Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.
I. Disappointment in LoveCumnor Hall
William 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 appal.
No lark more blithe, no flower more gay
And like the bird that haunts the thorn,
So merrily sung 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 fled.
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 shades
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 ’t is 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 soothe 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 onward they ’ve espied
The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.