Kenilworth | Page 6

country maid, When some fair princess might be
thine?
"Why didst thou praise my hum'ble charms, And, oh! then leave them
to decay? Why didst thou win me to thy arms, Then leave to mourn the
livelong day?

"The village maidens of the plain Salute me lowly as they go; Envious
they mark my silken train, Nor think a Countess can have woe.
"The simple nymphs! they little know How far more happy's their
estate; To smile for joy, than sigh for woe-- To be content, than to be
great.
"How far less blest am I than them? Daily to pine and waste with care!
Like the poor plant that, from its stem Divided, feels the chilling air.
"Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy The humble charms of solitude; Your
minions proud my peace destroy, By sullen frowns or pratings rude.
"Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, The village death-bell smote my
ear; They wink'd aside, and seemed to say, 'Countess, prepare, thy end
is near!'
"And now, while happy peasants sleep, Here I sit lonely and forlorn;
No one to soothe me as I weep, Save Philomel on yonder thorn.
"My spirits flag--my hopes decay-- Still that dread death-bell smites my
ear; And many a boding seems to say, 'Countess, prepare, thy end is
near!'"
Thus sore and sad that lady grieved, In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear;
And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, And let fall many a bitter tear.
And ere the dawn of day appear'd, In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear,
Full many a piercing scream was heard, And many a cry of mortal fear.
The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, An aerial voice was heard to
call, And thrice the raven flapp'd its wing Around the towers of
Cumnor Hall.
The mastiff howl'd at village door, The oaks were shatter'd on the green;
Woe was the hour--for never more That hapless Countess e'er was
seen!
And in that Manor now no more Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball; For

ever since that dreary hour Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.
The village maids, with fearful glance, Avoid the ancient moss-grown
wall; Nor ever lead the merry dance, Among the groves of Cumnor
Hall.
Full many a traveller oft hath sigh'd, And pensive wept the Countess'
fall, As wand'ring onward they've espied The haunted towers of
Cumnor Hall.
ARBOTSFORD, 1st March 1831.
*
KENILWORTH
CHAPTER I.
I am an innkeeper, and know my grounds, And study them; Brain o'
man, I study them. I must have jovial guests to drive my ploughs, And
whistling boys to bring my harvests home, Or I shall hear no flails
thwack. THE NEW INN.
It is the privilege of tale-tellers to open their story in an inn, the free
rendezvous of all travellers, and where the humour of each displays
itself without ceremony or restraint. This is specially suitable when the
scene is laid during the old days of merry England, when the guests
were in some sort not merely the inmates, but the messmates and
temporary companions of mine Host, who was usually a personage of
privileged freedom, comely presence, and good-humour. Patronized by
him the characters of the company were placed in ready contrast; and
they seldom failed, during the emptying of a six-hooped pot, to throw
off reserve, and present themselves to each other, and to their landlord,
with the freedom of old acquaintance.
The village of Cumnor, within three or four miles of Oxford, boasted,
during the eighteenth of Queen Elizabeth, an excellent inn of the old
stamp, conducted, or rather ruled, by Giles Gosling, a man of a goodly

person, and of somewhat round belly; fifty years of age and upwards,
moderate in his reckonings, prompt in his payments, having a cellar of
sound liquor, a ready wit, and a pretty daughter. Since the days of old
Harry Baillie of the Tabard in Southwark, no one had excelled Giles
Gosling in the power of pleasing his guests of every description; and so
great was his fame, that to have been in Cumnor without wetting a cup
at the bonny Black Bear, would have been to avouch one's-self utterly
indifferent to reputation as a traveller. A country fellow might as well
return from London without looking in the face of majesty. The men of
Cumnor were proud of their Host, and their Host was proud of his
house, his liquor, his daughter, and himself.
It was in the courtyard of the inn which called this honest fellow
landlord, that a traveller alighted in the close of the evening, gave his
horse, which seemed to have made a long journey, to the hostler, and
made some inquiry, which produced the following dialogue betwixt the
myrmidons of the bonny Black Bear.
"What, ho! John Tapster."
"At