Poems (Eckley)/The Haunted Chapel

by Sophia May Eckley

THE HAUNTED CHAPEL.

N a dim old chesnut forest,
 Far from the city's din,
Stands a long-deserted chapel—
 So does my lay begin.

The walls with age are crumbling,
 With moss and lichen wed
To mouldy crust between the chinks—
 All else save this is dead.

A hundred years and more have past,
 Since censers here have swung,
Or chant or benison has been said,
 Or Vesper bell been rung.

A hundred years since the vigil lamp
 Before the Virgin gleamed,
Illuming the ancient picture,
 Now mildewed, stained, and seamed.

Her cobwebs on the window sill,
 The wary spider weaves,
Embroidering the altar lace,
 Sewing the missal leaves.

'Tis said in that haunted chapel,
 At sound of the Vesper bell,
A spectral friar comes to pray—
 His Avé beads to tell.

Oft at even-tide I've lingered,
 When twilight shadows stole
Round the hills, and the spangled mist
 Rolled upward like a scroll.

On the evening breeze came voices,
 Cadenzas on the ear,
But not from within the grating
 Heard I the Monk at pray'r.

'Twas only the river whispering
 Dreamily where I stood,
Dispelling the old tradition
 Of that chapel in the wood.

Lucca.