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THE LEGEND OF THE LORD OF DUNRAVEN.
(A TALE OF THE GLAMORGANSHIRE COAST.)
Tradition states that Walter Vaughan, Lord of Dnnraven, having wasted hili
substance in riotous living, sought to mend his fallen fortunes by the horrible
practice of alluring vessels on to the rocky coast near his castle, by means of false
signal lights. On one occasion, when he had succeeded in decoying a large vessel
on to the rocks, and was engaged, with his infamous companions, in securing the
wreckage washed up by the waves, a mangled corpse floated to his feet. Perceiving
a valuable ring on the dead man's hand, he was about to seize it, when, to his
horror, he recognised in that ghastly corpse the body of his only son.
(See Tales and Sketches of Wales by CHAS. WILKINS.)
Dunraven Castle, grim and gray,
Frowns darkly o'er Dunraven Bay.
The flowing sea
Rolls roughly, and the closing day
Shadows the lea.
Wintry winds whistle o'er the plain
With wanton force. Thick blinding rain
Descendeth fast.
With cordage snapped and canvas torn,
A helpless schooner's landward borne
Afront the blast.
Mad legions of th' impetuous deep
Assail the castle's rocky steep.
Resistance meet,
And in their baffied anger leap
Full fifty feet.
In mountain masses fleetly fly
Funereal clouds o'er lowering sky,
Dunraven's lord, with glittering eye
And trembling lip,
Doth to the loftiest turret hie,
Whence he more clearly may espy
The dooméd ship.
He glanceth oft and eagerly
Athwart the wildly waving sea,
Rejoiceth with unholy glee,
Crieth "A respite brief,
By heaven! Scarce escapeth she
The deadly Tuskar Reef."
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A dangerous rock in the Bristol Channel, near the mouth of the River
Ogmore, the ecene of many diautrous wrecks.
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Intently listening, he can hear
O'er tempest rise distinct and clear,
Full fraught with deep heartrending fear,
The wailing of the crew.
Cry they, "Oh! God of mercy save
Thy servants from an ocean grave,"
As high upon a crested wave
The tall ship heaves in view.
Dunraven, smiling, leaves the tower,
And, with impatience, waits the hour
When welcome night shall come.
Nor thought of pity giveth he
To hapless souls in agony,
Who, conquered by th' almighty sea,
Sail on, sail on to doom.
Soon night's obscuring mantle falls
Around the castle's gloomy walls,
Wraps sea and land;
Unto him Lord Dunraven calls
His hellish band.
They gather in the castle hall,
Twelve wreckers, muscular and tall,
Red torches fresco roof and wall
With varying shade and light.
The brimming wine-cup round doth fly,
Gleams murder in each ruffian's eye,
Death holds high court to-night.
Among them Lord Dunraven walks,
In turn, with each retainer talks,
And bandies merry jest;
Declares, with oath, how they and he
Shall, so they choose it, wealthier be,
Ere he retire to rest.
"Fill flasks and flagons once again,
Drink! drink success to wind and rain,
Damp death to yonder crew.
Make ready now the signal light,
Come, prime your courage, for to-night,
My men, we've work to do."
They issue forth: a desperate band,
And seaward, o'er the shingly strand,
With caution take their way,
'Gainst human life to lift the hand,
To stain with blood the golden sand
Of fair Dunraven Bay.
Enfolded fast by friendly dark,
O'er treeless waste and wind-swept park,
One stealthily doth tread,
To where, commanding sea and land,
An ancient ruined tower doth stand
High on Dunraven Head.
The howling tempest drowneth speech,
The long waves thunder on the beach
With deafening crash.
The sea is one vast foaming reach
From Sker to Nash.
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Two well known headlands on the Glamorganshire coast. Sker is the scene
of R. D. Blackmore'e novel, The Maid. of Sker.
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Like lightning, from the dizzy height,
Shoots forth a clear and brilliant light
The heaving billows o'er.
It riseth high; it falleth low;
The treacherous waters catch the glow,
Lo! all is dark once more.
Emboldened by the welcome sight,
The skipper bails the fateful light,
"Thank heaven! help is near."
Then, as it fadeth from his view,
He cheereth on the frightened crew,
And biddeth each take heart anew,
Wavering 'twixt hope and fear.
But hope is valiant, doubt is drear;
So valiant hope doth vanquish fear,
And conquer doleful doubt.
A helpful bark is surely near,
The skipper bids the helmsman steer
Where erst the light shone out.
With flapping canvas, broken mast,
The schooner shoreward flieth fast,
Bereft of spar and boom.
The waving water doth conspire
With sable night, and gleaming fire,
To cozen her to doom.
The sailors raise a ringing cheer
As, once again, the light shines clear,
Their hearts with hope elate.
The hell-born trap each man deceives,
'Tis darkened suddenly, and leaves
The vessel to her fate.
Oh! brief suspense; her voyage o'er,
She strikes the cruel rock-bound shore
With fierce appalling shocks;
Her timbers shatter hopelessly,
Above her leaps the angry sea,
And crew and cargo ruthlessly
Are dashed upon the rocks.
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The winds have wrought their wayward will,
And roused to wrathful deeds of ill
The dread, revengeful deep.
Like children now, whose passion o'er,
All heedless of the ocean's roar,
They sobbing sink to sleep.
With grasping hand and greedy reach,
Dunraven's lord doth pace the beach,
And strain his blood-shot eyes.
Coarse jest, ill-timed, his crew doth greet
As every wave throws at his feet
Rich bales of merchandise.
Some demon rules his soul to-night,
He shouts his orders left and right,
"Look ye to casks and bales,
Those useless sailors, let them lie,
And, so it please them, howl and die,
For 'dead men tell no tales.'"
With speed he wanders up and down,
Peers through the dark with eager frown,
His voice with shouting hoarse.
An angrier wave than all before,
Doth near him cast upon the shore,
A ghastly mangled corse.
Oh! sorry, sorry is the sight,
The bonny face death drawn and white,
The blood-stained love-locks, golden bright,
All mingled with the sand.
Revealéd by the lantern's light
A costly gem, with facets bright.,
Whose sharp rays pierce the sullen night,
Gleams from the dead man's band.
But heaven-born pity plays small part
In Lord Dunraven's crime-stained heart,
Scant welcome findeth there,
By greed of gain obscured; his sight,
To human pain oblivious quite,
Seeks but the jewel rare.
As low he stoops to seize the prize,
And meets his victim's death-dimmed eyes,
His feelings who shall tell?
"My God! my God!" he frantic calls,
As prone upon the corpse he falls,
With loud, heart-piercing yell.
'Tis, oh! the irony of fate
Remorse, repentance comes too late,
The ghastly deed is done.
With wild and agonizing cries
Dunraven's lord doth recognise
His loved, his only son.
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London.
CHARLES W. RUSSELL.
(THE END)
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