The aged priest goes shaking his gray hair
In meekest censuring, and turns his eye
Earthward in grief, and heavenward in prayer,
And sighs, and clasps his hands, and passes by.
Good-hearted man! what sullen soul would wear
Thy sorrow for a garb, and constantly
Put on thy censure, that might win the praise
Of one so gray in goodness and in days?
Also the solemn clerk partakes the shame
Of this ungodly shine of human pride,
And sadly blends his reverence and blame
In one grave bow, and passes with a stride
Impatient: - many a red-hooded dame
Turns her pained head, but not her glance, aside From wanton dress, and marvels o'er again, That heaven hath no wet judgments for the vain.
The aged priest goes on each Sabbath morn,
But shakes not sorrow under his gray hair;
The solemn clerk goes lavendered and shorn,
Nor stoops his back to the ungodly pair;
And ancient lips that puckered up in scorn,
Go smoothly breathing to the house of prayer;
And in the garden-plot, from day to day,
The lily blooms its long white life away.
And where two haughty maidens used to be,
In pride of plume, where plumy Death had trod, Trailing their gorgeous velvets wantonly,
Most unmeet pall, over the holy sod; There, gentle stranger, thou may'st only see
Two sombre Peacocks.
Marking the spot, still tarries to declare
How they once lived, and wherefore they are there.
WHEN native Britons British lands possessed,
Their glory freedom, and their blessing rest,
A powerful chief this lofty seat surveyed,
And here his mansion's strong foundation laid:
In his own ground the massy stone he sought,
From his own woods the rugged timbers brought;
Rudeness and greatness in his work combined, -
An humble taste with an aspiring mind.
His herds the vale, his flocks the hills, o'erspread;
Warriors and vassals at his table fed;
Sons, kindred, servants, waited on his will,
And hailed his mansion on the mighty hill.
In a new age a Saxon lord appeared,
And on the lofty base his dwelling reared:
Then first the grand but threatening form was known,
And to the subject vale a castle shown,
Where strength alone appeared,
Enclosed the dark recess, the frowning hall;
In chilling rooms the sullen fagot gleamed;
On the rude board the common banquet steamed;
Astonished peasants feared the dreadful skill
That placed such wonders on their favorite hill:
The soldier praised it as he marched around,
And the dark building o'er the valley frowned.
A Norman baron, in succeeding times,
Here, while the minstrel sang heroic rhymes,
In feudal pomp appeared. It was his praise
A loftier dome with happier skill to raise;
His halls, still gloomy, yet with grandeur rose;
Here friends were feasted, here confined were foes.
In distant chambers, with her female train,
Dwelt the fair partner of his awful reign:
Curbed by no laws, his vassal tribe he swayed, -
The lord commanded and the slave obeyed:
No softening arts in those fierce times were found,
But rival barons spread their terrors round;
Each, in the fortress of his power secure,
Of foes was fearless and of soldiers sure;
And here the chieftain, for his prowess praised,
Long held the castle that his might had raised.
Came gentler times; - the barons ceased to strive
With kingly power, yet felt their pomp survive;
Impelled by softening arts, by honor charmed,
Fair ladies studied and brave heroes armed.
The Lord of Belvoir then his castle viewed,
Strong without form, and dignified but rude;
The dark long passage, and the chambers small,
Recess and secret hold, he banished all,
Took the rude gloom and terror from the place,
And bade it shine with majesty and grace.
Then arras first o'er rugged walls appeared,
Bright lamps at eve the vast apartment cheered;
In each superior room were polished floors,
Tall ponderous beds, and vast cathedral doors:
All was improved within, and then below
Fruits of the hardier climes were taught to grow;
The silver flagon on the table stood,
And to the vassal left the horn and wood.
Dressed in his liveries, of his honors vain,
Came at the baron's call a menial train;
Proud of their arms, his strength and their delight; Loud in the feast and fearless in the fight.
Benallay.
ANNOT OF BENALLAY.
T lone midnight the death-bell tolled,
To summon Annot's clay:
For common eyes must not behold
The griefs of Benallay.
Meek daughter of a haughty line,
Was Lady Annot born:
That light which was not long to shine,
The sun that set at morn.
They shrouded her in maiden white,
They buried her in pall;
And the ring he gave her faith to plight
Shines on her finger small.
The curate reads the dead man's prayer
The silent leech stands by:
The sob of voiceless love is there,
And sorrow's vacant eye.
'Tis over. Two and two they tread
The churchyard's homeward way:
Farewell! farewell! thou lovely dead:
Thou Flower of Benallay.
The sexton stalks with tottering limb
Along the chancel floor:
He waits, that old man gray and grim,
To close the narrow door.
"Shame! shame! these rings of stones and gold!"
The ghastly caitiff said;
"Better that living hands should hold,
Than glisten on the dead."
The evil wish wrought evil deed,
The pall is rent away:
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