Not such the usage I received, When happye in my father's halle; I rose up with the cheerful morne, No lark more blithe, no flower more gaye; And, like the bird that hauntes the thorne, So merrillie sung the live-long daye. Say that my beautye is but smalle, Why didst thou rend it from that halle, And when you first to mee made suite, How fayre I was, you oft woulde saye ! And, proude of conquest-plucked the fruite, Then lefte the blossom to decaye. Yes, now neglected and despised, For knowe, when sickening griefe doth preye, And tender love's repay'd with scorne, The sweetest beautye will decaye; At Court I'm tolde is beautye's throne, Then, earle, why didst thou leave those bedds, Where roses and where lilys vie, To seek a primrose, whose pale shades Must sicken when those gaudes are bye? 'Mong rural beauties I was one, Among the fields wild flowers are faire; Some countrye swayne might mee have won, And thoughte my beautie passing rare. But, Leicester, (or I much am wronge,) Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. Then, Leicester, why, again I pleade, When some fair princesse might be thyne? Why didst thou praise my humble charmes, Then leave me to mourne the live-long daye? The village maidens of the plaine Envious, they marke my silken trayne, The simple nymphs! they little knowe, How fare lesse bleste am I than them? Nor (cruel earle !) can I enjoye The humble charms of solitude; Laste nyghte, as sad I chanced to straye, And now, when happye peasantes sleepe, My spirits flag-my hopes decaye- And many a boding seems to saye, Thus sore and sad that ladye grieved, And ere the dawne of day appeared, manye a piercing screame was hearde, The deathe-belle thrice was hearde to ring, Arounde the towers of Cumnor Halle. The mastiffe howled at village doore, That haplesse countesse e'er was seene. And in that manor now no more Is chearful feaste and sprightly balle; For ever since that drearie houre Have spirits haunted Cumnor Halle. The village maides, with fearful glance, Avoid the antient moss-growne walle; Nor ever leade the merrye dance Among the groves of Cumnor Halle. Full manye a traveller oft hath sighed, And pensive wepte the countess' falle, As wandering onward they've espied The haunted towers of Cumnor Halle. |