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 deadman's prayer,
The sullen Leech stands by :
The sob of voiceless love is there,
And sorrow's vacant eye.

'Tis 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 grey 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 shatter'd 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 ! 'tis the miracle of yore,
Of the city called Nain : —
Lo ! glad feet throng the sculptur'd floor
To hail their dead again !

Joy in the halls of Benallay !
A stately feast is spread ;
Lord Harold is the bridegroom gay,
The Bride th' arisen dead.