Enclosed the dark recess, the frowning hall;
In chilling rooms the sullen fagot gleamed;
On the rude board the common banquet steamed;
Astonished peasants feared the dreadful skill
That placed such wonders on their favorite hill:
The soldier praised it as he marched around,
And the dark building o'er the valley frowned.
A Norman baron, in succeeding times,
Here, while the minstrel sang heroic rhymes,
In feudal pomp appeared. It was his praise
A loftier dome with happier skill to raise;
His halls, still gloomy, yet with grandeur rose;
Here friends were feasted, here confined were foes.
In distant chambers, with her female train,
Dwelt the fair partner of his awful reign:
Curbed by no laws, his vassal tribe he swayed,
The lord commanded and the slave obeyed:
No softening arts in those fierce times were found,
But rival barons spread their terrors round;
Each, in the fortress of his power secure,
Of foes was fearless and of soldiers sure;
And here the chieftain, for his prowess praised,
Long held the castle that his might had raised.
Came gentler times; —the barons ceased to strive
With kingly power, yet felt their pomp survive;
Impelled by softening arts, by honor charmed,
Fair ladies studied and brave heroes armed.
The Lord of Belvoir then his castle viewed,
Strong without form, and dignified but rude;
The dark long passage, and the chambers small,
Recess and secret hold, he banished all,
Took the rude gloom and terror from the place,
And bade it shine with majesty and grace.
Then arras first o'er rugged walls appeared,
Bright lamps at eve the vast apartment cheered;
In each superior room were polished floors,
Tall ponderous beds, and vast cathedral doors:
All was improved within, and then below
Fruits of the hardier climes were taught to grow;
The silver flagon on the table stood,
And to the vassal left the horn and wood.
Dressed in his liveries, of his honors vain,
Came at the baron's call a menial train;
Proud of their arms, his strength and their delight;
Loud in the feast and fearless in the fight.
Benallay.
ANNOT OF BENALLAY.
T lone midnight the death-bell tolled,
To summon Annot's clay:
For common eyes must not behold
The griefs of Benallay.
Meek daughter of a haughty line,
Was Lady Annot born:
That light which was not long to shine,
The sun that set at morn.
They shrouded her in maiden white,
They buried her in pall;
And the ring he gave her faith to plight
Shines on her finger small.
The curate reads the dead man's prayer
The silent leech stands by:
The sob of voiceless love is there,
And sorrow's vacant eye.
"T is over. Two and two they tread
The churchyard's homeward way:
Farewell! farewell! thou lovely dead:
Thou Flower of Benallay.
The sexton stalks with tottering limb
Along the chancel floor:
He waits, that old man gray and grim,
To close the narrow door.
Shame! shame! these rings of stones and gold!"
The ghastly caitiff said;
"Better that living hands should hold,
Than glisten on the dead."
The evil wish wrought evil deed,
The pall is rent away:
And lo! beneath the shattered lid,
The Flower of Benallay.
But life gleams from those opening eyes,
Blood thrills that lifted hand:
And awful words are in her cries,
Which none may understand.
Joy! 't is the miracle of yore,
Of the city calléd Nain:
Lo! glad feet throng the sculptured floor,
To hail their dead again.
Joy in the hall of Benallay,
A stately feast is spread:
Lord Harold is the bridegroom gay,
The bride the arisen dead.
BENHALL! although I have not lately sought,
As I had purposed, thy delightful shades,
Their charms survive; and oft by memory's aids,
In living beauty are before me brought.
No breeze that sweeps their flowers with perfume fraught;
Nor sun, nor moon-beam, whose soft light pervades The coy recesses of thy loveliest glades,
Sweeter, or fairer, than thou art to thought!
Yet not thy scenery only thus endears
Rich art thou in the lore of long-past years,
The songs of bards, whose brows by fame are twined
With deathless bays; and, worthy such compeers,
A poet of thy own, of taste refined.
HERE once we dwelt our name is heard no
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt,
'T is now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
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