William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.
Cumnor HallWilliam Julius Mickle (17351788)
T
The moon, sweet regent of the sky,
Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall,
And many an oak that grew thereby.
The sounds of busy life were still—
Save an unhappy lady’s sighs,
That issued from that lonely pile.
That thou so oft hast sworn to me,
To leave me in this lonely grove,
Immured in shameful privity?
Thy once-belovèd bride to see;
But be she alive, or be she dead,
I fear, stern Earl, ’s the same to thee.
When happy in my father’s hall:
No faithless husband then me grieved;
No chilling fears did me appall.
No lark more blithe, no flower more gay,
And, like the bird that haunts the thorn,
So merrily sang the livelong day.
Among court ladies all despised;
Why didst thou rend it from that hall,
Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized?
How fair I was you oft would say!
And proud of conquest, plucked the fruit,
Then left the blossom to decay.
The rose is pale, the lily’s dead;
But he that once their charms so prized
Is, sure, the cause those charms are dead.
And tender love’s repaid with scorn,
The sweetest beauty will decay:
What floweret can endure the storm?
Where every lady’s passing rare;
That eastern flowers that shame the sun
Are not so glowing, not so fair.
Where roses and where lilies vie,
To seek a primrose, whose pale shade
Must sicken when those gauds are by?
Among the fields wild flowers are fair;
Some country swain might me have won,
And thought my beauty passing rare.
Or ’tis not beauty lures thy vows;
Rather ambition’s gilded crown
Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.
The injured surely may repine—
Why didst thou wed a country maid,
When some fair princess might be thine?
And Oh! then leave them to decay?
Why didst thou win me to thy arms,
Then leave to mourn the livelong day?
Salute me lowly as they go;
Envious they mark my silken train,
Nor think a Countess can have woe.
How far more happy’s their estate—
To smile for joy—than sigh for woe—
To be content—than to be great.
Daily to pine and waste with care!
Like the poor plant that from its stem
Divided, feels the chilling air.
The humble charms of solitude!
Your minions proud my peace destroy
By sullen frowns or pratings rude.
The village death-bell smote my ear:
They winked aside, and seemed to say
‘Countess, prepare, thy end is near!’
Here I sit lonely and forlorn;
No one to sooth me as I weep,
Save Philomel on yonder thorn.
Still that dread death-bell smites my ear;
And many a boding seems to say
‘Countess, prepare, thy end is near!’
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear;
And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved,
And let fall many a bitter tear.
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear,
Full many a piercing scream was heard,
And many a cry of mortal fear.
An aerial voice was heard to call,
And thrice the raven flapped its wing
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.
The oaks were shattered on the green,
Woe was the hour, for nevermore
That hapless Countess e’er was seen.
Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball;
For ever since that dreary hour
Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.
Avoid the ancient, moss-grown wall;
Nor ever lead the merry dance
Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.
And pensive wept the Countess’ fall,
As, wandering onwards, they’ve espied
The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.