THE ELDEN TREE. A BALLAD. Joanna Baillie Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Baillie, Joanna, 1762-1851. Fugitive Verses. By Joanna Baillie, author of “Dramas on the Passions,“ etc. London Edward Moxon, Dover Street. MDCCCXL. 1840 pp. 255-266.

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THE ELDEN TREE . A BALLAD .
A FEAST was spread in the Baron's hall , And loud was the merry sound , As minstrels played at lady's call , And the cup went sparkling round . For gentle dames sat there , I trow , By men of mickle might , And many a chief with dark-red brow , And many a burly knight . Each had fought in war's grim ranks , And some on the surgy sea , And some on Jordan's sacred banks For the cause of Christentie . But who thinks now of blood or strife , Or Moor , or Paynim foe ? Their eyes beam bright with social life , And their hearts with kindness glow . " Gramercie , chieftain , on thy tale ! It smacks of thy merry mood . " — " Aye , monks are sly and women frail Since rock and mountain stood . " " Fye , fye ! sir knight , thy tongue is keen , 'Tis sharper than thy steel . " — " So , gentle lady , are thine een , As we poor lovers feel . " — " Come pledge me well , my lady gay , Come pledge me , noble frere ; Each cheerful mate on such a day , Is friend or mistress dear . " And louder still came jeer and boast , As the flagons faster pour , Till song and tale and laugh are lost In a wildly mingled roar . Aye , certes , 'tis an hour of glee , For the Baron himself doth smile , And nods his head right cheerily , And quaffs his cup the while . What recks he now of midnight fear , Or the night-wind's dismal moan , As it tosses the boughs of that Elden Tree , Which he thinketh so oft upon ? Long years have passed since a deed was done , By its doer only seen , And there lives not a man beneath the sun , Who wotteth that deed hath been . So gay was he , so gay were all , They marked not the growing gloom ; Nor wist they how the darkening hall Lowered like the close of doom . Dull grew the goblet's sheen , and grim The features of every guest , And colourless banners aloft hung dim , Like the clouds of the drizzly West . Hath time passed then so swift of pace ? Is this the twilight grey ? A flash of light passed through the place Like the glaring noon of day . Fierce glanced the momentary blaze O'er all the gallant train , And each visage pale with dazzled gaze Was seen and lost again . And the thunder's rolling peal , from far , Then on and onward drew , And varied its sound like the broil of war , And loud and louder grew . Still glares the lightning blue and pale , And roars the astounding din ; And rattle the windows with bickering hail , And the rafters ring within . And cowering hounds the board beneath Are howling with piteous moan , While lords and dames sit still as death , And words are uttered none . At length , in the waning tempest's fall , As light from the welkin broke , A frightened man rushed through the hall , And words to the baron spoke . " The thunder hath stricken your tree so fair ; Its roots on green-sward lie . " — " What tree ? " — " The Elden planted there , Some thirty years gone by . " — " And wherefore starest thou on me so , With a face so ghastly wild ? " — " White bones are found in the mould below Like the bones of a stripling child . " Pale he became as the shrouded dead , And his eye-balls fixed as stone ; And down on his bosom dropped his head , And he uttered a stifled groan . Then from the board each guest , amazed , Sprung up , and curiously Upon his sudden misery gazed , And wondered what might be . Out spoke the ancient seneschal , " I pray ye stand apart , Both gentle dames and nobles all , His grief is at his heart . " Go call Saint Cuthbert's monk with speed , And let him be quickly shriven , And fetch ye a leech for his body's need To dight him for earth or heaven . " " No — fetch me a priest , " the Baron said , In a voice that seemed uttered with pain ; And he shuddered and shrunk as he faintly bade His noble guests remain . " Heaven's eye each secret deed doth scan ; Heaven's justice all should fear ; What I confess to the holy man , Both heaven and you shall hear . " And soon Saint Cuthbert's monk stood by With visage sad , but sweet , And cast on the Baron a piteous eye , And the Baron knelt low at his feet . " O father ! I have done a deed Which God alone did know : A brother's blood these hands have shed With many a fiend-like blow . " For fiends lent strength , like a powerful charm , And my youthful breast impelled , And I laughed to see , beneath my arm The sickly stripling quelled . " A mattock from its pit I took , Dug deep for the Elden Tree , And I tempted the youth therein to look Some curious sight to see . " The woodmen to their meal were gone , And ere they returned again , I had planted that tree with my strength alone O'er the body of the slain . " Ah ! gladly smiled my father then , — And seldom he smiled on me , — When he heard that my skill , like skill of men , Had planted the Elden Tree . " But where was his eldest son , so dear , Who nearest his heart had been ? They sought him far , they sought him near , But the boy no more was seen . " And thus his life and lands he lost , And his father's love beside ; The thought that ever rankled most If this heart of secret pride . " Ah ! could the partial parent wot The cruel pang he gives To the child , neglected and forgot , Who under his cold eye lives ! " His elder rights did envy move , — These lands and their princely hall ; But it was our father's partial love I envied him most of all . " Now thirty years have o'er me past , And , to the eye of man , My lot was with the happy cast , My heart it could not scan . " Oh ! I have heard in the dead of night My murthered brother's groan , And shuddered as the pale moon-light On the mangled body shone ! " My very miners , pent in gloom , Whose toil my coffers stored , And cursed , belike , their cheerless doom , Were happier than their Lord . " O holy man ! my tale is told With pain , with tears , with shame ; May penance hard , may alms of gold Some ghostly favour claim ? " The knotted scourge shall drink my blood , The earth my bed shall be , And bitter tears my daily food , To earn Heaven's grace for me . " Now , where that rueful deed was done , Endowed with rights and lands , Its sharp spires brightening in the sun , A stately abbey stands . And the meekest monk whose life is there Still spent on bended knee , Is he who built that abbey fair , And planted the Elden Tree .
NOTE .

The story of this ballad was told to me by the late Sir George Beaumont , as one he had heard from his mother , who said it was a tradition belonging to some castle in the North of England , where it was believed to have happened . It was recommended by him as a good subject for a ballad ; and with such a recommendation I was easily tempted to endeavour , at least , to preserve its simple and striking circumstances , in that popular form . I have altered no part of the story , nor have I added any thing but the founding of the Abbey , and the Baron's becoming a Monk , in imitation of that exquisite ballad , " The Eve of St. John , " where so much is implied in so few word , by the two last stanzas , which I have always particularly admired .

There is a nun in Dryburgh bower , Ne'er looks upon the sun ; There is a Monk in Melrose Tower , He speaketh word to none . That nun who ne'er beholds the day , That Monk who speaks to none , That nun is Smaylho'mes Lady gay , That Monk the bold Baron .