The mastiff howl’d at village door, The oaks were shatter’d on the green; Woe was the hour—for never more That hapless Countess e’er was seen!
And in that manor now no more Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball; For ever since that dreary hour Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.
The village maids, with fearful glance, Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall; Nor ever lead the merry dance Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.
Full many a traveller oft hath sigh’d, And pensive wept the Countess’ fall, As wand’ring onwards they’ve espied The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.
[ TO A SKYLARK]
Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert— That from heaven or near it Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest: Like a cloud of fire, The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O’er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run, Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun.