  THE VALE OF ESTABELLETHEY hide within the hollows, and they creep into the dell, The little time-stained headstones in the vale of Estabelle. I often looked across them when I lounged upon the hill; I never walked among them, nor could cross the moody rill. I had a dread of seeing e'er the dead of pallid face, And feared at night to meet their ghosts haunting a lonely place. The church bell rang at night time, just one hollow, dismal toll; The agËd by the cranny heard, and sighed: "How grows Death's roll!" Each meadow has its sparrow and each copse its note of spring; But seasons through I never heard a bird in graveyard sing. A solemn man, the sexton, and 'twas he you saw at eve Look at the sun, lay down his spade, wipe brow upon his sleeve. The church was old; its tower bold, and dust bedimmed the panes; The preacher ever paused a while when fell the autumn rains. The goodwives ceased from musing, and some fear upon them came; "'Tis ill to be from church to-day, when one's not blind or lame." They often asked me why it was I shunned the headstones so; "I fear them not," I said, "to some new grave with you I'll go." I thought perhaps a patriarch would tire of life, and sleep; I'd walk behind,—he was so old,—there'd be no need to weep. The morrow morn came darkly; there was awe within the town; Three days of dread before they said, "'Twas pretty Alice Brown." Oh! 'tis not she of hazel eyes; of plaited golden hair; Whose smiles of greeting always beamed like heaven on my care! Not Alice of the sidelong glance, soft heart, and tender sigh, That kissed the rose aswoon: tell me, did God let Alice die? "The third day past came darkly; there was awe within the town; They called her long, but ne'er will wake your pretty Alice Brown." I linger in the village still; I cannot go away; I walk the ways alone at eve; sometimes I pause and pray;— It is not much I say of her; I say it very low; But somehow it is sweet to think, "Perhaps the spirits know." One house there is I never pass; one way I never look; I never climb the hill at eve; I never cross the brook; But over there, amid the rest, is carved into a stone, Her name and day, and that sad word I feel the most: "Alone." They hide within the hollows and they creep into the dell, Those little crumbling headstones in the vale of Estabelle. IN meadows deep with hay, I see The reapers' steel flash sparklingly; And bobolinks at play;— And in the iris-bordered coves Frail lilies, shaded by the groves, Moor all the golden day. I watch the flicker rise on sun-lit wings High where a pewee sings,— Apollo's messenger To the lone piper of the fir. Where rolling western hills look like Waves of aËrial seas, the sunsets strike; And wrecking, dye the clouds with gold. Moon-wheeled, Eve's chariot is rolled On through the high star-spangled doors, To Night's dark murmurous shores. BEHOLD! the maize fields set their pennons free, In this rich golden ending of the year; And asters bloom upon the sunny lea, Smiling as sweet as May, though leaves turn sere. Deep in the dell, the gentle turtle-head Lifts up its tiny spire of pearly bells, And cardinals ring out a richer chime;— A last brave bee seeks in the gentians' cells A farewell taste of honeyed spring, for dead Is all the clover on its fragrant bed;— And bloomless rose vines o'er the trellis climb. Sometimes across the still and cheerless night, The farewells of the flocks are softly heard, As to the warm savannahs they take flight, Following the sad and tuneful mocking-bird. And numerous winds are murmuring sudden loss, Like cries of Hylas through the Mysian land; Or doleful chords on Grecian citherns played By tearful maidens of a funeral band. Of all the wealth of Autumn now is left But that to wound the memory; bereft Is he who wanders in this barren glade. No more I linger in the Lydian wood, And wait Silenos by each dell and spring; No more the gloaming seems or warm or good When everything of joy has taken wing. I e'en despair of Hellas in my pain; I walk an endless line of cypress shade; I wreck upon the tossing coast of night, When everything of loveliness light made Dissolves into the cold, swift autumn rain, That sweeps interminably o'er the plain, And leaves the dying world in piteous blight. The reaper Winter cometh on apace, And gleaneth all the wealth of golden-rod, And parsley wild of timid peaceful face,— Cutting the summer from the close shorn sod. The miser-wind plucks now the last pale leaf From the poor bough that treasured it in hope;— The chilling mists unroll their purple folds, Leaving the outcast through the wilds to grope, Or fall beneath a silent, hopeless grief, Gathered to ruin with the forsaken sheaf, And all the wreckage of the blasted wolds. |
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