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One with thee enters in the home divine
hath gleam'd, Through thee from Heaven these beams on me
have stream’d. Therefore, when others talk, yet own I still Far deeper thoughts than theirs my bosom fill.
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,
Immur'd in shameful privity ?
Thy once beloved bride to see;
I fear, stern earl, 's the same to thee. Not so the
No chilling fears did me appal.
No lark more blithe, no flower more gay; And like the bird that haunts the thorn,
So merrily sung the livelong day.
If that my beauty is but small,
Amongst court ladies all despis'dWhy didst thou rend it from that hall
Where, scornful earl, it well was priz’d?
How fair I was you oft would say ;
Then left the blossom to decay.
The rose is pale—the lily's dead ; But he that once their charms so priz'd
Is, sure, the cause those charms are fled. For, know, when sick’ning grief doth prey,
And tender love's repaid with scorn, The sweetest beauty will decay
What flow'ret can endure the storm ? At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne,
Where every lady 's passing rare ;
Are not so glowing, not so fair :
Where roses and where lilies vie,
Muist sicken when those gauds are by? ’Mong rural beauties I was one;
Among the fields wild flowers are fair : Some country swain might me have won, . And thought my beauty passing rare.
But, Leicester, or I much am wrong,
Or ’tis not beauty lures thy vows; Rather ambition's gilded crown
Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. Then, Leicester, why, again I plead
(The injur'd surely may repine)— Why didst thou wed a country-maid,
When some fair princess might be thine ? Why didst thou praise my humble charms,
And, oh, then leave them to decay? Why didst thou win me to thy arms,
Then leave me mourn the live-long day? The village-maidens of the plain
Salute me lowly as I go ;
Nor think a countess can have woe.
How far more happy 's their estate ;
To be content-than to be great.
Daily to pine and waste with care !
Divided feels the chilling air ! Nor, cruel earl, can I enjoy
The humble charms of solitude: Your minions proud my peace destroy,
By sullen frowns or prating rude.
Last night, as sad I chanc'd to stray,
The village death-bell smote my ear : They wink'd aside, and seem'd to say,
• Countess, prepare ; thy end is near ! And now, while happy peasants sleep,
Here I sit lonely and forlorn ; No one to soothe me as I weep,
Save Philomel on yonder thorn. My spirits flag, my hopes decay
Still that dread death-bell smites my ear ; And many a boding seems to say,
Countess, prepare ; thy end is near!'' Thus, sore and sad, that lady griev'd,
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear; And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved,
And let fall many a bitter tear. And ere the dawn of day appeared
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear,
And many a cry of mortal fear.
An aerial voice was heard to call ;
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall : The mastiff howl'd at village-door ;
The oaks were shatter'd on the green : Woe was the hour,—for never more
That hapless countess e'er was seen !