Chapter III: Prologue

An humble cottage, overgrown
With woodbine, stood beside a hill,
And nigh it, murmuring through moss,
Rippled a little rill.

The hill was high and wore a crown
Of leafiness, whence, gazing down,
An eagle might behold the towers
And turrets of a town.

And many a pleasant country cot,
Snowy, and peering through the green,
With, now and then, a rivulet,
Meandering, might be seen.

But in the landscape, like a king,
A short half mile or more away,
A grim old castle stood, erect,
Baronial and gray.

Around it lay an ample park,
With, here and there, a drove of deer;
A rude old Norman edifice,
Dark, desolate and drear!

Perhaps it was the morning sun
Which made the ancient building smile,
But, nevertheless, a pleasant look
Was on the agéd pile.

Perhaps it was with joy it smiled
That morn, the merriest of the year,
Which welcomed home its youthful lord,
Young Lionel De Vere.

Perhaps the thought of earlier days
Flitted athwart its granite brain;
Perchance it dreamed it might behold
Those golden hours again—

Those hours when, in the tournament,
Warriors, in glistering steel attired,
Tilted before young demoiselles,
Who blushed to be admired;

Or when the forest echoes rang
With many a merry bugle-horn,
And stag and hounds, a baying rout,
Swept by some autumn morn.

But whether it was the morning sun
Which made the ancient mansion smile,
Or other things, a pleasant look
Lit up the agéd pile.