Croften Tower

I pass it oft at nightfall,And I think the sunset goldIs loath to touch with kindly lightThat mansion dark and old;And it seems as if the heavensThat hang above its roofAre not so blue as other skies,And further keep aloof.

The birds build not their airy nestsWithin the shadowing trees;A dead calm holds its dreary courtWithin the mouldy leaves;Wild roses spring where once in prideRare tropic blossoms grew,But not a human eye is gladTo meet their modest hue.

The garden-walks are overgrownWith brambles and with weeds,—Only the squirrel or the jayOn the rich fruitage feeds;The mellow peach and nectarineHang ripely from the bough,And, all untouched, the purple grapesThe trellises endow.

Death and decay are everywhere!The mansion once so gayStands lone and silent, all its prideAnd glory fled away:Its high-arched doors, and windows tall,Are closed and locked fore'er,—For not the poorest child of wantWould seek a dwelling there.

The schoolboy chokes his merry song,Quickens his lagging pace,And glances back with fearsome eyeAt this deserted place;The weary laborer shuns the pathThat passes by its door,And takes the long and toilsome trackAcross the distant moor.

I mind me of a vanished time,When this old house was brightWith life and joy, and festive mirthRang out upon the night;When graceful forms and faces fairBrightened the stately halls,And lamps of gold and ormoluLit up the polished walls.

A dark and haughty man was he,The master of the tower,—The people owned for miles aroundThe magic of his power!Handsome, and proud, and arrogant,His soul self-cursed with scorn,—They said his Spanish mother diedThe night her child was born.

He wooed and won a gentle girl,Pure as the saints above!She gave him all her sweet young trust,Her confidence and love;She glorified the tower awhile,Like a stray sunlight beam,—Then pallid grew; her face lost light,Her eye its happy gleam.

One dreary night, when tempests roared,And thunder shrieked in pain,And sheets of livid lightning flashedTheir flame-tongues through the rain,—Red blood was spilt! a right to HeavenOne weary soul had won!But ah! the other? God be just!When there's a murder done!

He lived unpunished; but he diedIn torments none can tell!The anguish of his tortured soulA foretaste was of hell.His own hand cut the thread of lifeAt last; and all aloneThrough the dark Silence he went forth,Forth to the dread Unknown.

The tower is left to solitude,—But oft, on stormy nights,The awe-struck people say the windowsBlaze with festive lights;And sometimes on the murky airRings out a wailing dirge,Like the sea's moaning when it bearsDead men upon its surge.