THE dews of summer-night did fall; The moon, sweet regent of the sky, Silver'd the walls of Cumnor Hall, And many an oak that grew thereby. Now nought was heard beneath the skies The sounds of busy life were still Save an unhappy lady's sighs, That issued from that lonely pile. "Leicester!" she cried, "is this thy love, That thou so oft hast sworn to me, To leave me in this lonely grove, Immured in shameful privity? |