  The dews of summer night did fall; The moon, sweet Regent of the sky, Silver’d the walls of Cumnor Hall, And many an oak that grew thereby. Now nought was heard beneath the skies, The sounds of busy life were still, Save an unhappy lady’s sighs That issued from that lonely pile. ‘Leicester!’ she cried, ‘is this thy love That thou so oft hast sworn to me, To leave me in this lonely grove, Immured in shameful privity? ‘No more thou com’st with lover’s speed Thy once-belovÈd bride to see; But, be she alive, or be she dead, I fear, stern Earl, ’s the same to thee. ‘Not so the usage I received When happy in my father’s hall; No faithless husband then me grieved, No chilling fears did me appal. ‘I rose up with the cheerful morn, No lark more blithe, no flower more gay; And like the bird that haunts the thorn So merrily sung the livelong day. ‘If that my beauty is but small, Among court ladies all despised, Why didst thou rend it from that hall, Where, scornful Earl! it well was prized? ‘But, Leicester, or I much am wrong, Or ’tis not beauty lures thy vows; Rather, ambition’s gilded crown Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. ‘Then, Leicester, why,—again I plead, The injured surely may repine,— Why didst thou wed a country maid, When some fair Princess might be thine? ‘Why didst thou praise my humble charms, And oh! then leave them to decay? Why didst thou win me to thy arms, Then leave to mourn the livelong day? ‘The village maidens of the plain Salute me lowly as they go; Envious they mark my silken train, Nor think a Countess can have woe. ‘How far less blest am I than them! Daily to pine and waste with care! Like the poor plant, that, from its stem Divided, feels the chilling air. ‘My spirits flag—my hopes decay— Still that dread death-bell smites my ear: And many a boding seems to say, Countess, prepare, thy end is near!’ Thus sore and sad that Lady grieved In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear; And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, And let fall many a bitter tear. And ere the dawn of day appear’d, In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear, Full many a piercing scream was heard, And many a cry of mortal fear. The death-bell thrice was heard to ring; An aerial voice was heard to call, And thrice the raven flapp’d its wing Around the towers of Cumnor Hall. The mastiff howl’d at village door, The oaks were shatter’d on the green; Woe was the hour—for never more That hapless Countess e’er was seen! And in that manor now no more Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball; For ever since that dreary hour Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. The village maids, with fearful glance, Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall; Nor ever lead the merry dance Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. Full many a traveller oft hath sigh’d, And pensive wept the Countess’ fall, As wand’ring onwards they’ve espied The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. W. F. Mickle. |
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