Classic Poem

A SKETCH

" Look down the road. You see that mound
Rise on the right, its grassy round
Broken as by a scar?"

(We stood,
Where every landscape-lover should,
High on the gray old belfry's lead,
Scored with rude names, and to the tread
Waved like a sea. Below us spread
Cool grave-stones, watched by one great yew.
To right were ricks; thatched roofs a few;
Next came the rectory, with its lawn
And nestling schoolhouse; next, withdrawn
Beyond a maze of apple boughs,
The long, low-latticed Manor-house.
The wide door showed an antlered hall;
Then, over roof and chimney stack,
You caught the fish-pond at the back,
The roses, and the old red wall.
Behind, the Dorset ridges go
With straggling, wind-clipped trees, and so
The eye came down the slope to follow
The white road winding in the hollow
Beside the mound of which he spoke.)

" There," said the Rector, " from the town
The Roundheads rode across the down.
Sir Miles — 'twas then Sir Miles's day —
Was posted farther south, and lay
Watching at Weymouth; but his son —
Rupert by name — an only one,
The veriest youth, it would appear,
Scrambling about for jackdaws here,
Spied them a league off. People say,
Scorning the tedious turret-way
(Or else because the butler's care
Had turned the key to keep him there),
He slid down by the rain-pipe. Then,
Arming the hinds and serving-men
With half-pike and with harquebuss,
Snatched from the wainscot's overplus,
Himself in rusty steel cap clad,
With flapping ear-pieces, the lad
Led them by stealth around the ridge,
So flanked the others at the bridge.
They were just six to half a score,
And yet five crop-ears, if not more,
Sleep in that mound. But, sad to tell,
The boy, by some stray petronel,
Or friend's or foe's — report is vague —
Was killed; and then, for fear of plague,
Buried within twelve hours or so.

" Such is the story. Shall we go?
I have his portrait here below:
Grave, olive-cheeked, a Southern face.
His mother, who was dead, had been
Something, I think, about the Queen,
Long ere the day of that disgrace,
Saddest our England yet has seen.
Poor child! The last of all his race."