The poetical writings of Elizabeth Oakes Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

Stout men and bold were the bacchanals three,
Who left the inn that night—
And they were trolling a merry glee
Out under the clear starlight.
To steady themselves their home to reach,
They placed a hand on the shoulder of each—
In friendly mood were they;
The white owl starts with a quivering screech
At the midnight roundelay.

Waning and dim is the cloudless moon—
The solemn trees move not;
Yet the dry leaf stirs, where it hangs alone,
On the autumn branch to shiver and moan,
A thing wellnigh forgot.
The slippery leaves are damp to the tread,
Yet they crush beneath the foot,
With a sound that now is a sound of dread,
That blends with the white owl's hoot.

197

Long is the lane that the bacchanals go,
And they have ceased the song—
For the still night stilleth their hearts also,
And whispereth of wrong;
The thin moon shineth dim below
On a moss-green oaken door—
Above is the shivering, withered grass,
Beneath is a mouldy floor;
But the dead are hushed by prayer and mass,
And they will stir no more.

There paused the three at “the dead of night,”
'T were strange to tell the why—
The shadows crept in the wan moonlight,
Yet they lingered there, and felt no fright,
Till one more bold drew nigh,
And loud he knocked, and an oath he swore;
Aghast then fled the two—
For slowly opened the moss-green door,
And within a hand him drew.

Damp, damp is the room—a glow-worm ray
The reeking vault revealing,
Shows where the dead in their old shrouds lay,
Solemn and hushed in their slow decay,
The worm around them stealing,
With a stillness, stillness pulseless there—
A stillness deep and cold:
How still and lone is the heavy air,
Where the dead their slumber hold!

198

He sat him down on a mouldy seat,
No strength had he to flee;
And the white worm crawled to Richard's feet,
He felt its touch on his fingers meet,
Small heart had he for glee;
And the stillness, stillness deeper crept;
It seemed on his heart to lie.
All night with the dead young Richard slept,
Yet awake was the inner eye.

The dead moved not, but dreamless slept,
With their faces upward turned;
They who had wearisome vigils kept,
Hoping and loving, though all was wrecked,
No more with tenderness yearned.
Pleasant they slept, from their sorrow at rest,
And Richard feared them not;
For the anguish borne in his own dark breast,
Seemed a far more dreary lot.

This restless life, with its little fears,
Its hopes, that fade so soon,
With its yearning tenderness and tears—
And the burning agony, that sears—
The sun gone down at noon;
The spirit crushed to its prison wall,
Mindless of all beside;
This young Richard saw, and felt it all—
Well might the dead abide!

199

The crimson light in the east is high,
The hoar-frost coldly gleams,
And Richard, chilled to the heart wellnigh,
Hath raised his wildered and bloodshot eye,
From that long night of dreams;
He shudders to think of the reckless band,
And the fearful oath he swore;
But most, when he thinks of the clay-cold hand
That opened the old tomb door.