PART III.

The cottage stood in solitude, The woodbine rustled on the wall, The Marguerites in the garden waved In murmurs one and all;

And, rippling by, the rivulet Seemed sobbing, like a frightened child, Who, wandering on, has lost its way In some deserted wild.

The day was waning in the west, And slowly, like a dainty dream, The delicate twilight dropped her veil On fallow, field and stream.

The purple sky was sown with stars When Clarence came: she was not there, And desolately frowned the night, And stagnant was the air.

But on the little rustic seat Where they had often sat, there shone A letter, and the noble name Along it was his own.

“Farewell,” it said, “that I exist Breathing the word which is the knell Of love and hope is not my will. But God’s alone: Farewell.

“Never more on this once loved spot, Never more on the rivulet’s bank, Shall we sojourn: my love, great lord, Insults thy lofty rank.

“Go, seek some fitter mate: for me, Too poor to be thy wife, too proud To be thy leman, grief, despair, The death-bed, and the shroud.”

He read appalled, amazed, aghast, Stern as a statue, and the stone Was pale Despair, its haggard look Less awful than his own.

A thought, and like a storm he dashed Along the grassy walk: no spark Shone from the cottage: all within, Without, around, was dark.

He knocked and knocked, but no one came: He entered, and the silent room Was vacant, and his darkened heart Grew darker with the gloom.

Next day the grim old castle stood Neglected: whether its heart of stone Was touched, I know not, yet I heard The ancient mansion moan.

Perhaps I was deceived; the wind Went howling over woods and moors, And round the castle, like a ghost Stalking its corridors.