Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE SAVAGE OF AVEYRON, by MARY DARBY ROBINSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE SAVAGE OF AVEYRON, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Twas in the mazes of a wood
Subject(s): Forests; Melancholy; Woods; Dejection


'Twas in the mazes of a wood,
The lonely wood of Aveyron.
I heard a melancholy tone: --
lt seemed to freeze my blood!
A torrent near was flowing fast,
And hollow was the midnight blast
As over the leafless woods it past,
While terror-fraught I stood!
O! mazy woods of Aveyron!
O! wilds of dreary solitude!
Amid thy thorny alleys rude
I thought myself alone!
I thought no living thing could be
So weary of the world as me, --
While on my winding path the pale moon shone.

Sometimes the tone was loud and sad,
And sometimes dulcet, faint, and slow:
And then a tone of frantic wo:
It almost made me mad.
The burthen was "Alone! alone!"
And then the heart did feebly groan: --
Then suddenly a cheerful tone
Proclaimed a spirit glad!
O! mazy woods of Aveyron!
O! wilds of dreary solitude!
Amid your thorny alleys rude
I wished myself -- a traveller alone.

"Alone!" I heard the wild boy say, --
And swift he climbed a blasted oak;
And there, while morning's herald woke,
He watched the opening day.
Yet dark and sunken was his eye,
Like a lorn maniac's, wild and shy,
And scowling like a winter sky,
Without one beaming ray!
Then, mazy woods of Aveyron!
Then, wilds of dreary solitude!
Amid thy thorny alleys rude
I sighed to be -- a traveller alone.

"Alone, alone'" I heard him shriek,
'Twas like the shriek of dying man!
And then to mutter he began, --
But, O! he could not speak!
I saw him point to heaven, and sigh,
The big drop trembled in his eye;
And slowly from the yellow sky,
I saw the pale morn break.
I saw the woods of Aveyron,
Their wilds of dreary solitude:
I marked their thorny alleys rude,
And wished to be -- a traveller alone!

His hair was long and black, and he
From infancy alone had been:
For since his fifth year he had seen,
None marked his destiny!
No mortal ear had heard his groan,
For him no beam of hope had shone:
While sad he sighed -- "alone, alone!"
Beneath the blasted tree.
And then. O! woods of Aveyron,
O! wilds of dreary solitude,
Amid your thorny alleys rude
I thought myself a traveller -- alone.

And now upon the blasted tree
He carved three notches, broad and long,
And all the while he sang a song --
Of nature's melody!
And though of words he nothing knew,
And though his dulcet tones were few,
Across the yielding bark he drew,
Deep sighing, notches three.
O! mazy woods of Aveyron,
O! wilds of dreary solitude,
Amid your thorny alleys rude
Upon this blasted oak no sun beam shone!

And now he pointed one, two, three;
Again he shrieked with wild dismay;
And now he paced the thorny way,
Quitting the blasted tree.
It was a dark December morn,
The dew was frozen on the thorn:
But to a wretch so sad, so lorn,
All days alike woued be!
Yet, mazy woods of Aveyron,
Yet, wilds of dreary solitude,
Amid your frosty alleys rude
I wished to be -- a traveller alone.

He followed me along the wood
To a small grot his hands had made,
Deep in a black rock's sullen shade,
Beside a tumbling flood.
Upon the earth I saw him spread
Of withered leaves a narrow bed,
Yellow as gold, and streaked with red,
They looked like streaks of blood!
Pulled from the woods of Aveyron,
And scattered over the solitude
By midnight whirlwinds strong and rude,
To pillow the scorched brain that throbbed alone.

Wild berries were his winter food,
With them his sallow lip was dyed;
On chesnuts wild he fed beside,
Steeped in the foamy flood.
Chequered with scars his breast was seen,
Wounds streaming fresh with anguish keen,
And marks where other wounds had been
Torn by the brambles rude.
Such was the boy of Aveyron,
The tenant of that solitude,
Where still, by misery unsubdued,
He wandered nine long winters, all alone.

Before the step of his rude throne,
The squirrel sported, tame and gay;
The dormouse slept its life away,
Nor heard his midnight groan.
About his form a garb he wore,
Ragged it was, and marked with gore,
And yet, where'er 'twas folded over,
Full many a spangle shone!
Like little stars, O! Aveyron,
They gleamed amid thy solitude;
Or like, along thy alleys rude,
The summer dew-drops sparkling in the sun.

It once had been a lady's vest,
White as the whitest mountain's snow,
Till ruffian hands had taught to flow
The fountain of her breast!
Remembrance bade the wild boy trace
Her beauteous form, her angel face,
Her eye that beamed with heavenly grace,
Her fainting voice that blest, --
When in the woods of Aveyron,
Deep in their deepest solitude,
Three barbarous ruffians shed her blood,
And mocked, with cruel taunts, her dying groan.

Remembrance traced the summer bright,
When all the trees were fresh and green,
When lost, the alleys long between,
The lady passed the night:
She passed the night, bewildered wild,
She passed it with her fearless child,
Who raised his little arms and smiled
To see the morning light.
While in the woods of Aveyron,
Beneath the broad oak's canopy.
She marked aghast the ruffians three,
Waiting to seize the traveller alone!

Beneath the broad oak's canopy
The lovely lady's bones were laid;
But since that hour no breeze has played
About the blasted tree!
The leaves all withered ere the sun
His next day's rapid course had run,
And ere the summer day was done
It winter seemed to be:
And still, Oh! woods of Aveyron,
Amid thy dreary solitude
The oak a sapless trunk has stood,
To mark the spot where murder foul was done.

From her the wild boy learned "alone,"
She tried to say, my babe will die!
But angels caught her parting sigh,
The babe her dying tone.
And from that hour the boy has been
Lord of the solitary scene,
Wandering the dreary shades between,
Making his dismal moan!
Till, mazy woods of Aveyron,
Dark wilds of dreary solitude,
Amid your thorny alleys rude
I thought myself alone.
And could a wretch more wretched be,
More wild, or fancy-fraught than he,
Whose melancholy tale would pierce a heart of stone.
.






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