Chapter VI: 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.