Annot of Benallay

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,
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;
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,
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.

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!”
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:
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,
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.

Joy in the hall of Benallay,
A stately feast is spread:
Lord Harold is the bridegroom gay,
The bride the arisen dead.