Denzil place a story in verse. By Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] |
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 | Denzil place |  |
On this last day, about the sunset hour
They wander'd forth together, each one sad,
Prë-occupied and silent; as they walk'd
Their thoughts went winging o'er the glitt'ring sea
Homeward to England, and they liv'd again
In fancy, thro' that night at Denzil Place,
Which seem'd to mark an epoch in their fate.
I know not if 'twas wholly with remorse
That Denzil mused upon those midnight hours
Which gave to him the woman of his dreams,
Or whether even Constance, as she gazed
Into the eyes of him she lov'd so well,
Felt all the anguish she had known before
At having once been ev'rything to one
To whom, alas, she soon would be as naught
Save a fair clinging memory!
They wander'd forth together, each one sad,
Prë-occupied and silent; as they walk'd
Their thoughts went winging o'er the glitt'ring sea
Homeward to England, and they liv'd again
In fancy, thro' that night at Denzil Place,
204
I know not if 'twas wholly with remorse
That Denzil mused upon those midnight hours
Which gave to him the woman of his dreams,
Or whether even Constance, as she gazed
Into the eyes of him she lov'd so well,
Felt all the anguish she had known before
At having once been ev'rything to one
To whom, alas, she soon would be as naught
Save a fair clinging memory!
At first
They bent their way towards the neighb'ring town,
And stroll'd mechanically down the quay,
And saw and heard, as in a waking dream,
The sights and sounds around them, all the while
Feeling like beings from some other sphere
Dropp'd down from cloud-land. Ev'rything they saw
On this too mournful day seem'd so distinct
And yet so lifeless, since these lookers-on
Had concentrated all they own'd of life
On one another; so like changing scenes
Painted upon a magic lantern's slides
All seem'd a mockery, yet afterwards
Recurred to them each passing sight they saw
On that last day, and that sad parting night,
With haunting vividness.
They bent their way towards the neighb'ring town,
And stroll'd mechanically down the quay,
And saw and heard, as in a waking dream,
The sights and sounds around them, all the while
Feeling like beings from some other sphere
Dropp'd down from cloud-land. Ev'rything they saw
On this too mournful day seem'd so distinct
And yet so lifeless, since these lookers-on
Had concentrated all they own'd of life
On one another; so like changing scenes
Painted upon a magic lantern's slides
All seem'd a mockery, yet afterwards
Recurred to them each passing sight they saw
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With haunting vividness.
Upon the strand
The red-capp'd fishermen—the idle throng
Of chatt'ring beggars standing on the bridge,
The peasant-women in their shady hats
Guarding their fragrant store of fruit and flow'rs
Beside the market-cross. Then in the streets
The gaily-colour'd awnings, shadowing
The windows bright with rich Italian wares,
The gold and silver works in filigree,
The shining coral, carv'd in many shapes—
Then grouped in twos and threes about the port
Some few departing townspeople were seen,
Bound for a neighb'ring city; two who seem'd
To part in sorrow, since with many sighs
They clung and wept, a maiden and a youth,
Doubtless affianced, for, before the hour
When rang the signal for the speeding boat
To bear the youth away from her he lov'd,
They traced upon a dusty prickly-pear
The link'd initials of their hapless names.
Then, to the left, another couple stood
Taking their leave; two shovel-hatted priests,
Who, following the custom of the South,
Were taking snuff and kissing one another,
And op'ning wide their black embracing arms.
A little further, on the other side,
The town became a stragg'ling colony
Of painted villas,—here they saw a goat
Standing in biped-fashion, on a wall,
Reaching his greedy shaggy-bearded mouth
Towards the blossoms of a Judas-tree
All pink and leafless, looking as he stood
As one might deem the false Apostle look'd
With russet beard, his God-forsaken gaze
Seeking some branch of a sufficient strength
Whereon to hang himself, (for Rumour saith
From some such pink pre-destin'd gallows-tree
Swung, long ago, the suicided form
Of the accursèd Jew, Iscariot,
Who thus escaped the torments of remorse
Earn'd by his base betrayal of the Christ.)
The red-capp'd fishermen—the idle throng
Of chatt'ring beggars standing on the bridge,
The peasant-women in their shady hats
Guarding their fragrant store of fruit and flow'rs
Beside the market-cross. Then in the streets
The gaily-colour'd awnings, shadowing
The windows bright with rich Italian wares,
The gold and silver works in filigree,
The shining coral, carv'd in many shapes—
Then grouped in twos and threes about the port
Some few departing townspeople were seen,
Bound for a neighb'ring city; two who seem'd
To part in sorrow, since with many sighs
They clung and wept, a maiden and a youth,
Doubtless affianced, for, before the hour
When rang the signal for the speeding boat
To bear the youth away from her he lov'd,
They traced upon a dusty prickly-pear
The link'd initials of their hapless names.
Then, to the left, another couple stood
Taking their leave; two shovel-hatted priests,
206
Were taking snuff and kissing one another,
And op'ning wide their black embracing arms.
A little further, on the other side,
The town became a stragg'ling colony
Of painted villas,—here they saw a goat
Standing in biped-fashion, on a wall,
Reaching his greedy shaggy-bearded mouth
Towards the blossoms of a Judas-tree
All pink and leafless, looking as he stood
As one might deem the false Apostle look'd
With russet beard, his God-forsaken gaze
Seeking some branch of a sufficient strength
Whereon to hang himself, (for Rumour saith
From some such pink pre-destin'd gallows-tree
Swung, long ago, the suicided form
Of the accursèd Jew, Iscariot,
Who thus escaped the torments of remorse
Earn'd by his base betrayal of the Christ.)
| Denzil place | |