Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads :: :: University of Virginia Library

There are two statues of cold grey stone,
Mossy and black with years,
Creatures that never feel love nor joy,
Nor ever shed human tears;
Shine sun, beat wind, blow hot, blow cold,
They stand stern looking on,
Taking no 'count of the days or hours,
Nor the ages past and gone.

Ruthless creatures of hard grey stone,
Guarding the old park-gates,
Firm on your throne-like pedestals,
Gazing calm-eyed as Fates;
Whether a bridal train laughs thro',
Or a coffin pass within,
Never a word and never a smile
At the silence or the din.

The gates stained red with iron rust,
Are twined with love-knots true,
Quaint winding cyphers mystical,
Still streaked with gold and blue.
There proudly round ramp herald beasts,
And round hang fruit and flowers;
But gapped and warped with lightning-stroke,
And the damp of cold night showers.

On the slabs the figures trample,
Grow long dry nodding weeds,
And there the starling loves to build,
And there the robin feeds;
While, like blood-gouts, the rust-stains drip
Foul, on the pillar's base,
And night and day try sun and rain
The cypher to deface.

No longer rolls the gilded coach
Down the long avenue,
Lit by the smoking torches' light
That glistens in the dew;
No longer through the massy gate,
Sweep banished cavaliers,
Stern men who kneel to kiss the ground,
Shedding some bitter tears.

The house is down, the deer are dead—
The park's a lonely place.
The timid rabbits careless feed,
Unscared by human face:
But all day singing to himself,
As happy as a child,
The blackbird sits and prunes his wing,—
The spot has grown so wild.

God's curses on the drunkard's hand
That flung the spotted die!
Did he not hear the groan that shook
The vault where his fathers lie?
Blue lightning pierce the shrivelled heart
That never beat with pride.
To tread the cedar chamber where
His father's fathers died.

The die was thrown; the manor-house
Shook from the roof to base,
The sallow portraits in the hall
Gazed with reproachful face:
Without, the old ancestral trees
Groaned loud as lightning-smit;
The herald's window sparkled out,
The moon shone full on it.

The fool!—a beggar through the gate
Creeps out with head hung down,
Not seeing how the guardian gods,
Upon their pillars frown.
He hears the winner's mocking laugh
Come ringing through the tree,—
One side the gate lies heaven,
One side flows misery.

But had I time sufficient,
I could for hours relate
How Tory, Whig, and Jacobite
Have passed through yonder gate.
The lord with orange-ribbon
Bright at his button-hole,
Proud of the vote by which he sold
For a star—his body and soul.

The gallant, bound for Derby,
With a white rose at his breast,
Returning pale and wounded,
The lace torn from his vest:
Or chaired the conquering Member
Born high above his peers,
With noisy acclamations,
And loud election cheers.

Now on the iron crown that caps
The centre of the gate,
A robin comes, and in the sun,
Sings early and sings late.
It is the spirit of the place
Still wrung by a regret,—
Well may the stranger lingering by
Confess a sorrow yet.

Decay, and sin, and ruin,
Stare through the twilight grate,
Sad as the entrance of a vault,
With all its faded state;
The stains of tarnished gilding,
Its love-knot still untied,
And the silent statues standing fixed,
Asserting changeless pride.

And 'tis for this we toil and sweat.
And ply the sword and pen,—
Only to pass away at eve,
And be forgot of men.
Fools that we are, to gather flowers
That in our hands decay,—
To heap up mole-hills—to rear earth
Immortal,—for a day.