Classic Poem

A FRAGMENT .

— 'T WAS midnight — every mortal eye was clos'd
Through the whole mansion, save an antique Crone's,
That o'er the dying embers faintly watch'd
The broken sleep (fell harbinger of death)
Of a sick Boteler. — Above indeed
In a drear gallery (lighted by one lamp,
Whose wick the poor departing seneschal
Did closely imitate,) pac'd slow and sad
The village Curate, waiting late to shrive
The penitent when 'wake scarce show'd the ray
To fancy's eye, the pourtray'd characters
That grac'd the wall. — On this and t'other side
Suspended, nodded o'er the steepy stair,
In many a trophy form'd, the knightly group
Of helms and targets, gauntlets, maces strong,
And horses' furniture — brave monuments
Of ancient Chivalry. — Through the stain'd pane
Low gleam'd the moon — not bright — but of such pow'r
As mark'd the clouds, black, threatening over head,
Full mischief-fraught; — from these in many a peal
Growl'd the near thunder — flash'd the frequent blaze
Of lightning blue. — While round the fretted dome
The wind sung surly; with unusual clank
The armour shook tremendous: — on a couch
Plac'd in the oriel sunk the Churchman down:
For who, alone, at that dread hour of night,
Could bear portentous prodigy? — —
" I hear it!" cries the proudly-gilded Casque,
(Fill'd by the soul of one, who erst took joy
In slaughterous deeds) " I hear amidst the gale
The hostile spirit shouting — once, once more,
In the thick harvest of the spears we'll shine —
There will be work anon." — — —
— — — " I'm waken'd too;"
Replied the sable Helmet (tenanted
By a like inmate) " Hark! — I hear the voice
Of the impatient Ghosts, who straggling range
Yon summit, (crown'd with ruin'd battlements,
The fruits of civil discord). To the din
The Spirits, wandering round this Gothic pile,
All join their yell — the song is war and death —
There will be work anon."
— — — " Call armourers, ho!
Furbish my vizor — close my rivets up —
I brook no dallying" — — —
— — — " Soft, my hasty friend,"
Said the black Beaver; " neither of us twain
Shall share the bloody toil — war-worn am I,
Bor'd by a happier mace, I let in fate
To my once master — since unsought, unus'd,
Pensile I'm fix'd — yet too your gaudy pride
Has nought to boast — the fashion of the fight
Has thrown your gilt and shady plumes aside,
For modern foppery; — still do not frown,
Nor lowr indignantly your steely brows,
We've comfort left enough. The bookman's lore
Shall trace our sometime merit; — in the eye
Of antiquary-taste we long shall shine:
And as the scholar marks our rugged front,
He'll say, " this Cressy saw, that Agincourt: "
Thus dwelling on the prowess of his Fathers,
He'll venerate their shell. Yet, more than this,
From our inactive station we shall hear
The groans of butcher'd brothers, shrieking plaints
Of ravish'd maids, and matrons' frantic howls;
Already hovering o'er the threaten'd lands
The famish'd raven snuffs the promis'd feast,
And hoarslier croaks for blood — 'twill flow."
— — — " Forbid it, Heaven!
O shield my suffering Country! — shield it!" pray'd
The agonizing Priest.