How dim and indistinct the silent scene!
O’er groves and valleys sleeping mists are spread,
Like a soft silvery mantle; while the stream,
Scarce heard to flow, steals on its pebbly bed;
Nor e’en a ripple wakes the silence round,
As if it flowed, perchance, through some enchanted ground.
But O, the gorgeous tint, the dazzling glow
In the clear west; for scarce the sun is gone!
That glowing tint doth yet a radiance throw
On the hill-top, while, aye, each old grey stone
Glitters like diamonds ’mid the mountain heath,
While fades, in deep’ning gloom, the sleeping vale beneath.
One lonely spot, which oft, in solemn mood,
Men have gazed on in ages long gone by,
Where stands that relic of the good green wood,
The aged oak, prompting a tear or sigh;
That lonely spot gleams o’er the misty scene,
Catching the splendour of the dazzling sheen.
And, aye, the lichens that have fixed deep
Their tiny roots within the furrowed bough;
And one small flower, which still her vigils keep,
The blue forget-me-not, are glowing now,
In characters, methinks, of living flame,
Seeming to print the old oak’s massy frame.
It looks as if a bright and sudden beam,
Within that oak, broke forth with fervid ray,
Tinting its old boughs with a golden gleam,
Bright as the deep glow of the parting day;
Tempting the passer-by to linger still,
Amid the deep’ning gloom that broods o’er dale and hill.
Ah! linger still, nor fear the chill night-wind;
It comes not yet, for scarce the sun is gone!
Each living emblem, speaking to the mind,
May counsel well, and cheer, if reft and lone,
Thy sad thoughts, earthward bend, giving but little heed
To signs of mercy near, waiting each hour of need.
Men may learn from them, be it joy or pain,
That bids the heart its wonted calm forego,
Sunbeams, or showers, loud wind, or driving rain,
The morning hoar frost, or the dazzling snow,
The small bird, journeying through the pathless skies,
May win dull thought, from earthly care to rise.
It might be, that in such a glowing hour,
When shone the old oak, as with living flame,
While anxious thoughts within her breast had power,
Forth from yon aged hall[39] a lady came
To meet the freshness of the evening breeze,
Viewless, yet rustling still among the trees.
Oh! there were hearts within that stately hall,
Though ruined now, that beat with high alarm,
And champing steeds, and warders waiting all
To guard, if need might be, from gathering harm,
And cautious looks, and voices speaking low,
As if they feared an hour of coming woe.
Yes, life or death, eternity or time,
Waited the passing of that anxious day;
A throne, a prison, much perchance of crime,
Should statesmen battle, each in stern array;
Should death steal onward through a palace gate,
Warning his victim from her hall of state.
The mind back glancing through long ages past,
E’en to the changes in that fitful scene,
Calls forth from out the dim, the lone, the vast,
One act to gaze on, noting what hath been
In dreamy life; though all we now descry
Seems as a mournful vision sweeping by.
Look then on her, for whom no evening gleam,
Nor soft wind rustling in the young green trees,
Can soothe the wasting grief—the fever’d dream—
The wandering thought, finding but little ease;
For each fond hope from the sad heart is flown,
Like leaves by autumn winds, all sear’d and gone.
Her hall is lonely now, her throne of state
Strangers may gaze at; one lone couch of pain
Holdeth her now, and pale care seems to wait
Beside that couch, despite the weeping train
Who vainly seek, with fond officious zeal,
To soothe the rankling grief they may not heal.
Through the dim oriel streams that sunny glow
Which tints the old oak with its parting beam
And one last flush gleams on the cold, damp brow
Whence life is ebbing, like a fitful dream,—
Too soon for those whom anxious boding fill,
Her weeping train of ladies, watching still.
Why watch ye now? Seven thunders would not wake
That dreaded one—her load of life laid down.
Her sleep is sound. Her stern heart may not ache,
Nor throb the brow that wore a joyless crown;
An instant past a queen. For love or hate,
She cares not now; waiting at mercy’s gate.
Hark to swift footsteps on the dewy grass,
’Mid the dim twilight, for the flush is gone
That lit yon death-couch. Hasting on they pass
To hail, as queen, the lone and captive one.
Captive, and yet a queen! one moment more
Shall give to her the crown that anxious Mary wore. |
