THERE was an ancient dwelling-place,
The home of English Squires;
An ancient Lady dwelt therein,–
She had it from her Sires.
Her purse was fill’d with gold I trow,
Her house with household store;
And when the neighbours’ pelf wax’d low,
They came to her for more.
She gave her gold–she sought the sick,
And ask’d them of their harm;
Forth walking with her Bible-book,
Her basket on her arm.
She lov’d them all, and they lov’d her
With good old loyalty;
And when she wax’d so faint and old,
They griev’d that she must die.
“Alack!” they cried, “we’ll pray for her,
That she may come about;
She’s been a friend for fifty years,
We cannot do without.”
But yet the good old Lady died,
And woe was all her land;
They put the shroud about her face,
And rosemary in her hand.
They plac’d her in her own old hall,
The Servants stood around;
The Church-bells, as they bore her forth,
Toll’d out a heavy sound.
Old folks and young were come to see,–
Of tears there was no lack;
The Tenants walk’d behind in pairs,
Each in a suit of black.
They laid her in her father’s vault,
‘Mid coffins many a one;
The Parson said his holy words,
And they made fast the stone.
That stone will never more be rais’d,
Now she has got her place;
That childless Lady was the last
Of her old name and race.
(Carolyn Clive)
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Based on Topics: Faces Poems, Youth Poems, Friendship Poems, Place Poems, Cry Poems, Home Poems, English Poems, Loyalty PoemsBased on Keywords: church-bells, griev