| |
| AT lone midnight the death-bell tolled, | |
| To summon Annot’s clay: | |
| For common eyes must not behold | |
| The griefs of Benallay. | |
| |
| Meek daughter of a haughty line, | 5 |
| Was Lady Annot born: | |
| That light which was not long to shine, | |
| The sun that set at morn. | |
| |
| They shrouded her in maiden white, | |
| They buried her in pall; | 10 |
| And the ring he gave her faith to plight | |
| Shines on her finger small. | |
| |
| The curate reads the dead man’s prayer | |
| The silent leech stands by: | |
| The sob of voiceless love is there, | 15 |
| And sorrow’s vacant eye. | |
| |
| ’T is over. Two and two they tread | |
| The churchyard’s homeward way: | |
| Farewell! farewell! thou lovely dead: | |
| Thou Flower of Benallay. | 20 |
| |
| The sexton stalks with tottering limb | |
| Along the chancel floor: | |
| He waits, that old man gray and grim, | |
| To close the narrow door. | |
| |
| “Shame! shame! these rings of stones and gold!” | 25 |
| The ghastly caitiff said; | |
| “Better that living hands should hold, | |
| Than glisten on the dead.” | |
| |
| The evil wish wrought evil deed, | |
| The pall is rent away: | 30 |
| And lo! beneath the shattered lid, | |
| The Flower of Benallay. | |
| |
| But life gleams from those opening eyes, | |
| Blood thrills that lifted hand: | |
| And awful words are in her cries, | 35 |
| Which none may understand. | |
| |
| Joy! ’t is the miracle of yore, | |
| Of the city calléd Nain:— | |
| Lo! glad feet throng the sculptured floor, | |
| To hail their dead again. | 40 |
| |
| Joy in the hall of Benallay, | |
| A stately feast is spread: | |
| Lord Harold is the bridegroom gay, | |
| The bride the arisen dead. | |
| |
