| |
| A SLANTING ray of evening light | |
| Shoots through the yellow pane; | |
| It makes the faded crimson bright, | |
| And gilds the fringe again: | |
| The window’s Gothic frame-work falls | 5 |
| In oblique shadow on the walls. | |
| |
| And since those trappings first were new | |
| How many a cloudless day, | |
| To rob the velvet of its hue, | |
| Has come and passed away! | 10 |
| How many a setting sun hath made | |
| That curious lattice-work of shade! | |
| |
| Crumbled beneath the hillock green | |
| The cunning hand must be, | |
| That carved this fretted door, I ween, | 15 |
| Acorn, and fleur-de-lis; | |
| And now the worm hath done her part | |
| In mimicking the chisel’s art. | |
| |
| In days of yore (as now we call), | |
| When the first James was king, | 20 |
| The courtly knight from yonder hall | |
| Hither his train did bring; | |
| All seated round in order due, | |
| With broidered suit and buckled shoe. | |
| |
| On damask cushions, set in fringe, | 25 |
| All reverently they knelt; | |
| Prayer-books, with brazen hasp and hinge, | |
| In ancient English spelt, | |
| Each holding in a lily hand, | |
| Responsive at the priest’s command, | 30 |
| |
| Now, streaming down the vaulted aisle, | |
| The sunbeam, long and lone, | |
| Illumes the characters awhile | |
| Of their inscription stone; | |
| And there, in marble hard and cold, | 35 |
| The knight and all his train behold. | |
| |
| Outstretched together, are expressed | |
| He and my lady fair; | |
| With hands uplifted on the breast, | |
| In attitude of prayer; | 40 |
| Long visaged, clad in armor, he,— | |
| With ruffled arm and bodice, she. | |
| |
| Set forth in order ere they died, | |
| The numerous offspring bend; | |
| Devoutly kneeling side by side, | 45 |
| As though they did intend | |
| For past omissions to atone, | |
| By saying endless prayers in stone. | |
| |
| Those mellow days are past and dim, | |
| But generations new, | 50 |
| In regular descent from him, | |
| Have filled the stately pew, | |
| And in the same succession go, | |
| To occupy the vault below. | |
| |
| And now the polished, modern squire, | 55 |
| And his gay train appear, | |
| Who duly to the hall retire, | |
| A season, every year, | |
| And fill the seats with belle and beau, | |
| As ’t was so many years ago. | 60 |
| |
| Perchance, all thoughtless as they tread | |
| The hollow sounding floor | |
| Of that dark house of kindred dead, | |
| Which shall, as heretofore, | |
| In turn, receive, to silent rest, | 65 |
| Another and another guest,— | |
| |
| The feathered hearse and sable train, | |
| In all its wonted state, | |
| Shall wind along the village lane, | |
| And stand before the gate; | 70 |
| Brought many a distant county through, | |
| To join the final rendezvous. | |
| |
| And when the race is swept away, | |
| All to their dusty beds, | |
| Still shall the mellow evening ray | 75 |
| Shine gayly o’er their heads; | |
| While other faces, fresh and new, | |
| Shall occupy the squire’s pew. | |
| |
