"A jolly place," said he, " in times of old,
But something ails it now; the place is curst."
HART-LEAP WELL, BY WORDSWORTH
SOME dreams we have are nothing else but dreams,
Unnatural and full of contradictions;
Yet others of our most romantic schemes Are something more than fictions.
It might be only on enchanted gound; It might be merely by a thought's expansion; But in the spirit, or the flesh, I found An old deserted mansion.
A residence for woman, child, and man, A dwelling-place, and yet no habitation; A house, but under some prodigious ban Of excommunication.
Unhinged the iron gates half open hung, Jarred by the gusty gales of many winters, That from its crumbled pedestal had flung One marble globe in splinters.
No dog was at the threshold, great or small; No pigeon on the roof— no household creature- No cat demurely dozing on the wall Not one domestic feature.
No human figure stirred, to go or come;
No face looked forth from shut or open casement: No chimney smoked — there was no sign of home From parapet to basement.
With shattered panes the grassy court was starred; The time-worn coping-stone had tumbled after; And through the ragged roof the sky shone, barred With naked beam and rafter.
O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear; A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is haunted!
The flower grew wild and rankly as the weed, Roses with thistles struggled for espial, And vagrant plants of parasitic breed Had overgrown the dial.
But, gay or gloomy, steadfast or infirm,
No heart was there to heed the hour's duration; All times and tides were lost in one long term Of stagnant desolation.
The wren had built within the porch, she found Its quiet loneliness so sure and thorough; And on the lawn, within its turfy mound,- The rabbit made his burrow.
The rabbit wild and gray, that flitted through
The shrubby clumps, and frisked, and sat, and vanished, But leisurely and bold, as if he knew
The wary crow, the pheasant from the woods,- Lulled by the still and everlasting sameness, Close to the mansion, like domestic broods, Fed with a "shocking tameness."
The coot was swimming in the reedy pond, Beside the water-hen, so soon affrighted; And in the weedy moat the heron, fond Of solitude, alighted.
The moping heron, motionless and stiff, That on a stone, as silently and stilly, Stood, an apparent sentinel, as if To guard the water lily.
No sound was heard, except, from far away, The ringing of the whitwall's shrilly laughter, Or, now and then, the chatter of the jay, That Echo murmured after.
But Echo never mocked the human tongue;
Some weighty crime, that Heaven could not pardon, A secret curse on that old building hung,
The beds were all untouched by hand or tool; No footstep marked the damp and mossy gravel, Each walk as green as is the mantled pool For want of human travel.
The vine unpruned, and the neglected peach, Drooped from the wall with which they used to grapple; And on the cankered tree, in easy reach,
But awfully the truant shunned the ground, The vagrant kept aloof, and daring poacher: In spite of gaps that through the fences round Invited the encroacher.
For over all there hung a cloud of fear; A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is haunted!
The pear and quince lay squandered on the grass; The mould was purple with unheeded showers Of bloomy plums a wilderness it was
Of fruits, and weeds, and flowers!
The marigold amidst the nettles blew,
The gourd embraced the rose-bush in its ramble, The thistle and the stock together grew,
The hollyhock and bramble.
The bear-bine with the lilac interlaced;
The sturdy burdock choked its slender neighbor, The spicy pink. All tokens were effaced
Of human care and labor.
The very yew formality had trained To such a rigid pyramidal stature,
For want of trimming had almost regained The raggedness of nature.
The fountain was a-dry — neglect and time Had marred the work of artisan and mason, And efts and croaking frogs, begot of slime, Sprawled in the ruined basin.
The statue, fallen from its marble base, Amidst the refuse leaves, and herbage rotten, Lay like the idol of some bygone race, Its name and rites forgotten.
On every side the aspect was the same, All ruined, desolate, forlorn and savage: No hand or foot within the precinct came To rectify or ravage.
For over all there hung a cloud of fear; A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is haunted!
O, very gloomy is the house of woe,
Where tears are falling while the bell is knelling, With all the dark solemnities which show
That Death is in the dwelling!
O, very, very dreary is the room
Where love, domestic love, no longer nestles, But, smitten by the common stroke of doom, The corpse lies on the trestles!
But house of woe, and hearse, and sable pall, The narrow home of the departed mortal, Ne'er looked so gloomy as that ghostly hall, With its deserted portal!
« AnteriorContinuar » |