Poems (Trask)/Croften Tower
CROFTEN TOWER.
I pass it oft at nightfall, And I think the sunset gold Is loath to touch with kindly light That mansion dark and old; And it seems as if the heavens That hang above its roof Are not so blue as other skies, And further keep aloof.
The birds build not their airy nests Within the shadowing trees; A dead calm holds its dreary court Within the mouldy leaves; Wild roses spring where once in pride Rare tropic blossoms grew, But not a human eye is glad To meet their modest hue.
The garden-walks are overgrown With brambles and with weeds,—Only the squirrel or the jay On the rich fruitage feeds; The mellow peach and nectarine Hang ripely from the bough, And, all untouched, the purple grapes The trellises endow.
Death and decay are everywhere! The mansion once so gay Stands lone and silent, all its pride And glory fled away: Its high-arched doors, and windows tall, Are closed and locked fore'er,—For not the poorest child of want Would seek a dwelling there.
The schoolboy chokes his merry song, Quickens his lagging pace, And glances back with fearsome eye At this deserted place; The weary laborer shuns the path That passes by its door, And takes the long and toilsome track Across the distant moor.
I mind me of a vanished time, When this old house was bright With life and joy, and festive mirth Rang out upon the night; When graceful forms and faces fair Brightened the stately halls, And lamps of gold and ormolu Lit up the polished walls.
A dark and haughty man was he, The master of the tower,—The people owned for miles around The magic of his power! Handsome, and proud, and arrogant, His soul self-cursed with scorn,—They said his Spanish mother died The night her child was born.
He wooed and won a gentle girl, Pure as the saints above! She gave him all her sweet young trust, Her confidence and love; She glorified the tower awhile, Like a stray sunlight beam,—Then pallid grew; her face lost light, Her eye its happy gleam.
One dreary night, when tempests roared, And thunder shrieked in pain, And sheets of livid lightning flashed Their flame-tongues through the rain,—Red blood was spilt! a right to Heaven One weary soul had won! But ah! the other? God be just! When there's a murder done!
He lived unpunished; but he died In torments none can tell! The anguish of his tortured soul A foretaste was of hell. His own hand cut the thread of life At last; and all alone Through the dark Silence he went forth, Forth to the dread Unknown.
The tower is left to solitude,— But oft, on stormy nights, The awe-struck people say the windows Blaze with festive lights;And sometimes on the murky air Rings out a wailing dirge, Like the sea's moaning when it bears Dead men upon its surge.