Classic Poem

PART I.

Lord E USTACE lay on his dying bed,
His death was nigh at hand;
And he had sent for his brother dear,
From his home in a distant land.

" Brother, between us now, for years,
Have world-wide oceans rolled;
Yet my heart tells me thine is true;
And what can a dying brother do,
But turn to the boyhood's love he knew
So strong and pure of old?

" Motherless has my Mary been;
Nor longer in this earthly scene
May I her father be:
Oh be thou a father unto her,
And God will prosper thee! "
Sir Gerald took the solemn trust,
Low kneeling by his side:
In joy serene the father smiled,
He blessed his brother, kissed his child,
And then contented died.

Like Winter old, with wind and cold,
The sire had passed away;
But after his long and dreary reign
He left, to cheer the earth again,
A maiden, blushing in excess
Of half-unconscious loveliness;
A blooming bud, or a budding flower,
Yet bright with the tears of a passing shower,
In the year's youth, sweet young May.

The heiress sole was she of all
Her father's wide domain:
From the castle that by the sea did stand,
Far inward stretched her fertile land;
And all the wide champain, —
Still scattering verdure as they ran, —
Did wide streams intervein,
That freighted flowed through meadows green,
Or fields of yellow grain,
Through woods where spotted deer are seen,
And rustic hamlets peep between
High hills, or dot the plain.

Sir Gerald was a tall, gaunt man,
With dark and sunken eye;
His sallow cheek for years had burned
Beneath a southern sky;
And oft, when wandering alone,
Fair Mary's fields he gazed upon,
And welcomed silently
The thought, that these were all his own
(For the next of kin the prize would win),
Should Mary chance to die.

The unforbidden thought returned,
The young desire grew strong,
Until within his heart said he,
" Why should not chance be certainty? "
God shield the maid from wrong!

There's sickness within those castle walls —
Soft is the menials' tread;
Hushed is the lute in Mary's bower,
Untimely fades the fair May-flower!
And paid by the good Sir Gerald's gold,
A skilful crone, lean, withered, and old,
Is watching by her bed.

And kind Sir Gerald anxiously,
And many times a day,
Exclaims, " God grant she may not die! "
Then upward turns his glistening eye,
His pale lips moving silently,
And sighing, seems to pray.
But youth proves stronger than disease;
And to give good Sir Gerald ease,
The crisis past, she will at last
Remain among the living.
His anxious prayers are answered now,
But gloom broods over Sir Gerald's brow:
Why do his grateful knees not bow
In a devout thanksgiving?

'Twas a boding night, no moon, no stars;
But a vast rayless cloud
With breathless calm o'erhung the heavens,
As with a sable shroud.

'Twas in the small hours of the night,
The early night of morn,
Three men stole through the castle hall
Up the winding stair; and one is tall —
Hush! hear how whisperingly he spoke!
And he wears, meseems, the cap and cloak
That are by Sir Gerald worn.

The old crone was there at the top of the stair;
She opened the door and beckoned them in
With her long finger, crooked and thin:
Lady Mary fair in her beauty there
Lay sunk in dreamless sleep;
The careful nurse had mingled up
An opiate in her sleeping-cup,
That her slumber might be deep.
Few words and low they spake, and what
They did I may not say;
But three there were that entered there,
And four that went away:
And none but the crone sat there alone,
In the bower, at dawn of day.

An holy anchoret, some tell,
Who built his solitary cell
On the neighboring crag's o'erhanging height,
Did hear strange sounds on that calm night,
As he said his vigil prayer.
Footsteps, and many a hurried word, —
And a dull plashing sound was heard
Re-echoed from the wave below;
But little did that good man know
What doings foul were there!

There's mourning within those castle walls,
And funeral preparation;
And meek and gentle as a lamb,
Sir Gerald's face reveals a calm
And chastened resignation.

As the evening shades come glooming on,
While vesper bells are ringing,
In solemn tones from the altar rolls.
The requiem for departed souls,
That holy priests are singing.

In the church-yard a sable pall
Upon a coffin lies,
And many a tear upon the bier
Falls from Sir Gerald's eyes.

Earth rattles on the coffin-lid;
And then, to close the scene,
Fresh flowers, untimely plucked, are thrown
To die, like her, untimely, on
The little mound of green.