The lump of gold: and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

In the fair November,
Glowing like an ember,
All its leaves fire-colour'd,
By the summer's breath;—
Lovely 'mid its sorrow,
As a young May-morrow
In its lusty triumph
Over wintry Death,
Were it not for thinking
Of the dark To-be;
I beheld a pageant,
Beautiful to see,

137

A pageant and a vision,
In the public way,
Underneath the shadows,
In the noon of day.

II

Many things I pondered,
As alone I wandered,
Up to Castle Mowbray,
Through the beech-tree walks;
Under leafy net-work
Domed, like gothic fret-work
In cathedral archways,
On their pillar'd stalks.
To my silent fancy,
Earth had borrow'd gloom
From the western turret,
And its darkened room;

138

Where the Lord of Mowbray,
Dying, if not dead,
'Mid his weeping children,
Lay upon his bed.

III

Through the woodland hoary,
With autumnal glory,
Pass'd a slow procession
To the castle-gate;
Earls and barons olden,
Silver knights and golden,
Clad in clanking armour,
Haughty and sedate:
First with lifted vizor,
Fiery-eyed, but pale,
Rode the line's great founder,
Stiff with burnished mail.

139

Him there followed nobles,
Courtiers, cavaliers,
Warriors, hunters, judges,
Orators and peers.

IV

In their spectral glances
I could read romances,—
Terrible life-secrets,
Ransacked from the tomb.
Some rode bold and lusty,
Grasping falchions trusty;
Others, old and feeble,
Shivered in the gloom;
Some like simple burghers,
Passed in russet brown;
Some wore silk and velvet,
Some the wig and gown;

140

Some were robed in purple,
As for feast and dance,
And others, as for battle,
Poised the heavy lance.

V

Well I knew their faces;
On them, in their places,
In the hall of portraits,
In their oaken frames,
I had gazed untiring,
Curious and inquiring,
Groping out their story,
And their ancient names.
One had sailed with Richard
To the Holy Land;
One waylaid in travel,
Fell by robber's hand

141

One had died a traitor
On the fatal block,
And many for their country,
In the battle-shock.

VI

One had slain his brother,
Darling of his mother,
And, in late repentance,
Donn'd the priestly stole;
One, with dice and horses,
And all evil courses,
Damag'd fame and fortune,
And perchance his soul;
One, of heart aspiring,
Woo'd and won a queen;
One the miller's daughter,
On the village green.

142

Some looked round in marriage,
Others looked above;—
While twenty wed for money,
And two or three for love.

VII

One in hour of danger,
From his home a stranger,
Fled the State commotions,
That might overwhelm;
One had served the nation,
In its desolation—
Hurling in the senate,
Words that rouse a realm.
One had sold his honour
For a monarch's smile;
One, on seat of judgment,
Braving fraud and guile,

143

And all force opposing,
Dared unrighteous power
To touch the people's freedom,
Their heritage and dower.

VIII

Through the Norman portal,
Rode the grey, immortal,
Shadowy, spectral fathers,
Sadly one by one;
Them there followed, slowly,
With meek eyes, and lowly,
Sorrow-pale, a mother,
Weeping for her son;
In her morn of beauty
Seventy years before,
She had died in childbirth,
And the babe she bore,

144

Old, on death-bed lying,
Pray'd, and faintly smil'd,
Yielding up his spirit
Calmly as a child.

IX

Flashes evanescent,
Pale, and phosphorescent,
Lit the western turret
Suddenly as thought;
Voices seemed replying,
To the sere leaves sighing,
As the wind among them
Crept along distraught—
As beneath the archway,
Pass'd that mother fair,
With her glancing shoulders,
And her auburn hair,

145

And her pallid features,
Which the grave had kiss'd,
And her trailing garments,
Thin as morning mist.

X

Entering in sadness!
Issuing in gladness!
Through the gate, unopened,
Shivering on its hinge,
Out she came resplendent,
With a soul attendant,
Wearing clouds for vesture,
And the stars for fringe.
Young and lovely mother!
Son of ancient years!
Tenderly she led him,
Smiling through her tears;

146

Striving to support him
With a loving hand,
And pointing, with raised finger,
To the spirit-land.

XI

Following in order,
Down the beechen border,
Rode the ancestral phalanx;
Till the passing bell,
With the dead condoling,
Through the village tolling,
From the castle turret,
Boomed its solemn knell.
And a wind up-curling,
Faintly from the ground,
Stirred the beech-tree branches
With a whispering sound;

147

And, like darkness melting,
At the face of day,
All the ghostly pageant
Waned and died away.

November, 1855.