III.

THE LEGEND OF ALLERLEY HALL.

The tower-bell has sounded the midnight hour, Old Night has unfolded her sable pall, Darkness o'er hamlet, darkness o'er hall, Loud screams the raven on Allerley Tower;[A] A glimmering gleam from yon casement high Is all that is seen by the passer-by.

[Footnote A: In Ayrshire, as I have heard, but I know of no trace of the family. The old distich may be traced to some other county:

"The Allerley oak stands high, abune trees; When the raven croaks there, an Allerley dees."

Such rhymes have generally something to rest upon, but I cannot associate this with any county, far less a family.]

All things are neglected, time-smitten there, Crazy and cobwebbed, mildewed and worn, Moth-eaten, weeviled, dusty, forlorn, Everything owning to waning and wear; From the baron's hall to the lady's bower NEGLECT is the watchword in Allerley Tower.

There is silence within old Allerley Hall, Save the raven without with her "croak, croak," And the cricket's "click, click," in the panels of oak, Behind the dim arras that hangs on the wall; So silent and sad in the midnight hour, Yet life may still linger in Allerley Tower.

An old woman sits by a carved old bed— The drape of green silk, all yellow and sere, The gold-coloured fringes dingy and drear; And she nods and nods her silvery head, And sometimes she looks with a half-drowsy air. To notice how Death may be working there.

Lord William lies there, care-worn and pale, All his sunlight of spirit has passed away, And left to him only that twilight of grey Which ushers men into the long dark vale; Fast ebbing his life, yet feeling no pain, Save a memory working within his brain.

He had sought the world's crowd for forty years, But only a little relief to borrow From the heartfelt pangs of that early sorrow Which had drawn him away from his gay compeers, And made him oft sigh, with a pain-begot scorn, That into this world he ever was born.

But being brought in, as a victim, to tarry, With him, as with all, it is how to get out With no more of pain than you can't go without, Where all have original sin to carry; But his memory brightened, as strength waxed low, Of the grief he had borne forty years ago.

There is silence and sadness in Allerley Tower; The taper is glimmering with murky snot, The raven croak-croaking with rusty throat, And the cricket click-clicking at midnight hour; And the woman mope-moping by the bed, Still nodding and nodding her drowsy head.

"Now bring me, old nurse, from that escritoire, A packet tied up with a ribbon of blue;" Ah! well, though now faded, that ribbon he knew, Which his fingers had bound forty years before. He shuddered to look, yet afraid to wait, Lest Death might render his vision too late.

That ribbon he drew in a calm despair: Behold now revealed to his wondering eyes A face of all beautiful harmonies, Set fair among ringlets of golden hair; With eyes so blue and a smile of heaven, Which haply some angel to her had given.

Beside that miniature lay a scroll, As written by him forty years before: He read every word of it o'er and o'er, And every word of it flashed through his soul, In a flood of that bright and awakened light Which slumbers and sleeps through a long, long night.

THE SCROLL.

"I loved my love early, the young Lady May; I saw her bloom rarely in youth's rosy day; But her eye looked afar to some orb that was shining, As if for that sphere her spirit was pining.

"Faint in the light of day seemed what was near her; Visions far, far away, clearer and clearer; Still, as flesh wears away spirits that bear it, Eyeing yon milky way, sigh to be near it.

"Lady May, she is dying—she hears some one whisper, Near where she's lying, 'Come away, sister'— Draw down each silky lid—draw them down over Eyes whose last light on earth shone on her lover.

"My lost Lady May in yon vault now is sleeping; Her sisters who go to pray come away weeping; And while I yet linger here, some one elates me, Whispering into my ear, 'Yonder she waits thee.'"

And thus they had waited until this last day, But the hour of their meeting was coming apace; And as he still gazed on that beautiful face, His spirit so weary passed gently away; And the nurse would unfold those fingers so cold, Which still of that picture retained the hold.

There's the silence of death in Allerley Tower, The taper gone out with its murky smoke, The raven has finished her croak-croak, The cricket is silent at midnight hour; The last of the Allerley lords lies there, And Allerley goes to a distant heir.

In yon tomb where was laid his young Lady May, Lord William sleeps now by the side of her bier; And the Allerley lords and ladies lie near. But nearest of neighbours they nothing can say: No "Good morrow, my lord," when the day is begun, No "My lady, good night," when the day it is done.