Poems (Greenwell)/The Daughter of the Hall

by Dora Greenwell

THE DAUGHTER OF THE HALL.

A STORY OF EVERY DAY.

"Where I was wont to meet her,
My true love to my call,
Came glimmering through the laurels at quiet even-fall,
In the garden, by the turrets of the old manorial hall."

It was at church, one summer morn, my good, my dear old wife,
That first I saw the face that made the sunshine of my life;
Your look still dwelt upon your book, I do not think you knew
The stolen glances that were cast towards the squire's pew!

Seven blooming Daughters then were there, and one a fair young bride,
And at the head the mother sat and looked adown with pride;
And well she might! when it was said and sung by great and small,
How sweet a family were they, the ladies at the Hall!

But from her lofty place of pride, could that high dame have guessed
The thought that woke, ah, woe betide! in one poor scholar's breast;
That I should dare to look at you! yes, it was boldly done,
The Daughter of the wealthy squire! the vicar's youngest son!

The next time that I saw your face was at the county ball,
There with our County member's son you led off first of all;
Low in the country dance I stood, yet to my ears since then.
There has been music in the sound of "cross hands, back again!"

Yes, you were fair! your sunny hair, I think I see it now,
Rolled back in many a shining curl high from your open brow;
No step so light, no smile so bright, as yours within the ball,
Yet with an air that might declare, the lady of the Hall.

And I went home to dream that night of many a splendid scene.
But through them all, one form, one face shone forth, my fancy's Queen;
Of high-born maids and lowly squires,—and woke from slumber's thrall,
To see the dawning gild with light the turrets of the Hall.

Ah! now, I thought, perhaps she wakes, but not from dreams of me,
My homage can be nought to her, unknown then let it be;
Unknown! uncared for! but just then, Hope stole so slily in,
And something whispered that faint heart might ne'er fair lady win;

And then I wrote! how many times, in days that are long past,
Have you and I laughed o'er those rhymes, my first but not my last;
For in your father's stately woods does many a tree declare,
(If Time hath spared the letters yet) that Emma's smile was fair;

Then term-time came, and with it brought some academic bays,
Ah! dear to youthful scholar's heart, the hard-won meed of praise!
The county paper will not fail, I thought, to tell her all,
Yes, surely they will speak of me, this morning at the Hall!

Then Fancy flew on burnished wing an aërial race with Time,
O'er many a strange and brilliant land, through many a glowing clime;
Then like a bright and wandering bird, that answered to my call
Would fold its soft and gleaming plumes upon the ancient Hall.

Old Time wore on; there dawned a day that brought me to your feet,
Oft have we lived it o'er since then, and still the theme is sweet!
Your sisters sighed, "True love was all, with or without a purse,"
And once for all your brother said, that Emma might do worse.

The good old Squire; I see him yet! the squire of days begone,
Who had a laugh for every jest, the loudest for his own,
"My seven fair daughters! shall I find a lord apiece for all?
A worthy youth, our vicar's son, and welcome at the Hall!"

Your Lady-mother smoothed her brow, and smiled her stately smile
And made some show of courtesy to mine within the aisle,
Yet wore throughout a dignified and somewhat frigid mien,
And did not take me to her heart until I was a Dean.

Full fifty years since then have wrought their web of good and ill,
But only seem in heart and thought to bind us closer still!
"Time changes all," the saying goes, but we can surely prove,
That his cold breath may pass in vain o'er evergreens like Love.

I wonder, when in idler hours I read of sylvan shades,
And noble youths who sought for truth with simple village maids,
If I had found a gentler wife, a truer 'mong them all,
Than she who somewhat stooped to me, the Daughter of the Hall!