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Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton - The Lady Of La Garaye - Prologue
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RUINS! A charm is in the word: 
It makes us smile, it makes us sigh, 
`Tis like the note of some spring bird 
Recalling other Springs gone by, 
And other wood-notes which we heard 
With some sweet face in some green lane, 
And never can so hear again! 
Ruins! They were not desolate 
To us,--the ruins we remember: 
Early we came and lingered late, 

Through bright July, or rich September; 
With young companions wild with glee, 
We feasted `neath some spreading tree-- 
And looked into their laughing eyes, 
And mocked the echo for replies. 
Oh! eyes--and smiles--and days of yore, 
Can nothing your delight restore? 
Return! 
Return? In vain we listen; 
Those voices have been lost to earth! 
Our hearts may throb--our eyes may glisten, 
They`ll call no more in love or mirth. 
For, like a child sent out to play, 
Our youth hath had its holiday, 
And silence deepens where we stand 
Lone as in some foreign land, 
Where our language is not spoken, 
And none know our hearts are broken. 

Ruins! How we loved them then! 
How we loved the haunted glen 
Which grey towers overlook, 
Mirrored in the glassy brook. 
How we dreamed,--and how we guessed, 
Looking up, with earnest glances, 
Where the black crow built its nest, 
And we built our wild romances; 
Tracing in the crumbled dwelling 
Bygone tales of no one`s telling! 

This was the Chapel: that the stair: 
Here, where all lies damp and bare, 
The fragrant thurible was swung, 
The silver lamp in beauty hung, 
And in that mass of ivied shade 
The pale nuns sang--the abbot prayed. 

This was the Kitchen. Cold and blank 
The huge hearth yawns; and wide and high 
The chimney shows the open sky; 
There daylight peeps through many a crank 
Where birds immund find shelter dank, 
And when the moonlight shineth through, 
Echoes the wild tu-whit tu-whoo 
Of mournful owls, whose languid flight 
Scarce stirs the silence of the night. 

This is the Courtyard,--damp and drear! 
The men-at-arms were mustered here; 
Here would the fretted war-horse bound, 
Starting to hear the trumpet sound; 
And Captains, then of warlike fame, 
Clanked and glittered as they came. 
Forgotten names! forgotten wars! 
Forgotten gallantry and scars! 
How is your little busy day 
Perished and crushed and swept away! 

Here is the Lady`s Chamber, whence 
With looks of lovely innocence 
Some heroine our fancy dresses 
In golden locks or raven tresses, 
And pearl embroidered silks and stuffs, 
And quaintly quilted sleeves and ruffs, 
Looked forth to see retainers go, 
Or trembled at the assaulting foe. 

This was the Dungeon; deep and dark! 
Where the starved prisoner moaned in vain 
Until Death left him, stiff and stark, 
Unconscious of the galling chain 
By which the thin bleached bones were bound 
When chance revealed them under ground. 

Oh, Time! oh, ever conquering Time! 
These men had once their prime: 
But now, succeeding generations hear 
Beneath the shadow of each crumbling arch 
The music low and drear, 
The muffled music of thy onward march, 
Made up of piping winds and rustling leaves 
And plashing rain-drops falling from slant eaves, 
And all mysterious unconnected sounds 
With which the place abounds. 
Time doth efface 
Each day some lingering trace 
Of human government and human care: 

The things of air 
And earth, usurp the walls to be their own; 
Creatures that dwell alone, 
Occupy boldly: every mouldering nook 
Wherein we peer and look, 
Seems with wild denizens so swarming rife, 
We know the healthy stir of human life 
Must be for ever gone! 
The walls where hung the warriors` shining casques 
Are green with moss and mould; 
The blindworm coils where Queens have slept, nor asks 
For shelter from the cold. 
The swallow,--he is master all the day, 
And the great owl is ruler through the night; 
The little bat wheels on his circling way 
With restless flittering flight; 

And that small black bat, and the creeping things, 
At will they come and go, 
And the soft white owl with velvet wings 
And a shriek of human woe! 
The brambles let no footstep pass 
By that rent in the broken stair, 
Where the pale tufts of the windle-strae grass 
Hang like locks of dry dead hair; 
But there the keen wind ever weeps and moans, 
Working a passage through the mouldering stones. 

Oh, Time! oh, conquering Time! 
I know that wild wind`s chime 
Which, like a passing bell, 
Or distant knell, 
Speaks to man`s heart of Death and of Decay; 
While thy step passes o`er the necks of Kings 
And over common things,-- 
And into Earth`s green orchards making way, 
Halts, where the fruits of human hope abound, 
And shakes their trembling ripeness to the ground. 

But hark, a sudden shout 
Of laughter! and a nimble giddy rout, 
Who know not yet what saddened hours may mean, 
Come dancing through the scene! 

Ruins! Ruins! let us roam 
Through what was a human home, 
What care we 
How deep its depths of darkness be? 
Follow! Follow! 
Down the hollow 
Through the bramble-fencing thorns 
Where the white snail hides her horns; 
Leap across the dreadful gap 
To that corner`s mossy lap,-- 
Do, and dare! 
Clamber up the crumbling stair; 
Trip along the narrow wall, 
Where the sudden rattling fall 
Of loosened stones, on winter nights, 
In his dreams the peasant frights: 
And push them, till their rolling sound, 
Dull and heavy, beat the ground. 

Now a song, high up and clear, 
Like a lark`s enchants the ear; 
Or some happy face looks down, 
Looking, oh! so fresh and fair, 
Wearing youth`s most glorious crown, 
One rich braid of golden hair: 
Or two hearts that wildly beat, 
And two pair of eager feet, 
Linger in the turret`s bend 
As they side by side ascend, 
For the momentary bliss 
Of a lover`s stolen kiss; 
And emerge into the shining 
Of that summer day`s declining, 
Disengaging clasping hands 
As they meet their comrade bands; 
With the smile that lately hovered, 
(Making lips and eyes so bright,) 
And the blush which darkness covered 
Mantling still in rosy light! 

Ruins! Oh! ye have your charm; 

Death is cold, but life is warm; 
And the fervent days we knew 
Ere our hopes grew faint and few, 
Claim even now a happy sigh, 
Thinking of those hours gone by: 
Of the wooing long since passed,-- 
Of the love that still shall last,-- 
Of the wooing and the winning; 
Brightest end to bright beginning; 
When the feet we sought to guide 
Tripped so lightly by our side, 
That, as swift they made their way 
Through the path and tangled brake, 
Safely we could swear and say 
We loved all ruins for their sake! 

Gentle hearts, one ruin more 
From amongst so many score-- 
One, from out a host of names, 
To your notice puts forth claims. 
Come! with me make holiday, 
In the woods of La Garaye, 
Sit within those tangled bowers, 
Where fleet by the silent hours, 
Only broken by a song 
From the chirping woodland throng. 
Listen to the tale I tell: 
Grave the story is--not sad; 
And the peasant plodding by 
Greets the place with kindly eye 
For the inmates that it had!
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