Littell's Living Age/Volume 173/Issue 2235/On the Belfry Tower

by Austin Dobson

"Look down the road. You see that mound
Rise on the right, its grassy round
Broken as by a scar?"

                    We stood,
Where every landscape-lover should,
High on the gray old belfry's lead,
Scored with rude names, and to the tread
Waved like a sea. Below us spread
Cool gravestones, watched by one great yew.
To right were ricks; thatched roofs a few;
Next came the rectory, with its lawn
And nestling schoolhouse; next, withdrawn
Beyond a maze of apple boughs,
The long, low-latticed manor-house.
The wide door showed an antlered hall:
Then, over roof and chimney-stack,
You caught the fish-pond at the back,
The roses, and the old red wall.
Behind, the Dorset ridges go
With straggling, wind-clipped trees, and so
The eye came down the slope to follow
The white road winding in the hollow,
Beside the mound of which he spoke.

"There," said the rector, "from the town
The Roundheads rode across the down.
Sir Miles — 'twas then Sir Miles's day —
Was posted farther south, and lay
Watching at Weymouth; but his son —
Rupert by name — an only one,
The veriest youth, it would appear,
Scrambling about for jackdaws here,
Spied them a league off. People say,
Scorning the tedious turret-way,
(Or else because the butler's care
Had turned the key to keep him there),
He slid down by the rain-pipe. Then,
Arming the hinds and serving-men
With half-pike and with harquebuss,
Snatched from the wainscot's overplus,
Himself in rusty steel-cap clad,
With flapping ear-pieces, the lad
Led them by stealth around the ridge,
So flanked the others at a bridge.
They were but six to half a score,
And yet five crop-ears, if not more,
Sleep in that hillock. Sad to tell,
The boy, by some stray petronel,
Or friend's or foe's — report is vague —
Was killed; and then, for fear of plague,
Buried within twelve hours or so.

"Such is the story. Shall we go?
I have his portrait here below;
Grave, olive-cheeked, a southern face.
His mother, who was dead, had been
Something, I think, about the queen,
Long ere the days of that disgrace,
Saddest our England yet has seen.
Poor child! The last of all his race."