Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd. 'No voice,' she shriek'd in that lone hall, 'No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world: One deep, deep silence all!' She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod, Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, Lay there exiled from eternal God, And death and life she hated equally, Remaining utterly confused with fears, Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound As in strange lands a traveller walking slow, A little before moon-rise hears the low And knows not if it be thunder, or a sound She howl'd aloud, 'I am on fire within. So when four years were wholly finished, 'Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are So lightly, beautifully built: Perchance I may return with others there When I have purged my guilt.' LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. LADY Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown: Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that doats on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head. But there was that across his throat Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a spectre in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door: You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, I know you, Clara Vere de Vere, You pine among your halls and towers: The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these. |