"My tongue no thought or wish express'd"-- --"Yet, trust me, fairest Lady!" "In Bowscale tarn, for thy behest, The undying twain are ready. Ask from their breasts two tiny scales Of gold and pearly whiteness. These on thy heart--fulfill'd prevails Thy wish in all its brightness!"-- The stranger pass'd. Away she hies, The mountain pathway keeping, Where deep amid the silence lies The gloomy water sleeping. "Come, faithful fishes! give to me Two little scales"--she chanted-- That in my bosom peace may be, And all my wishes granted."-- They gave her from their pearly sides Two little scales. She bore them Down from the hill the Tarn that hides, And in her bosom wore them. The simple Cross her mother gave Was on her neck, a token Of that pure faith to which she clave; But lo! the link was broken! Down Greta's side with wild delight The little Maiden wandered; And on the Saint before her sight, Her inmost sight, she pondered; Now thinking--O that wed with mine His holy heart were moving! How shall we soar in thoughts divine, How walk in pathways loving! It was a festal day, and bands Of youths and maids were trooping With flowers and offerings in their hands, And round the altar grouping. And hark the little bell! it calls To every heart how sweetly! But most on Ermengarde's it falls With joy that brings her fleetly. But on the stony river's brim A moment's space delaying, To gaze--before she look'd on him-- On her own features playing Within the mirror'd pool below-- Its broken link dissevering, Her little Cross fell sinking slow Beyond her vain endeavouring. And from the stream two fin-like arms Leapt up and snatch'd her wailing, And dragg'd her down with all her charms In anguish unavailing. And down the rocks they bore her fast With struggles unrelenting: And Greta's roar mix'd in the blast With Ermengarde's lamenting. And far adown the rushing tide Was dragg'd and whirled the Maiden; And wildly mid the pools she cried In accents horror-laden. The streams dash'd on with furious roar; No aid the rude rocks lent her; Wild and more wild they gather'd o'er The loud and lost lamenter. So she whom Magic's wiles had driven, And her own heart persuaded, To tempt a Saint to turn from heaven, Fell, snatch'd from life unaided. Yet, not for ever lost, she roves Amid the winding currents, And utters to the hills and groves Her wail above the torrents. For yet some bard shall wander by With harp and song so holy, That they shall wrench the caves where lie Her limbs in anguish lowly. And free her for the blessed light And air again to greet her Awhile, before she takes her flight To where the Saint shall meet her.