 | Lyrical Poems |  |
220
CASTELROVINATO
The death-flag darkens on the tower,
The shadow blots the wall:
They wail within my lady's bower,
They groan along the hall:—
The hope of all that knightly house
In hottest strait of battle slain,—
His true-love flung upon the corse,
And kissing his gray lips in vain,—
The young hope of that castle tower
Lies low beneath the wall;
So well to wail within the bower,
And groan along the hall.
The shadow blots the wall:
They wail within my lady's bower,
They groan along the hall:—
The hope of all that knightly house
In hottest strait of battle slain,—
His true-love flung upon the corse,
And kissing his gray lips in vain,—
The young hope of that castle tower
Lies low beneath the wall;
So well to wail within the bower,
And groan along the hall.
The festal flag is on the tower,
The sunbeam gilds the wall;
Why should they wail within the bower,
Why groan within the hall?
The daughter of the house to-day
Her beauty veils in bridal dress;
To others yields her lands and name,
To others yields her loveliness—
For Love is lord of keep and tower,
And climbs the castle wall:—
At eve they sing within the bower,
And dance athwart the hall.
The sunbeam gilds the wall;
Why should they wail within the bower,
Why groan within the hall?
The daughter of the house to-day
Her beauty veils in bridal dress;
221
To others yields her loveliness—
For Love is lord of keep and tower,
And climbs the castle wall:—
At eve they sing within the bower,
And dance athwart the hall.
There is no flag upon the tower,
No shadow on the wall:
The chestnut vaults my lady's bower,
The green snake haunts the hall.
A thousand years—a thousand years—
The hearth is cold; the race has fled:
And rather will the years return
Than any spell restore the dead.—
So well the wind should waste the tower,
The lichen fret the wall;
The chestnut burgeon in the bower,
The green snake in the hall.
No shadow on the wall:
The chestnut vaults my lady's bower,
The green snake haunts the hall.
A thousand years—a thousand years—
The hearth is cold; the race has fled:
And rather will the years return
Than any spell restore the dead.—
So well the wind should waste the tower,
The lichen fret the wall;
The chestnut burgeon in the bower,
The green snake in the hall.
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