THE VALE OF ESTABELLE
THEY hide within the hollows, and they creep into the dell,
The little time-stained headstones in the vale of Estabelle.
I often looked across them when I lounged upon the hill;
I never walked among them, nor could cross the moody rill.
I had a dread of seeing e'er the dead of pallid face,
And feared at night to meet their ghosts haunting a lonely place.
The church bell rang at night time, just one hollow, dismal toll;
The agëd by the cranny heard, and sighed: "How grows Death's roll!"
Each meadow has its sparrow and each copse its note of spring;
But seasons through I never heard a bird in graveyard sing.
A solemn man, the sexton, and 'twas he you saw at eve
Look at the sun, lay down his spade, wipe brow upon his sleeve.
The church was old; its tower bold, and dust bedimmed the panes;
The preacher ever paused a while when fell the autumn rains.
The goodwives ceased from musing, and some fear upon them came;
"'Tis ill to be from church to-day, when one's not blind or lame."
They often asked me why it was I shunned the headstones so;
"I fear them not," I said, "to some new grave with you I'll go."
I thought perhaps a patriarch would tire of life, and sleep;
I'd walk behind,—he was so old,—there'd be no need to weep.
The morrow morn came darkly; there was awe within the town;
Three days of dread before they said, "'Twas pretty Alice Brown."
Oh! 'tis not she of hazel eyes; of plaited golden hair;
Whose smiles of greeting always beamed like heaven on my care!
Not Alice of the sidelong glance, soft heart, and tender sigh,
That kissed the rose aswoon: tell me, did God let Alice die?
"The third day past came darkly; there was awe within the town;
They called her long, but ne'er will wake your pretty Alice Brown."
I linger in the village still; I cannot go away;
I walk the ways alone at eve; sometimes I pause and pray;—
It is not much I say of her; I say it very low;
But somehow it is sweet to think, "Perhaps the spirits know."
One house there is I never pass; one way I never look;
I never climb the hill at eve; I never cross the brook;
But over there, amid the rest, is carved into a stone,
Her name and day, and that sad word I feel the most: "Alone."
They hide within the hollows and they creep into the dell,
Those little crumbling headstones in the vale of Estabelle.