The tale is done; it little needs To track their after ways, And string again the golden beads Of love's uncounted days.
They leave the fair ancestral isle For bleak New England's shore; How gracious is the courtly smile Of all who frowned before!
Again through Lisbon's orange bowers They watch the river's gleam, And shudder as her shadowy towers Shake in the trembling stream.
Fate parts at length the fondest pair; His cheek, alas! grows pale; The breast that trampling death could spare His noiseless shafts assail.
He longs to change the heaven of blue For England's clouded sky,— To breathe the air his boyhood knew; He seeks then but to die.
Hard by the terraced hillside town, Where healing streamlets run, Still sparkling with their old renown,— The “Waters of the Sun,” —
The Lady Agnes raised the stone That marks his honored grave, And there Sir Harry sleeps alone By Wiltshire Avon's wave.
The home of early love was dear; She sought its peaceful shade, And kept her state for many a year, With none to make afraid.
At last the evil days were come That saw the red cross fall; She hears the rebels’ rattling drum,— Farewell to Frankland Hall!
I tell you, as my tale began, The hall is standing still; And you, kind listener, maid or man, May see it if you will.
The box is glistening huge and green, Like trees the lilacs grow, Three elms high-arching still are seen, And one lies stretched below.
The hangings, rough with velvet flowers, Flap on the latticed wall; And o'er the mossy ridge-pole towers The rock-hewn chimney tall.
The doors on mighty hinges clash With massive bolt and bar, The heavy English-moulded sash Scarce can the night-winds jar.
Behold the chosen room he sought Alone, to fast and pray, Each year, as chill November brought The dismal earthquake day.
There hung the rapier blade he wore, Bent in its flattened sheath; The coat the shrieking woman tore Caught in her clenching teeth;—
The coat with tarnished silver lace She snapped at as she slid, And down upon her death-white face Crashed the huge coffin's lid.
A graded terrace yet remains; If on its turf you stand And look along the wooded plains That stretch on either hand,
The broken forest walls define A dim, receding view, Where, on the far horizon's line, He cut his vista through.
If further story you shall crave, Or ask for living proof, Go see old Julia, born a slave Beneath Sir Harry's roof.
She told me half that I have told, And she remembers well The mansion as it looked of old Before its glories fell;—
The box, when round the terraced square Its glossy wall was drawn; The climbing vines, the snow-balls fair, The roses on the lawn.
And Julia says, with truthful look Stamped on her wrinkled face, That in her own black hands she took The coat with silver lace.
And you may hold the story light, Or, if you like, believe; But there it was, the woman's bite,— A mouthful from the sleeve.
Now go your ways;— I need not tell The moral of my rhyme; But, youths and maidens, ponder well This tale of olden time!
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