All dimly waned the russet grey,
And faintly fell each streak of light;
The latest hues of sunny day
Were merging into stilly night,,
And field, and forest died away,
And seem'd to wing their lingring flight,
***Like wither'd hopes that once were bright,
But doomed to silent, slow decay.
"Tis sweet to hear at evening time
The curfew's deep and solemn chime,
And in that mild and gentle hour
To find within the heart the power
To think with calmness on the past,
With all its joy and all its griel,
And from the thorn of pain at last,,
To part the rose of soft relief;
To feel again the joy that erst,
In early years the storm disperst;*
That soothed the pang and dried the tear,
And made this waste of earth appear
A lovely spot where beauty dwelt,
To feel again as once we felt,
The sparkling light that lived alone.
In some departed beings eyes,
Which we in rapture deemed our own.
And all the many fallacies
That cling to manhood's glowing spring,
When life is fresh on pleasure's wing,
When fervent as the solar beam
Was young affections ardent dream,
The dream of youth ere time and care
Had blighted hopes and prospects fair;
Or thought rad power the cup to drain,
And leave the bitter dreg of pain.
Like music murmuring on the ear,
The waves of Avon' flow'd along;
And as the waters rippled near,
Their sounds were mellow'd into song,
While wood-birds wild their vespers trill'd,
And earth and sky with music fill'd,
And softly sigh'd the air between
The waving boughs bedeck'd with green,
Of willow trees that grew beside
All droopingly the sparkling tide.
It was a spot where nature smiled
In rich luxuriance sweetly wild;
A scene that might have raised a glow
In hearts as chill as Alpine snow,
And kindled passions long decayed,
And fired the breast that time had made
The wither'd case of feelings fled,
Affections lingering with the dead;
And hopes that long had learn'd to brave
The frown of death, and seek the grave.
Upon the River's bank appear'd,
In stern and stately grandeur rear'd,
A castle flank'd by ditch and wall,
And barbican and beetling tower,
That guarded well the feudal hall
Where Warwick ruled with regal power.
And as upon its wails of grey,
The latest sun-beams died away,
They seem'd to tell a tale of gloom,
And till the gazer's heart with dread,
And things of dark and dreadinl doom,
The visions of that silent dead
Seem'd by the fancy's mighty spell
To peer from every dungeon cell,
The watch is set-the sentries keep
Their vigil on the turters steep;
The stars are forth and silence reigns
O'er princely Warwick's wide domains,
Across the far extending read,
"A single 'horsenian urged his steed,
Whose recking flanks and broken päće,
"And form as "white as Ocean spray,
Bespoke a long and weary race;
And on the rider's corslet lay
The gather'd dust-yet on he sped
Until he pass'd the River's bed;
Then curving swiftly round the shore,
He stood the castle ditch before.
"Who goes without?" the Warder cried,
"One who has stood by Warwick's side
"From dawn of day till fall of night,
"In listed field and battle fight.,
Say that Sir Ernest Trevor waits
"Admission at his castle gates.
Slowly the huge portcullis rose,
And harsly creak'd' each ponderous chain,
For 'twas a time when hostile foes
Induced Lord Warwick to sustain
His Castle's 'strength by all the tics
That art or science could devise.
But well the wärder knew his guest,
And flinging bolt and bar aside,
The massy portals opened wide,
And o'er the bridge Sir Ernest prest,
And leaping froth his gallant'steed,
That well had served his utinost need,
He quickly pass'd the Court yard o'er
And enterd at the portal door.
The Hall was bedeck'd and the feast was spread,
Lord Warwick himself graced the table head;
And round hina were gather'd as brave à band
As ever unsheathed a Warrior's brand.
They had gallantly bared their battle blades,
In the stirring times of the feirce Crusades ;
They had seen the sun of victory shine
On the shores of the distant Palestine.
There was music to them in the gathering hum,
By the foeten made when they onward come.
But they thought not now of the gory plain,
The moments of danger, the hours of pain,
But joyously sat in their polished steel,,
With the golden spur on each knightly beel;
The scarf on each, corslet-the bright reward
For the splinter'd lance and the shiver'd sword.
They mock'd in their revels the darksome night, And the lamps were flashing a dazzling light. Each bosom was fired, each hand was upheld With a sparkling draught, and each spirit swell'd As they drained each enp to old England's name Her soldier's renown and her spotless fame.
Sir Ernest was there, but his cheek was palé
As the snowy scarf on his coat of Mail.
And little he reck'd of the banquet sonnå,
And little he heeded the group around;
The clash of the wine cups, the wassail's din,
His eyes were turned on his spirit within ;
And he pass'd the goblet untasted by
With a downcast look and a drooping eye.
Upon his brow there was the stain
Of deeply rooted inward pain;
The cureless wound that scorns relief,
And glories in its cherished grief,
Not grief that like volcanic fires
Bursts madly forth and then expires;
Nor like the sudden summer storm
Sweeps on with wild and fearful form,
When lightnings rent the lurid sky,
And thunders peal from plain to plain,
And then like magic passes by,
And all is fair and bright again.
But such as palsies heart and limb,
And makes the eye of beauty dim;
That sprinkles raven locks with grey,
And from the cheek extracts away.
The joyous hue-and withers up
The spirits sap by slow degrees.
This is to taste the bitter cup,
And drain it to it's very lees.
"My Lord of Warwick well I know,
"Yon have one stern unyielding foe,
"Whose smiling form and heart of guile
"Finds favor 'neath a Monarch's smile.
"Piers Gavaston-that hated name
"That wither'd all my budding fame,
"And in the hour of morning's prime
"Made lip as dark as midnight time.
"I had a Sister-fait er far
"Than glowing fancy's dreamy star;
"Chaste as the pearl content to sleep
"Silent beneath the trackless deep;
"And giving to the gazer's eye,
"That deep impress of majesty,
"That all absorbing nameless spell;
"The glance that makes the guileless soul,
"Which makes the bosom heave and swell,
"Like Ocean when its billows roll.
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