'Yond many a crimsoned thorn-hedge
In that sweet English vale Where violet, pink and eglantine
Waft incense on the gale.

Where from the wayside hillocks smile
Gay groups of golden-rod; And 'neath the shade of branching elm,
The lithe-limbed bluebells nod.

Beneath that lofty, grey stone arch;
Beneath that sculptured crest; Betwixt those pillars huge, whereon
Heraldic lions rest.

Unto that gently rising slope;
There Crawfurd Castle stands, With lordship, far as eye can reach,
O'er all the County lands.

But why, in its kingly grandeur
Of terrace, arch and tower, Stands that fair structure mute and lone
As hermit in his bower?

---

On this same Crawfurd Castle, nigh fourscore years agone,
The morning dawned full cheerily, the sun as brightly shone,
The rooks rehearsed their noisy caw, the lark trilled roundelay
As if this sorrow-freighted world rejoiced in holiday.

Anear the Gothic window, through which the orient beams
Fell in subduÈd radiance o'er young life's happy dreams,
Sat one whose noble form and mien, firm step and shapely hand
Proclaimed him born with either right, to serve or to command.

This day was of his happy life, the happiest, brightest far,
For a blissful calm had fallen on a bitter family jar;
The Earl had yielded; on the morn his loved and only son
With full consent would wed with her whose heart had long been won.

She was no child of fortune the lady of his choice;
A lovely face, a faultless form, a clear and kindly voice
Were hers, with wealth of tenderness, and heart of honest love,
Which prized him for his own true worth all other claims above.

She was no peeress of the realm; no high born titled dame,
To lead the dance in glittering halls where myriad jewels flame;
To circle in the slippery round of fashion's giddy throng;
To charm the audience with a sound whence dwells no soul of song.

Yet, brighter to her lover's eyes those coils of golden hair
Than coronet of strawberry leaves, o'ertopped with pearlets rare;
And dearer to her lover's heart those accents sweet and low
Than choicest melody of art, or studied music's flow.

So Viscount Edwin sat and dreamed bright dreams of after hours
When the curate's winsome daughter should reign at Crawfurd towers;
And a new, sweet peace stole o'er him as he thought of all the scorn
With which the Earl had spoken of the maiden lowly born.

How he had pointed to their sires, and reasoned of disgrace,
While bitter disappointment had paled his noble face;
Then how, relenting for the sake of her long since in heaven,
He'd ta'en his boy unto his heart, and seeming wrong forgiven.

Then o'er the dreamer's youthful face there stooped a passing cloud;
But an angel voice made whisper beyond the satin shroud,
As a gentle hand pressed tenderly upon the smooth, white brow,
"I loved thee, Oh my little one!—I love and bless thee now."

II.

"Dear Cousin Ida! on this day I crave thy special grace!"
The red tide surged in angry force; deep flushed the comely face.
"I may not wish you well," she said, "it cannot come to me
That aught could ever bridge the gulf 'twixt such as her—and thee."
Lord Edwin proffered no reply; she was his childhood's friend;
"Come Fido!" to his faithful hound, "our cheerful way we'll wend
Across the park, adown the mead, on to the river's side
Where, 'neath the jasmine's fragrant shade, the glad hours quickly glide."
Oh! lightly o'er the heart of youth life's scathing breezes blow;
To vanish, as 'fore noonday sun, the first, soft flakes of snow;
And smiles the buoyant hope of youth as smiles the tranquil shore
When Ocean, having spent his wrath, retreats with sullen roar.
At early morn the nuptial peals rang forth full merrily;
Before the lark sang matin song the village stirred with glee;
The agÈd church looked young again, in arch and pillar green,
As through the quaint, old diamond panes peeped in the rising sheen.
A joyous crowd hath filled the pews; along the sacred walls,
Even as a benediction, the orient glory falls;
The choir within the chancel sit, the organ swell expands,
The clergyman who baptized both will link the lovers' hands.
Why cometh not the maiden in her crown of orange flowers?
Why linger Earl and bridegroom gay amid their haughty towers?—
Bring hither cypress garnishing! nor bay nor orange bloom;
For music and for marriage-feast are silence and the tomb.
With song and voice of cheering the barque doth hoist her sails,
But who shall tell if into port she'll glide with favouring gales;
The golden chalice of the years with joy may overflow;
Drink whilst ye will the sweetened draught, the end ye may not know.
Upon his couch at morning tide the noble bridegroom lies;
Nor wedding peal will break his rest, nor dawn will ope his eyes;
The violets shall bloom and fade, the river sing its rhyme,
That ear attuned to echoes sweet, is closed to notes of time.
Still robed in richest evening dress, within her tiring-room
The Lady Ida sitteth, but her soul hath passed to doom;
One line to solve the mystery; one only line, which read:
"She wiled from me the living! she cannot part the dead!"

Oh! saddest note in saddening song!
The fair, unwedded bride With reason fled, might oft be seen
Near by the river side.
Now plaiting wreaths of sweet, wild flowers
To rhythms light and gay; Now listening for the manly step
She hailed in former day.
Till the Father, in His mercy,
Sent an angel from above To tend her guileless spirit up
Into the haven of love. Earl Crawfurd, crushed with shame and woe
Bent low his stately head; And, ere the forest leaves were strewn,
He slumbered with his dead.
His mansion, with ancestral lands,
Rich farms and pastures fair; A vast and goodly heritage,
Passed to a distant heir.
So now, in its kingly grandeur
Of terrace, arch and tower, Stands Crawfurd Castle, mute and lone
As hermit in his bower.