That look'd upon a garden's shadowy trees.
A voice of murmuring leaves and moaning seas
Haunted for ever that removèd house,
Like an enchantment, rich and marvellous;
And, under clustering boughs, this maiden clear
Walk'd up and down without a thought of fear,
Though by her side was human creature none.
Yet certainly she was not quite alone:
For, in the hush of that deserted place,
She often met with angels face to face,
And felt the wind that blows from out their bowers
Breathe in her hair; and sometimes, when the hours
Were stillest, and the westering sun was low,
The visages of ancient Gods would grow
Out of the pale, blank air, before her eyes,
Heavily calm with pilèd mysteries.
But who can reckon on a placid life,
Because of guilelessness? The tyrant's knife
Pierces the naked breast before the arm'd.
This gentle maiden, who had never harm'd
A living creature, and whose soul was white
And uncorrupt as elemental light,
Was, by the priests, accused of secret crimes.
And of neglecting to observe the times
Of adoration in their temples, where
They worshipp'd a fierce God with studious prayer.
They said she was a devil with bright looks,
And that she read not in their Sacred Books;
But kept a Fiend within her house, who fill'd
The cursed place, so soon as day was kill'd,
With gleams and fiery aspects; for, at night,
The awe-struck passers-by had seen the light
In which those angels dwelt, that thither came,
Paint the dark casements with a sudden flame.
The priests aloud for instant vengeance call,
And drag the maiden to the Justice Hall.
The people throng, and gaze into her eyes,
And think they see a spirit from the skies,
With visage pale, by golden tresses hemm'd,
Come there to judge, and not to be condemn'd.
A busy murmur passes up and down:
The thronèd Judges wear an ominous frown,
And hearken to the eager priests, who cry,
"She is accurs'd! To vengeance, instantly!"
Alas! they have determined on the deed.
The sentence has gone forth: it is decreed
That in a fire she shall be burnt to death.
The people for a moment hold their breath;
Then rush from out the Hall, and reach the place
Of execution, in an open space
Beyond the town, and barr'd the other way
By wall-like mountains, old and dusky grey;
And, in the midst, there is an iron stake,
From which a drooping chain hangs heavy and black.
Some one each day, upon a foul pretence,
Dies at that stake; and there, for evidence,
A heap of pallid ashes at the foot,
Mix'd with charr'd wood, and with a fearful soot,
Before the wind goes staggering to and fro.
All round this point, the people in a row
Await, with close lips and with frequent sighs,
The offering of that lurid sacrifice.
The victim comes, by savage priests shut in,
Who rage and trample with a ceaseless din,
And throw their quivering arms about the air,
And dance like drunken men with heads all bare.
And now the brands around the stake are laid,
With straw between. The unoffending maid
Beholds the pile, and sees, with steadfast eye,
The sharp and cruel Murder standing by;
The executioners, with eyes blood-red,
Like half-spent embers glowing in the head;
The flaming torches flashing round about;
The glare and smoke; the stirring of the rout;
The fixèd mountains, cold and passionless;
The meadows flaunting in their summer dress;
The conscious-looking heavens, bare and still;
The moveless trees; the running of the rill;
The quick birds, loudly flapping on the wing;
The people round, with white lips murmuring:
All this she sees, and still she does not quake.
Those bloody men have bound her to the stake;
And yet she smiles, and not a word she says.
The heap is fired; the straw and faggots blaze;
The deathsmen farther from the pile have fled;
The flames, up-springing, dash the heavens red;
The swarthy smoke, like metal in a forge,
Grows sanguine all about that fiery surge.
A miracle! a wonder to behold!
The flames are out; the lighted brands are cold!
Another marvel yet! No brands are there,
But only two fresh Rose-trees, budding fair;
The one with flowers red, the other white.
The staring people stagger at the sight.
The maiden still is standing in her place;
And, 'twixt the rosy buds, they see her face.
For very joy the people shout and sing.
The priests upon the ground lie grovelling,
And cast themselves abroad, and idly rave,
And pull the earth about them like a grave;
And in their howling presently they die.
The lovely lady murmurs thankfully;
And by the people homeward she is brought,
With flights of gleaming angels overthwart.
Thus sprang those marvellous trees; and it is said,
That from the burnt brands came the Roses red,
And from the unburnt came the Roses pale.
I say no farther. I have done my tale.