University of Virginia Library

I.

Majestically slow
The sun goes down in glory—
The full-orbed autumn sun;
From battlement to basement,
From flanking tower to flanking tower,
The long-ranged windows of a noble hall
Fling back the flamy splendour.
Wave above wave below,
Orange, and green, and gold,
Russet and crimson,
Like an embroidered zone, ancestral woods,
Close round on all sides:
Those again begirt
In wavy undulations of all hues
To the horizon's verge by the deep forest.

II.

The holy stillness of the hour,
The hush of human life,
Lets the low voice be heard—
The low, sweet, solemn voice
Of the deep woods—
Its mystical murmuring
Now swelling into choral harmony—
Rich, full, exultant;
In tremulous whispers next,
Sinking away,
A spiritual undertone,
Till the cooing of the woodpigeon
Is heard alone;
And the going in the tree-tops,
Like the sound of the sea
And the tinkling of many streamlets.

III.

But hark! what sonorous sound
Wakens the woodland echoes?
Again, and yet again—
That long, deep, mellow tone
Slow swinging thro' the motionless air.—
From yonder knoll it comes,
Where the grey gables of an ancient pile
Between the forest waves
(More sombrous there)
Are just discernible.
Again;—how sweetly solemn!
How soothing sweet the sound!
And hark!—a heavenlier still—a holy chaunt—
Ave Maria! 'tis the vesper bell.

IV.

From the battlemented height
Of the baronial hall,
Slowly retire the sunbeams:
And where they lingering lie
(As in love loth to depart)
On the fair terrace underneath,
Longer and blacker fall the pointed shadows
Of the dwarfed yews, pyramidally clipt,
Each in its wrought-stone vase,
Along the heavy spiral balusters
At regular distance set.

V.

What a strange stillness reigns!
No sound of life within,
No stir of life without:
The very fountain in that trellis'd flower court
The terrace overlooks,
Sends up from the unfailing source
Its sparkling jet no longer—
The leaden Nereid, with her empty urn
Half-buried in fallen leaves, where she lies low
In her green, slimy basin.

VI.

What a strange stillness reigns!
Grass grows in the vast courts,
Where, if a loosened stone falls,
Hollow reverberations ring around,
Like the voices of Desolation.
No hurrying to and fro of gay retainers,
No jostling claimants at the Buttery-hatch:
Hushed the great stable-yard;
No hoof-stamp in the stall,
No steed led forth,
No hawk in training,
Not a hound in leash;
No jingling bridles and sharp sound of spur,
And gibe and jest—loud laugh and snatch of song,
And call and quick command
'Mongst grooms and gallants there.
No sight nor sound
Of life or living thing;
Only at intervals, a deep-mouthed bay,
And the clanking of chains,
When, from his separate watch,
One mastiff answers another:
Or a cat steals along in the shadow—
Or a handmaiden crosses—just seen, and gone;
Or a grey-headed Servitor.

VII.

See! to their lofty eyries
The Martens are coming home:
With a strange boldness, methinks,
As in right of sole possession.
How they sweep round the silent walls!
And over the terrace now
Are wheeling in mad gyrations.
And hark! to that stir within—
'Tis the ringing laugh of a Baby,
That sweetest of human sounds.
“Wouldst thou follow the Martens, my sweet one?
My bird! wouldst thou fly away,
And leave thine old Nurse all alone?” cries a voice;
And the sound of a kiss is heard,
And the murmur of infant fondness,
Like the crooning of a dove.

VIII.

And see, where the terrace abuts
That northern flanking tower,
From a side entrance—
Window and portal both—
With musical laugh and scream,
And gibberings unintelligibly sweet,
And pretty passion, scuffling the small feet,
A child comes tottering out,
Eagerly straining on its leading-strings,
From her upholding hand who follows close—
That old devoted woman.
And side by side, and step for step, sedate,
Serious as with that woman joined in trust,
Paces a noble wolf-dog,—
His grave eye
Incessant glancing at the infant Heir.

IX.

The infant Heir!—E'en so.
In those blue veins, with delicate tracery
Marbling the pearly fairness
Of that large open brow,
The blood of Beauchamp and Fitzhood
Flows mingled.
And this is Loxley—
His father's hall ancestral,
His mother's bridal bower.
And as he stretches out his little hands
Toward that butterfly,
Its airy flight,
As if in mockery of the vain pursuit,
Leads on his eager eye
(All reckless he,)
To where she slumbers yonder,
In that grey pile, from whence the vesper bell
Resounded late,
Sleeping the dreamless sleep.

X.

Six months thrice told
Have taught those tottering feet
The first unstable steps,
And with a double row of pearl complete
Have lined those rosy lips,
And tuned that tongue
To stammer “Father!” with its earliest prayer.
“Of such little ones,” God hath said,
By the mouth of his dear Son,
That their Angels do always behold him.
In the day of battle, who knows
But the prayer of his child may come
Between Earl William's head
And the Moslem scimitar!

XI.

For in the Holy Land he tarries yet—
The good Earl William:
For the safe rearing of his infant Boy
Confiding under God—
(God over all)
Whose servant and whose soldier
Doubly signed,
He doth avouch himself—
To the fond guardianship
Of his dead Lady's nurse,
Old faithful Cecily,
And of his venerable almoner,
Good Father Hugh;
The same who joined his hand,
In holy marriage vow,
With the lost Emma;
Who, at the close of the short bridal year,
Pronounced beside her grave,
With tremulous voice,
The sentence on all living,
“Dust to Dust:”
And, e'er the clangour of the closing vault
Through the long echoing arches
Died away,
Had dedicated to the Lord
The motherless innocent,
The infant Robert.

XII.

So in forsaken Loxley's halls
Sole rulers they remained;—
Of the deserted child
Sole guardians;—
That grey-haired Man of God,
And faithful woman old.
And with a deep devotedness of love,
And feudal fealty,
Ennobled by affection,
And sense of higher duty,—as of those
Who to a greater than their earthly liege-lord
Must one day give account,—
Did each discharge his trust,
According to the measure of his gifts,
And as befitted each
In his own proper station.

XIII.

And much delighted, he,
That good old man,
(Learned, as good,
And as the unlearned, simple),
To share with Cicely her pious task
Of earliest teaching.
And when the beautiful Babe,
With hands devoutly folded palm to palm,
Held up within his own,
Murmured the first short prayer;
Or all i' th' midst,
With innocent irreverence broke off
Into contagious mirth;
Or with grave mimickry
Slipping his fair curled head
Into the rosary at the Father's girdle,
Made show to tell the beads;
Or to lie hidden
Quite lost, forsooth!
I' th' folds of his dark robe,
Then would the venerable man
Fall into visions oft,
Prefiguring to himself
A time when on the tablets of that mind,
So unimpressible now,
He should write precious things;
And with God's blessing, of one noble scion
Make a ripe scholar,
Aye—a clerk—(who knows?)
Learned as royal Beauclerc!

XIV.

Good Father Hugh!
'Twas a right pleasant dream;
But as the little Robert throve apace,
From baby-hood to boy-hood
Making fast progress,
And of excellent parts
Gave promise;
Quick-witted sense and shrewdness—
Noble nature—
Gentle and generous, as brave and bold—
Loving withal, and truthful;
Yet, sooth to say,—
And the good Father still
Would muse perplext upon that verity,—
Small aptness shewed the boy,
And liking less
For serious task 'soever:
Neither at sight of horn-book,
Or lettered page so fair
Illuminated—beautiful to see—
With large red capitals,
Sparkled his dark blue eyes.
And evermore he failed
To count aright the numerals, all a-row
Ranged in fair order;
Whereas, strange to tell,
And true as strange,
Let Hubert the old huntsman but fling down
(Humouring the child)
His arrows all a-heap,
And lo! as at a glance the tale was told,
True to a feather.

XV.

And at his pastime in the Hall, where now
For warlike trophy scarce a spear was left
Propping the dusty banners,
Of every stag whose antlers branched around
He could tell every story,
True, as taught
By that old Huntsman,
Missing not a tittle.
Whereas, of daintiest legend,
Treating of saint, or martyr holiest,
Or sage profound,
For delectation and improvement both
Culled by the Father, and recounted oft
With persevering patience;
No single circumstance,
Sentence or syllable, could he retain,
Not for an hour!—
Marvelled the good man much.
“This thing,” thought he, “is hard to understand;”
But strong in faith and hope
He kept his even course,
Casting his bread upon the waters,
To find—God willing—
After many days.