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(From Agnes)
ONE hour we rumble on the rail, | |
| One half-hour guide the rein, | |
| We reach at last, o’er hill and dale, | |
| The village on the plain. | |
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| With blackening wall and mossy roof, | 5 |
| With stained and warping floor, | |
| A stately mansion stands aloof, | |
| And bars its haughty door. | |
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| This lowlier portal may be tried, | |
| That breaks the gable wall; | 10 |
| And lo! with arches opening wide, | |
| Sir Harry Frankland’s hall! | |
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| ’T was in the second George’s day | |
| They sought the forest shade, | |
| The knotted trunks they cleared away, | 15 |
| The massive beams they laid, | |
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| They piled the rock-hewn chimney tall, | |
| They smoothed the terraced ground, | |
| They reared the marble-pillared wall | |
| That fenced the mansion round. | 20 |
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| Far stretched beyond the village bound | |
| The Master’s broad domain; | |
| With page and valet, horse and hound, | |
| He kept a goodly train. | |
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| And, all the midland county through, | 25 |
| The ploughman stopped to gaze | |
| Whene’er his chariot swept in view | |
| Behind the shining bays, | |
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| With mute obeisance, grave and slow, | |
| Repaid by nod polite,— | 30 |
| For such the way with high and low | |
| Till after Concord fight. * * * * * | |
| I tell you, as my tale began, | |
| The Hall is standing still; | |
| And you, kind listener, maid or man, | 35 |
| May see it if you will. | |
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| The box is glistening huge and green, | |
| Like trees the lilacs grow, | |
| Three elms high-arching still are seen, | |
| And one lies stretched below. | 40 |
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| The hangings, rough with velvet flowers, | |
| Flap on the latticed wall; | |
| And o’er the mossy ridge-pole towers | |
| The rock-hewn chimney tall. | |
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| Thus Agnes won her noble name, | 45 |
| Her lawless lover’s hand; | |
| The lowly maiden so became | |
| A lady in the land! | |
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| The tale is done; it little needs | |
| To track their after ways, | 50 |
| And string again the golden beads | |
| Of love’s uncounted days. | |
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| They leave the fair ancestral isle | |
| For bleak New England’s shore; | |
| How gracious is the courtly smile | 55 |
| Of all who frowned before! | |
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| Again through Lisbon’s orange bowers | |
| They watch the river’s gleam, | |
| And shudder as her shadowy towers | |
| Shake in the trembling stream. | 60 |
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| Fate parts at length the fondest pair; | |
| His cheek, alas! grows pale; | |
| The breast that trampling death could spare | |
| His noiseless shafts assail. | |
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| He longs to change the heaven of blue | 65 |
| For England’s clouded sky,— | |
| To breathe the air his boyhood knew; | |
| He seeks them but to die. | |
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| The doors on mighty hinges clash | |
| With massive bolt and bar, | 70 |
| The heavy English-moulded sash | |
| Scarce can the night-winds jar. * * * * * | |
| A graded terrace yet remains; | |
| If on its turf you stand | |
| And look along the wooded plains | 75 |
| That stretch on either hand, | |
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| The broken forest walls define | |
| A dim, receding view, | |
| Where, on the far horizon’s line, | |
| He cut his vista through. | 80 |
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