by M.A.S.
Originally published in The New Monthly Magazine (S.&R. Bentley) vol.2 #9 (Sep 1821).
One is surprised that the legendary lore of Sweden should be so little known to the rest of Europe; for, although it is a country less explored by travellers than any other so far advanced in civilization, there is a penetrating spirit in popular poetry, that usually enables it to make its way, under every disadvantage.
The incidents in the following tale are taken from an old Swedish Ballad, founded on a superstition common in ancient times to that country, and our own; the mythology of both nations having peopled the interior of their mountains with a powerful, vindictive, and mysterious race—objects always of terror, and sometimes of unwary love, but usually fatal to those by whom they were not sedulously shunned.
"Open, open, green hill, and let a fair maid in," with the subsequent admittance of the damsel, according to her invocation, in one of our nursery-tales, is evidently akin to the fate of Isabel.
THE MOUNTAIN KING.
She heard the bell toll, and went forth at the dawn—
It is not to matins the maiden is gone:
The mother believes that her child went to pray—
No prayer did fair Isabel utter that day.
Where, through the grey twilight, did Isabel go?
Alas! to the mountains with helmets of snow,
Whose dark brows seem to frown o'er the laurel and rose
That so lovingly under their shadows repose.
On the highest of hills did fair Isabel rest,—
Her delicate fingers have tapped at its breast;
"Rise, King of the mountains! unbar thy green door,
I have seen thee in dreams! I must see thee once more."—
"Cease, Isabel, cease! I refuse for thy sake;
That maid is my bride who beholds me awake:
And some cruel infliction the Fates ever bring
To her who espouses the pale Mountain-king."—
"Let my fate be the darkest thy caverns have seen,
I will brave all its horrors to move as thy Queen;
Then rise! Mountain-monarch! unbar thy green door,
I must gaze on thy terrible beauty once more."—
The lightning flash'd blue, and the thunder spake loud,
The sun was obscured by an ominous cloud;
The doors of the mountain, in darkness and storm,
Flew open,—and closed over Isabel's form.
In a palace of splendour, received as a Queen,
A rich robe is clasp'd round her by handmaids unseen;
And the gems of her crown are selected to vie
With her sunshine of smile, and her soul-speaking eye.
Sweet voices, responsive, breathe softly around,
And pour on her name all the treasures of sound,—
Now harmoniously blending, now pearly and bright,
Falls each delicate note, like a drop of pure light.
Now they linger and fade, like a lover's last sigh.
And now the full chorus floats proudly on high,
Where, like Iris in hue, shedding odours divine,
Lamps nourish'd with perfumes eternally shine.
But the wild rush of hope that check'd Isabel's breath
Closed her ear to soft tones, like the dull ear of death;
And she mark'd not the splendour that glitter'd around.
Her eye sought but one object—her ear but one sound.—
'Twas a moment, no more—yet seem'd ages to fleet,
Ere the pale Mountain-monarch appear'd at her feet:
He knelt at her feet, and he whisper'd soft vows—
Words, man dare not utter, have made her his spouse.
His subjects are thronging with looks of surprise.
And fix on her face their inquisitive eyes;
They drew near with respect, yet she met them with awe,
For a likeness in each to their monarch she saw.
And wherever she turned, some lines were impress'd
Of the visage imprinted so deep in her breast;
So sweetly majestic—so mildly severe—
That her tremulous love often thrill'd into fear.
But he calms her in whispers, and gems her dark hair
With treasures, and wonders—the beauteous—the rare—
Sought in darkest recesses of desolate caves,
Paved with jasper, and cover'd with deep-flowing waves.
Her life one smooth ocean of boundless repose,
Without chance, change, or time, like eternity shews,
Save that eight smiling infants successively shine,
Flashing star after star, in their beauty divine.
When she drank the deep love of their fathomless eyes,
Feeling Heaven's own breath in their infantine sighs,
These ineffable stirrings of nature awaken
The deepest remorse for a mother forsaken.
In the full tide of passion did Isabel fling
Her fair form at the feet of the pale Mountain-king;—
"A boon from my lord and my husband I crave,
Let me kiss my fond mother, or weep o'er her grave."
"Then go to thy mother,—in sadness bereft,
But say not a word of the babes thou hast left."—
Soon was Isabel lock'd in a parent's embrace,
And the tears of forgiveness fell fast on her face.
"Oh! remain, my lost bird, in the haunts of thy youth,
Nor again flee the precincts of honour and truth;
Though the gardens of Error are perfumed with flowers,
The adder and snake lie conceal'd in her bowers."
"With the blushes of shame had her cheek ever burn'd
To her home had fair Isabel never return'd;
By the King of the mountains selected as queen,
The truest and fondest of wives have I been.
In his realms neither sorrow nor sickness appear—
I had nearly forgot—almost long'd for—a tear;
And our bridal is blest by the bounty of Heaven—
I have one peerless daughter—my sons they are seven."
Then strode o'er the threshold the pale Mountain-king—
"Why standest thou here, thus presuming to fling
Such aspersions on me as I ne'er can forgive?—
The revealer of secrets deserves not to live."
"No aspersions on thee have these lips ever thrown,
I have dwelt on thy love and thy kindness alone."
"Thou hast mention'd the babes with thy venomous breath—
Thou fool! that vain boast has condemn'd them to death.
"Forewarn'd, thou hast broken the merciful spell
That permits in our palace those children to dwell.
Whose existence has never been whisper'd on earth—
Oh! accursed the hour I rejoiced in their birth!"
Then he struck her fair face as she knelt at his feet—
"Oh! the death-blow," she cried, "from thy hands will be sweet!
Since the deep chords of love thus mysteriously thrill,
While I suffer in patience resign'd to thy will."
"In this ill-fated mansion no more shalt thou stay.
Where thy crime was committed:—Away! then—Away!"
"Farewell, my dear father!—farewell, my fond mother!—
Farewell, weeping sister!—farewell, infant brother!—
"Farewell, ye high Heavens!—farewell, thou green earth!—
And farewell, thou sweet home, the dear place of my birth!—
For the King of the mountains I left ye before,
And for him, in his anger, I leave ye once more."
Horrid laughter appears in the Monarch's dark face,
While nine circles around the tall mountain they trace,—
And the tears on fair Isabel's bosom fell fast,
As smaller each circle became than the last.
The glad sun in the blue depths of heaven shone bright
As she gaspingly sought the last ray of its light;
Her young daughter beheld her with terror o'ercast—
"Oh, mother, dear mother! repose thee at last.
"Beneath this gold canopy lay thy pale head,
Where cushions of crimson profusely I've spread."
"My child! give me wine—bring the cup or my death—
Then close my sad eyelids—receive my last breath.
"A more tender farewell thy poor mother would take,
But fears, my sweet daughter! thy young heart 'twould break,"
She drank—and to ice a more warm heart was chill'd,
Than by love's richest treasures had ever been fill'd.
Thus from home and from happiness Isabel stray'd,
And thus the pale Monarch her passion repaid;—
Like a lily she sank when a pitiless shower
Has unsparingly beat on the delicate flower.