The Lady Of Rathmore Hall
Throughout the country for many a mile
There is not a nobler, statelier pile
Than ivy crowned Rathmore Hall;
And the giant oaks that shadow the wold,
Though hollowed by time, are not as old
As its Norman turrets tall.
Let us follow that stream of sunset red,
Crimsoning the portal overhead,
Stealing through curtaining lace,
Where sits in a spacious and lofty room
Full of gems of art—exotics in bloom—
The Lady of the place.
If Rathmore Hall is with praises named,
Not less is its queen-like mistress famed
For wondrous beauty and grace;
And as she reclines there, calmly now,
The sunset flush on her ivory brow,
We marvel at form and face.
Wondrously perfect, peerlessly fair,
Are the mouth and the eyes and luxuriant hair,
As lily she’s graceful and fall;
Not florid full is that lady fair
But pale and high-bred, with just the air
That is suited to Rathmore Hall.
Health, youth, and loveliness on her smile,
Her abode that noble and ancient pile,
She, surely, must happy be—
(With each wish fulfilled that wealth can fulfil,
For as if by magic is wrought her will)
A moment wait—we shall see!
At length she moves and heavily sighs,
While wearily rest her violet eyes
On her jewels richly wrought;
Shuddering, she turns away her gaze
From flashing diamond and ruby’s blaze,
As she whispers, “Too dearly bought!”
Then, slowly rising, the casement nears,
And looking abroad through a mist of tears
Sighs: “Yes, I have earned it all:
Crushed a manly heart that too truly loved,
False to my. vows and to honor proved,
To be Lady of Rathmore Hall.
“What are now its broad rich acres to me,
[...] Read more
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Added by Poetry Lover
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