Poems (May)/The heir of Rookwood
THE HEIR OF ROOKWOOD.
Down sunny till-sides sloping to the west, From Rookwood's towers the morning shadows fall In long-drawn lines. A wooded eminence Lifts o'er the walls and from its shoulders drops A mantle of close tree-tops, right and left Far trailing through the valleys. To the brink Of a broad willowy stream the lawn descends, Halved by an avenue of elms that winds Up to gray Rookwood's portals. Here the roofs Are thatched with moss, the massive stones worn smooth. The windows blind with parasites. Whole miles—Hill, vale, and river—are fenced in around. We call it Rookwood, for the rooks all day Caw from its dim old forests. Caw from its dim old forests.Bluff Sir Hugh, The people named my father. Carven from life, In Rookwood's chapel lies an effigy That seems a giant's, with a couchant hound Laid at its feet, and on the monument,Writ in strange letters, framed to imitate Some uncouth ancient character, a name, Hugh Perceval. As one who kept old things With such a reverent love, that in his house Not even the fashion of a cup was changed; As a bold hunter and a loyal knight, The county knew him. So they shaped his tomb After the custom of his ancestors, And placed thereon a likeness of the hound That whined beside his death-bed. I had scarce Told eighteen summers when my father died.
My mother was unlike him, marble calm As he was boisterous, and her daughters all Grew to be youthful copies of herself. Save that Maud sat within the oriel window Broidering in gold; that Marian with her mother On the old oaken settle, wrought for ever The self-same tapestries—or so it seemed—That Ernestine liked best the little footstool, And sat there winding many-coloured wools,Or weaving them through canvas: to my eye They ever looked alike. They were all fair, Grave, gentle, unimpassioned. I did weary To see them at their broideries day on day.
For me—I had no pulse that, fast or slow, Kept time with theirs. My sadness and my joy Alike outstrode them. At my wilder moods My father stared and swore; my mother's eyes Filled with calm wonder, and my sisters three Copied her, life-like. Was it strange I grew Petulant, rude, morose—my urgent need Of love, caresses and sustaining words Left unsupplied? For I, fair Rookwood's heir,Could scarcely drag my shapeless limbs the length Of her broad halls. I filled the weary days Creeping from room to room, like some wild thing Crippled and caged. My nature was athirst. I had Sir Hugh's deep love of space and freedom, His passion for brute beauty. Him I feared And worshipped. From the oriels, sometimes, I watched him with his dogs. One stood upright,Steadying his paws upon his master's breast; One crouched against his feet, and one had thrust His muzzle through the hollowed hand. Ere long,My cousin Arthur with his gun and pointers Came up the lawn. Away together went The uncle and boy nephew, leaving me All passionate sorrow. Then I stole to watch Ernestine at her broidery; else I heard My sister Marian reading from those bards Who flung the glittering lance of prophecy Down the long future. When Sir Hugh returned, Perhaps he bore me through the lawns awhile On his broad breast; perhaps, when twilight came, I nestled to his feet and heard him tell His field exploits—and Arthur's—then break off With a short sigh. His eye was like a hound's, Earnest and steady, and for ever seemed Hunting my maimed form. Hunting my maimed form.But with childhood went Part of my sickness. I might wander free Through the green valleys, lawns and woods that graced My fair inheritance. The garden chair That had been wont to draw me, day by day, Through dull familiar paths, reserved its aid For weary moments, till my halting step On the firm sod grew firmer, till my lips Drank the bright air like wine. Drank the bright air like wine.The love that found No peers to share its wealth, looked' lower now. A full heart asks not if the cup it crowns Be gold or clay. I turned to brutes, to birds, Even to flowers. The high-bred hound that paced Grave at my side, the merlin that I tamed,The dove I carried in my breast, the rose With white wax buds, that from my window sill Swung outward to the light—all these I kept With a girl's care. Through Rookwood's fair domain Wanders a stream whose silent course is led By mead and grove until its thread, abrupt, Breaks on the sharp edge of a precipice. Betwixt two hill-sides, o'er a deep ravine,There with white shuddering feet, the waters seem Fearfully pausing. But with one bold leap They clear the rent rocks, shouting as they fall Into a round clear pool, whose crystal sheen Only the lilies break. Hither I came, The timed waves harping to my sullen moods,The banks my couch, my hound stretched near, a book Of rhymes or romance in my listless hand. No curious eyes, no cold looks following here Jarred on my secret thoughts. The blossoms grew No paler for my loving, the fresh turf Pillowed most gently my uncourtly form.
I had gone forth one mellow autumn morn Earlier than my wont. The night had passed Rent by fierce storms. Torn boughs and drifted leaves Cumbered the path I trod. The sun shone warm. I lingered by the way until my hound, That had gone first and reached the lilied pool, Set up a sharp cry. Through the opening wood, I saw him crouch, as if in pain or fear, And with quick step pressed on. My first keen glance Took in the mantling lilies, with a web Of white wet film meshed in them, and the next, Brown shreds of curled hair and a face the waves Flowed over. Flowed over.Grasping at the floating robes That drifted shoreward, steadying my feet Upon the smooth sloped rocks, I drew her forth, A woman fair and young. Her long loose hair Curled round the lily stems, and held them fast In its wet tangles. Jutting from the shore, A rock whose sharp points caught her fluttering dress, Upheld her as she lay. From this, 'tis like,She sprang, and staid perforce, all night had borne Tempest and beating rain. A scarlet wreath Crowned her cold temples, and around her throat Hung rows of coral buds. Strangest of all,Bound to her bosom by a silken scarf, And sheltered in its folds, an infant lay, Faint but yet breathing. Faint but yet breathing.When some days had passed And no one claimed her, nigh the chapel grounds We laid the mother, guessing at the wrongs That had bewildered her. To me, the child,As 'twere a toy, was given when I asked.
'Twas a strange whim, but on my birth-day morn, And to my favourite shores, some fate had brought What seemed a gift, and I, accepting it, Thought to please Heaven. A nature to be trained Which way I would, or twined round any prop—Even my own rude self—a page whereon To write the latent poem of my life. These thoughts were merely audible, as the notes Of birds that stir betimes upon the nest.
Wild stories were afloat—'twas said that she Who slept in the green vale had cast a spell Over the heir of Rookwood; that her babe Was elf or water-sprite; and whispering gossips Told how the infant at her baptism Made the old chapel ring with saucy laughter, While that which answered from the niches dim, Was wilder than an echo. Be it so. She was Christ's child, signed with His holy cross,On brow and breast. On brow and breast.It was my fanciful thought To call her Lilia; she whom we had plucked Out of the lily leaves. Out of the lily leaves.Oh pleasant times! Only a patron's golden alms, at first, I gave my pensioner, in boyish pride Masking my heart; but as the child grew strong,The little seed of tenderness that lay Hid in my bosom, thrust into the light The embryo of a tree with buds and blooms Shut in its folded being. Shut in its folded being.Infancy Lay like a wreath of spring flowers on her brow; But the rude breast whereon I grafted her, Shot through the pale veins of my elfin charge Its own abounding life. 'Twas I who trained Her feet upon the level lawns, and taught Her lips their blossom language. Then, betimes, Lest the coarse peasant earth should clog its roots, For gentler nurture my fair foreign plant To Rookwood I conveyed. To Rookwood I conveyed.To those dim halls, Where the blithe common sunshine of the fields Put on grave splendour; to those druid shades,Came the fresh nature of the untrained child Like an opposing element. Her voice Broke the long silence of the morning hours. Either she went forth through the lawns with me, Or at my mother's footstool strewed her playthings,Prattling aloud, and at the rare rebuke, Reading her face with unabashed grave eyes,Till Maud glanced sidelong with a stately smile,And fair calm Marian, with a woman's impulse,Bent down and took the lone child to her heart. Even Ernestine, who o'er her broidery needle Secretly dreamed of tournaments and masques, And cavaliers be-plumed, whose very dolls Had been court ladies in brocade and velvet, Put by her rainbow paroquets and roses To fashion garments for the elf child Lilia; And even my lady mother deigned to smile, Hearing her tiny step along the halls, Watching the slow toil of her baby feet Labouring from stair to stair. Her restless life Was never still. She laughed out in her sleep,Living the glad day over, and sometimes, Blindfold with slumber, to the halls below Crept from her turret chamber. Crept from her turret chamber.'Twas in vain That when bright girlhood came, I tried to yoke Her errant thoughts to mine. My elf charge paled Over her books. She sighed for the pure air Of crags and glens, her greyhound and her pony, And for the free use of her glorious limbs. She was lithe like a vine, and she could scale The rocks as lightly. The long summer day Was short to her if she might wander on From hill-side to ravine, or ford the streams, Or, resting on some island rock, her feet Bare glancing through the waves, twine pallid wreaths Of lilies, ferns, and dripping water weeds For her brown hair. Yet to my side she stole, If seated near the lilied pool I read Romance or poem, and when winter nights Drew us around the hearth, she came to plead For wilder fables, listening at my feet,With ear attentive and chained lips, until Her blue eyes with excess of terror grew Darker, like fair lakes frozen. If she played,The crags were royal palaces, her doll A captive princess, and herself a knight Who, armed with spear and shield, came to the rescue.
She was a child still when my sister Maud Passed from our halls, a willing bride, with love Ruffling her inborn calmness just so much As a dove, drinking at a marble fount,Troubles the water. Marian followed soon,And Ernestine, left lonely, to my side,Stole for companionship. Stole for companionship.We three together Would wander through the woodlands, till the path We loitering followed broke against a hedge That parted Rookwood from the broad domain Nursed for my cousin Arthur, who, abroad, Studied the graces of a foreign court.
The idle tales linked to my Lilia's birth Were not forgotten. Peasants, round their hearths, Told how they'd seen her upon giddy boughs Rocked like a bird to slumber; how she sat On the wet rocks and crowned her hair with flowers, Singing witch melodies. Some even swore They'd met her spirit in the fields at night,White-robed and talking softly. White-robed and talking softly.I had madeNo secret of the past, but led my charge, When her small feet could tread the unequal path, Down to the lilied pool, and told her there Of the pale lady crowned with scarlet blooms,Whose hair curled round the lily stems, whose arms Sheltered an infant; and I think this gave A colour to her nature. A colour to her nature.Did I note As the months passed, her beauty's quick perfecting? I only knew that she had stood between Me and my boyhood's peril; that the loveShe lighted in my soul, was like a flame That, kindled in some close unwholesome cave, Burns out mephitic vapours. I was happy—Armed with strong thoughts, aspiring every day To nobler wisdom; and as fountains, falling, Do pluck down rainbows, even by baffled effort Made hopeful; health to my misshapen limbs With manhood come; and strength, if discontent Held up her mirror, or ambition flashed His blazing sword athwart its path, to curb My startled spirit—tranquil with my books,Save when sweet Lilia lured me from their sway,Breaking the calm of thought with her light jests, As one flings down on some unsparkling lake Handfuls of blossoms. Rumours of the world, Flying o'er Rookwood, dropped to Ernestine Seeds that put forth. She hungered for the life Of courts and cities. She was born for these, And Lilia's wild ways only served to warn And chide her into stateliness. A flower That grows beside a cataract imbibes Not less the nature of its restless neighbour.
Fronting the sunset, Rookwood's library Looks down the lawn; and up that gradual slope, The west wind, loitering, hums a song it learned Down by the tuneful river. River-scents Blow through the oriels; shade and quiet fill The book-lined room. 'Twixt rows of oaken shelves Are hung two dusky pictures—St. Jerome, Framed in the dark mouth of his desert cave; A brindled lion couchant at his feet; Pondering the gospels—and, a space beyond, White companies of angels flock to thee, Lily of heaven, Cecilia! One recess O'ervaults an organ's gilded pipes, and here Many an evening, Ernestine and Lilia Sang to my stormy playing. Lilia's voice Was like the gay dance of a bayadere,Aerially light, but Ernestine's Stately as gondolas that glide between Ranked palaces, and with slow keels plough up Their glassy pictures. On my sister's lip The round notes dwelt, till each in full completeness Seemed fallen for mellowness, like dropping fruit; But Lilia's bright-winged song capricious flew From flower to flower of sound. Here came my mother, Aged and bent, the windows of her mind Opaque with wintry frost. With folded hands And drooping head she sat, while on its wings The music bore her through a twilight past—Over the stagnant waters of a lake Up whose dead waves a phantom city gleamed, Gleamed up in swaying downward.Gleamed up in swaying downward.Lilia's chamber Was over mine. I could not see its windows—But on the turret facing hers, sometimes, A shadow gliding gently to and fro, And once when it fell darkly, I could mark How she had shaken her long tresses down To braid them for the night coif. To braid them for the night coif.Through my sleep Even, her light laugh and her elfin tread Constantly wandered. Nay, once fully roused By the near sound of steps, I could have sworn That where the winding stair abruptly turned Close by my door, the hem of a white robe Ruffled the darkness. Ruffled the darkness.On my mother's lips Lay the recording marble. I had setBetwixt the world's reproach and Lilia's name The bulwark of my love. Wooed ever yet Lover so coldly? With my blighted manhood I weighed her fairest youth, counted the years Dividing us, and warned her if one thought Recoiled from me 'twere wisdom to invoke Death, sickness, beggary, torment in all shapes, Rather than chain to her offended soul The deep disgust of an unwelcome love. Lilia, the child, shy pressing to my heart, Lilia, the girl, just taught the trick of blushes, Answered me without words. Answered me without words.And from that hour Lilia was mine, however wooed or won; My plighted wife, though Ernestine might wear A triple scorn upon her brow; my bride, Though all my haughty peers cried fie upon me; Who should lay down the law to Rookwood's heir? I'd rain bright gold o'er Lilia's shameful birth, Express the stigma on her name in diamonds. The groaning coffers that my pride had slighted,Opened their mouths in praise of her betrothal.
My life was little changed; 'twas nothing new If when I walked, hung Lilia on my path Talking her wayward fancies; nothing new If when I read, stole Lilia to my side, And o'er the page I pondered open laid A volume of the idle rhymes she loved; That I must quit my garland of rare thoughts To twine her wreath of bluets; nothing new That her light steps kept ever count of mine, That she beset me with her wilful ways,That she was ever near me. I was all Her world. She had no other. From the day Her baby feet first tottered o'er the lawns, Lilia had been my shadow. In my heart Love lay too deep. 'Twas buried from my sight. The spoils of sixteen summers rose above it. Life's reddest flower unfolded like a lily For want of light. I needed sterner teaching—Unapt to read the riddle of past days, To twist in one their many-coloured threads, To see the scattered brightness of my life Concentred to a star. Concentred to a star.'Twas early May.Across the lawns, to woods and waves beyond "We had been loitering. Ernestine and I Looked from its high banks to the stream below, Part veiled with drooping boughs—and, ankle deep In grass and yielding moss—from rock to rock Dropped our sure-footed Lilia, till at last,Safe on the pebbly shore, she turning, threw Her long locks back, and lifting eyes brimful Of elvish laughter, called, "Hark, Ernestine! My father is a water sprite, and see, The vine, my mother, leans to his embrace From the rough rocks he scales. Therefore I twine Wet water weeds and scarlet pendent blooms In my curled hair!" The echoes shook her laugh To silvery fragments, as the rocks below Brake the melodious waters. Ere she paused, A white hound and a youth that chid him back Came up the hollow. When his lifted face Questioned my own, I knew my cousin Arthur.
The boy my father loved was now a man Cast in his mould, but round whose manhood hung A studied courtliness, unlike Sir Hugh's Rough royalty. Disdain on Arthur's lip,Tamed by disgust, sat like a wearied falcon.There burned no fire within his listless eye, No eager impulse leaping from his heart Waved the red colours on his cheek, his voice Was sweet and even as a stream that has Never a rock to break against. Never a rock to break against.To lie Out on the green sward, pillowing his head Upon the sleek neck of some favourite hound, Follow the watercourses, rod and line Swung idly o'er his shoulder, walk his horse Along the bridle-paths—reins dropped and arms Folded in thought—or in a voice whose cadence Silvered the roughest measures, read aloud Ballad or romance writ in sweet old French; That quaint old French-once married to our English, Rude spelt, and garnished with "Ma foys" and "Pardys;" Perchance to" , dream,—an arm: flung o'er his eyelids While Lilia touched the organ, and without Twilight grew dark and. rose the evening star. Adding her silver splendours to the night—Was life enough for Arthur. Was life enough for Arthur.June was over. When did I first miss Lilia from my side? Thoughts she was wont to scatter wandered now As wildly in her absence. Everywhere, Within doors and without, a vague discomfort Haunted my steps. And where was idle Lilia? Why, loitering down the walks at Arthur's side,Why, riding his black hunter, on the lawn, Feeding his hound with biscuit, reading rhymes At Arthur's side in the deep library window. So answered Ernestine, and drooped her head Sideways to hide a smile. Sideways to hide a smile.I could not stoop To doubt my plighted wife. 'Twas natural—Strangers were rare at Rookwood. Arthur told Gay tales of foreign courts—had wandered far. His traveller's magic held her in its spell.Well might she weary of my side, and long, Poor child, for wider ranging—thus I reasoned. But as the weeks wore on, my pride spoke louder, And every morn flung back the coiled suspicion I nightly tore, indignant, from my breast. Ernestine's cold smile and attentive glance, Lilia's dropt eyes, flushed cheek, and faltering tongue, Arthur's calm gaze for ever following Lilia, Angered me all alike. Angered me all alike.'Twas after midnight. Too bright the moon across my pillow shone—I rose to drop the curtain and looked forth. 'Twas after midnight. Lilia's lamp still burning? Her shadow flitted o'er the turret wall,Returned and paused. She stood before her mirror. There she was gathering up her hair and buckling A riband round her waist, and at her throat Fastening the open folds of her thin robe. Then all was dark. All silent too, I heard not A step upon the stairs. Suddenly issued From the low tower door a figure clad In filmy white. Across the lawns it fled. Whither?Whither?The stars were paling in the east When my affianced wife came hurrying back. I heard her pause beside my chamber door That stood ajar, then, up the winding stair Pass to her own.Pass to her own.I questioned her that morn With keen, cold eyes. Her flashing glance braved mine, Wavered and fell—a glittering blade struck down By heavier steel. Thenceforth she fled me. Came Our bridal day and passed. I would not note it, And Lilia—had forgot. And Lilia—had forgot.I'd fallen asleep One day at noon—my slumber so transparent,That through its painted curtain of swift dreams,Shone, visible, the steadfast things beyond. Vision extinguished vision, yet I knew—Held by the light imperious touch of sleep—I did but dream in the deep library chair. Dreamed I that faltering step across the threshold? The sob, the kiss quick dropped upon my hand? I grappled with my sleep and flung it from me. No one!—yet Arthur's spaniel, lying near,Beat on the carpet with his feathery tail.
I had been trained in sorrow's hardy school, No raw recruit in suffering. Fate might pluck At my life's core. I smiled as one who sees War's mailed hand snatch off the silken favour Bound to his helm, but has no mind for that To drop his sword's point. While my bleeding heart Craved leave to count its wounds, while every thought Concealed a knife, while to all earth and heaven Seemed half divulged the story of my grief, So curiously did all things hint at it—I walked beneath the vigilant eye of sorrow,As walk her darlings. Not enough to hide My hurt from prying looks—this pride will do, And take her pay in heart throes—from myself I hid my grief that was my inmost self! The poisonous fruit that life let fall for me I held in cautious hands, and wary thought Did only graze the outer rind of sorrow, Knowing there was a bitter core within She must not feed upon. She must not feed upon.The sob, the tear, Albeit but visions, did their angel errand,And my roused heart made answer.And my roused heart made answer.All that night I watched beside my casement. So the next. And so the next. No Lilia! Through the day I hung upon her footsteps. Arthur, too, He ever at her side, and I, apart, A careless loiterer whom chance had thrown Into their company. 'Twas then I marked Lilia's white cheek, faint step, and hollow laugh That made mirth pitiful. Alas, poor child—An infant to this worldling! Had my pride Suffered her erring feet unchid to wander Into his net? 'Twas thus my heart arraigned me Unfaithful to my trust. Unfaithful to my trust.A crescent moon Waxed into golden fulness. Came a night Of blended light and storm. High craggy clouds, Along whose clefts the constant lightning played, Rose toppling o'er the hills, and, half-way hung, Betwixt the zenith and pale horizon. The moon was struggling upward. Midnight near, I, seated at my window, heard again Footsteps above, and marked her lamp's pale ray Paint Lilia's semblance on the turret wall. I heard her pass my door and saw her standUpon the lawn, beneath, ere, shrouding close My figure in a mantle's dark' disguise, I followed.I followed.Nay, how light across the turfShe trod—across the turf where I had guided Her infant steps! Not down the lane that led To Arthur's boundaries. Soon the swollen, wave Was audible. She stood and listened thenWith lifted hand. Did Arthur meet her there? The blood leaped through my heart, a pale mist sweptOver my eyes, the very earth was thrilling, Reeling beneath my feet. Lilia fled on. She trod the brink of the ravine. Broad oaks Embraced her with their shadows. While I scarce Discerned her flowing draperies, the moon Withdrew its light. Withdrew its light.I followed through the darkness—A perilous path! I tracked her by the sound Of crashing brush and slippery stones displaced Tumbling into the hollow. Outstretched boughs Forbade me with their firm extended arms. Vines caught my feet, far-reaching brambles held My garments. In the river's lifted voice There was a fearful cadence, and the wind Rose shrill and sudden. Then the cataract Grew hoarser, louder, till all sounds were trampled Under its eager feet. The boughs o'erhead Were instantly divided. Breathless, faint, I stood above the waterfall and felt Its white waves leap beneath me. Its white waves leap beneath me.Where was Lilia? I pried into the gloom. I shouted "Lilia!" My tongue was palsied by the rushing waters. They tore the sweet name from my lips and fled. Down the rough brake, along this dizzy path, How had she kept her way? Frantic, I cast My mantle back, and springing to the edge Of the sheer rock, made ready for a leap Wild as the cataract's. Just then, the moon. As one who bears a lamp from stair to stair Clambering a ruin, through the crevices Of the black cloud obscurely shone, and stood On its torn battlements. On its torn battlements.The deep ravine Was flooded with its light. Beneath my feet Lay the round pool to which the waters leapt. The air was heavy with a languid perfume, For white unfolding to the moonlight gleamed The web of lilies, whence I'd plucked my Lilia. But where the child? Up from the leafy pool I raised my eyes and glanced along the rocks That overhung it. From my heart, a cry Sprang to my lips and paused. High o'er a ledge, That, level with the stream, had once upheld Her hapless mother, on the rock's sharp edge, Steadying the hollow of her daring foot,Stood Lilia. Who hut Lilia so could venture? What did she there? and what a trysting-place! And where was Arthur? And where was Arthur?In my eagerness, Forward I pressed. The overhanging rock She leaned from, nearly faced me. Clad in white,In filmy white fair-robed from head to foot, She stood, how like a form I well remembered! My heart was sudden cold. Old stories thronged My memory. Of a maniac mother born—So strange in all her ways—alone, at night, To wander hither? Lilia! oh the child! The girl! the woman worth all life to me! And I had wronged her by the cruelest thought! Live, Lilia, live—be his—be anything—Be aught but that! My sick heart paused, for Lilia Lifting her eyes, thereon, as on full urns Held the moon's glitter. To my form they turned, Yet spake no wonder. Vacant, cold, they wandered Over the wild bright firmament. Sweet angels! Where had I seen that look in Lilia's eyes? Betwixt the dreamer and my soul there glided A picture strange yet fair—Rookwood's old hall Half gloom, half firelight; by the chimney corner A crowd of wondering varlets; at the door My mother with a smile upon her lip; And on the oaken stair, her chamber taper Lit in her hand, and her unconscious eyes Fast held by sleep, a child in flowing night-robes! The vision faded from me—then—'twas done Ere I could breathe—her white arms tossed aloft, Lilia sprang forward. Through the moonlight flitted That lightest form. The parted waves laughed out Embracing her—the lilies closed above.
'Twas then I woke—from rock to rock mad leaping, A lion's strength was raging in my limbs. The smiling waves received me. In their arms, Oh what a fight with death! Down those cool depths What frantic wrestling! Did the weeds below Entangle her? I rose and dived again, It seemed a thousand times. Then, spent and blind, Sprang to the surface. From beneath the lilies Gleamed out a face. I caught her from their net, And flung my burden on the shore. And flung my burden on the shore.How long Ere through her eyes' blue depths my Lilia's soul Bloomed up again as lilies through the wave? All wonder, shame, and joy, was in the face That questioned mine. There, where my arms had twice Plucked her from death's cold bosom, in that spot Thick sown with lovely memories, as its banks In spring with violets, she could not hide Her heart from mine. 'Twas Ernestine had struck The jarring chord. 'Twas Ernestine, whose pride Let fall the hint that turned my Lilia's love For one who had but gold to offer her,Into deep shame; who whispered that she sold Her loveliness to one who paid its price Only for pity. 'Twas so slight a net Had meshed our Cupid's feet. If Arthur, heir To Rookwood, next to me, with Ernestine, Had plotted for himself, or did hut wing Some idle hours, unthoughtful of the future My marriage was to mar, at Lilia's side, I never knew.I never knew.'Tis many years since then; And while I write in Rookwood's library, The velvet shadows of an August evening Slant down the lawn, and on a grassy bank Beneath the window where I sit, is Lilia. Her braided hair lies smooth upon her brow. Her blue eyes have grown thoughtful, though her lips Have the same passionate life. The babe she rocks Upon her bosom has a brow no calmer. All her wild ways have fallen from my Lilia, As its superfluous blossoms from the tree. My boy, who lies beside her on the lawn,Plays with his brace of pointers. Plays with his brace of pointers.Ernestine Is Arthur's wife, and mistress of his home And heart. Her beauty has been praised by kings. Her face is welcome at our English court. The dream of all her childhood is fulfilled. Her boys and girls are lovely as their mother; Arthur has heirs enow to bear his name Adown through coming years; but Arthur's children Will scarcely play the lord in bonny Rookwood.