 | Poems by Julia C. R. Dorr |  |
450
THE PRINCES' CHAMBER
I stood upon Tower Hill,
Bright were the skies and gay,
Yet a cloud and a sudden chill
Passed over the summer day—
A thrill, and a nameless dread,
As of one who waits alone
Where gather the silent dead
Under the charnel stone.
Bright were the skies and gay,
Yet a cloud and a sudden chill
Passed over the summer day—
A thrill, and a nameless dread,
As of one who waits alone
Where gather the silent dead
Under the charnel stone.
For before my shrinking eyes
They glided, one by one,
The great, the good, the wise,
Who here to death were done;
Sinners and saints they came
With blood-stained garments on,
Reckless of praise or blame,
Or battles lost or won.
They glided, one by one,
The great, the good, the wise,
Who here to death were done;
Sinners and saints they came
With blood-stained garments on,
Reckless of praise or blame,
Or battles lost or won.
Then over the moat I passed
And paused at the Traitors' Gate;
Did I hear a trumpet's blast,
Forerunner of deadly fate?
Lo! up the stairs from the river,
Where the sombre shadows crept,
With none to help or deliver,
Kings, queens, and princes swept!
And paused at the Traitors' Gate;
Did I hear a trumpet's blast,
Forerunner of deadly fate?
Lo! up the stairs from the river,
Where the sombre shadows crept,
With none to help or deliver,
Kings, queens, and princes swept!
451
O, some of those royal dames
Drooped, with dishevelled hair,
And mien of one who claims
Close kindred with despair!
And some were proud and cold,
With eyes that blazed like stars,
As under that archway old
They passed to their prison-bars.
Drooped, with dishevelled hair,
And mien of one who claims
Close kindred with despair!
And some were proud and cold,
With eyes that blazed like stars,
As under that archway old
They passed to their prison-bars.
To prison-bars or death!
Fair, hapless Anne Boleyn;
That haughty maid, Elizabeth;
Northumberland's pale queen;
Margaret Plantagenet,
Her gray locks floating wild—
How the line lengthens yet,
Knight, prelate, statesman, child!
Fair, hapless Anne Boleyn;
That haughty maid, Elizabeth;
Northumberland's pale queen;
Margaret Plantagenet,
Her gray locks floating wild—
How the line lengthens yet,
Knight, prelate, statesman, child!
Fiercely the black portcullis
Frowned as I onward went;
The Bloody Tower is this—
Strong tower of dread portent!
“Show me the Princes' Chamber,”
To the Yeoman Guard I said;
O, the stairs were steep to clamber,
And the rough vault dark o'erhead!
Frowned as I onward went;
The Bloody Tower is this—
Strong tower of dread portent!
“Show me the Princes' Chamber,”
To the Yeoman Guard I said;
O, the stairs were steep to clamber,
And the rough vault dark o'erhead!
No sigh in the sunny room,
No moan from the groined roof,
No wail of expectant doom
Echoed alow, aloof!
But instead a mother sang
To a child upon her knee,
Whose peals of laughter rang
Like sweet bells mad with glee.
No moan from the groined roof,
No wail of expectant doom
Echoed alow, aloof!
But instead a mother sang
To a child upon her knee,
Whose peals of laughter rang
Like sweet bells mad with glee.
452
Sunshine for murky air,
Smiles for the sob of pain,
Joy for dark despair,
Hope where sweet hope was slain!
“Art thou happy here,” I cried,
“Where once was lonely woe,
And the royal children died,—
Murdered so long ago?”
Smiles for the sob of pain,
Joy for dark despair,
Hope where sweet hope was slain!
“Art thou happy here,” I cried,
“Where once was lonely woe,
And the royal children died,—
Murdered so long ago?”
She smiled. “O, lady, yes!
Earth hath forgotten them;
See how my roses press,
Blooming on each fair stem!
The princes, they sleep sound,
But love nor joy are dead;
I fear no haunted ground,
I have my child,” she said.
Earth hath forgotten them;
See how my roses press,
Blooming on each fair stem!
The princes, they sleep sound,
But love nor joy are dead;
I fear no haunted ground,
I have my child,” she said.
| Poems by Julia C. R. Dorr | |