But its chief ornament, a miracle
Of Nature’s mirth, a wondrous temple stands,
Right in the centre of this charmed dell,
Which every height and bosky slope commands.
Arch meeting arch, unwrought of human hands,
Form dome and portals.
When hark!—a sound!—it issued from the dell;
A solemn voice, as though one did declaim
On some high theme; it ceased—and then the swell
Of a slow, psalm-like chant on his amazement fell.
***
In that fantastic temple’s porch was seen
The youthful pastor; lofty was his mien,
But stamped with thoughts of such appalling scope,
As rarely gather on a brow serene;
And who are they, on the opposing slope,
To whom his solemn tones told but one awful hope?
A pallid, ghost-like, melancholy crew,
Seated on scattered crags, and far-off knolls,
As fearing each the other. They were few.
As men whom one brief hour will from the rolls
Of life cut off, and toiling for their souls’
Welcome into eternity—they seemed
Lost in the heart’s last conflict, which controls
All outward life—they sate as men who dreamed;
No motion in their frames—no eye perception beamed.
The two following stanzas are fearfully descriptive of the awful interruptions to the solemn service in this sequestered spot.
But suddenly, a wild and piercing cry
Arose amongst them; and an ancient man,
Furious in mood—red frenzy in his eye,
Sprang forth, and shouting, towards the hollow ran.
His white locks floated round his features wan;
He rushed impatient to the valley rill;
To drink, to revel in the wave began,
As one on fire with thirst; then, with a shrill
Laugh, as of joy, he sank—he lay—and all was still.
Then from their places solemnly two more
Went forth, as if to lend the sufferer aid;
But in their hands, in readiness, they bore
The charnel tools, the mattock and the spade.
They broke the turf—they dug—they calmly laid
The old man in his grave; and o’er him threw
The earth, by prayer, nor requiem delayed;
Then turned, and with no lingering adieu,
Swifter than they approached, from the strange scene withdrew.
The church-yard soon ceased to afford room for the dead. They were afterwards buried in an heathy hill above the village.[384] Curious travellers take pleasure in visiting, to this day, the mountain tumulus, and in examining its yet distinct remains; also, in ascending, from the upper part of Eyam, those cliffs and fields which brow the dingle, and from whence the descent into the consecrated rock is easy. It is called Cucklet church by the villagers.
And now hope gleamed abroad. The plague seemed staid;
And the loud winds of autumn glad uproar
Made in the welkin. Health their call obeyed,
And Confidence her throne resumed once more.
Nay, joy itself was in the pastor’s bower;
For him the plague had sought, its final prey;
And Catherine pale, and shuddering at its power,
Had watched, had wept, had seen it pass away,—
And joy shone through their home like a bright summer’s day.
The sudden fear woke memory in her cell;
And tracing back the brightness of their being;
Their love, their bliss, the fatal shafts which fell
Around them—smote them—yet, even now were fleeing;
Death unto numbers, but to them decreeing
Safety;—rich omens for succeeding years,
In that sweet gaiety of spirit seeing,
Theirs was that triumph which distress endears;
And gladness which breaks forth in mingling smiles and tears.
So passed that evening: but, still midnight falls,
And why gleams thence that lamp’s unwonted glare?
Oh! there is speechless woe within those walls:
Death’s stern farewell is given in thunder there.
Mompesson wrapt in dreams and fancies fair,
Which took their fashion from that evening’s tone,
At once sprang up in terror and despair,
Roused by that voice which never yet had known
To wake aught in his heart, but pure delight alone.