Plantagenet hath dungeons deep
Beneath his castled halls;—
Plantagenet awakes from sleep
To count his dungeoned thralls.

Alone, with the torch of blood-red flame,
The man of blood descends;
And the fettered captives curse his name,
As through the vaults he wends.—

His caverns are visited, all, save one,
The deepest, and direst in gloom,—
Where his father, doomed by a demon son,
Abode in a living tomb.—

"I bring thee bread and water, sire!
Brave usury for thy gold!
I fear my filial zeal will tire
To visit, soon, thy hold!"

Thus spake the fiendish-hearted lord,
And wildly laughed, in scorn:
Like thunder round the cell each word
By echoing fiends is borne,—
But not a human heart is there
The baron's scorn or hate to fear!

And the captives tell, as he passeth again,—
That tyrant, in his rage,—
How an angel hath led the aged man
To his heavenly heritage!

The wrathful baron little recked
That angel was his darling child;
Or knew his dark ambition checked
By her who oft his rage beguiled,—
By her on whom he ever smiled:—
This had he known, from that dread hour,
His darling's smile had lost its power,—
And his own hand, without remorse,
Had laid her at his feet a corse!—

Plantagenet's banners in pride are borne
To the sound of pipe and drum!
And his mailëd bands, with the dawn of morn,
To Romara's walls are come.
"We come not as foes," the herald saith,—
"But we bring Plantagenet's shriven faith
That thou, Romara, in thine arms
Shall soon enfold thy true love's charms:
Let no delay thy joy betide!—
Thy Agnes soon shall be thy bride!"

The raven croaks as Torksey's lord
Attends that bannered host;
But the lover is deaf to the omen-bird—
The fatal moat is crossed!

"Ride, ride;" saith the baron,—"thy ladye fain
And the priest—by the altar wait!"—
And the spearmen seize his bridle-rein,
And hurry him to his fate.

"A marriage by torchlight!" the baron said;
"This stair to the altar leads!
We patter our prayers, 'mong the mouldering dead,—
And there we tell our beads!"

Along the caverned dungeon's gloom
The tyrant strides in haste;
And, powerless, to his dreadful doom
The victim followeth fast.
The dazëd captives quake and stare
At the sullen torch's blood-red glare,
And the lover starts aghast
At the deathlike forms they wear!

Too late, the truth upon him breaks!—
Romara's heart is faint!—
"Behold thy bride!" the baron shrieks—
"Wilt hear the wedding chaunt?
This chain once bound my father here,
Who would have found his grave—
The cursed dotard!—'neath the wave,—
Had not thy hateful hand been near.—
Be this the bride thou now shalt wed!
This dungeon dank thy bridal bed!—
And when thy youthful blood shall freeze
In death,—may fiends thy spirit seize!"—

Plantagenet hath minions fell
Who do their master's bidding well:—
Few days Romara pines in dread:—
His soul is with the sainted dead!—

Plantagenet hath reached his bourne!
What terrors meet his soul forlorn
And full of stain,—I may not say:—
Reveal them shall the Judgment Day!—

Her orisons at matin hour,
At noon, and eve, and midnight toll,
For him, doth tearful Agnes pour!—
Jesu Maria! sain his soul!

Symphonious notes of dulcet plaint
Followed the stranger minstrel's chaunt;
And, when his sounding harp was dumb,
The crowd, with loud applausive hum,
Gave hearty guerdon for his strain;
While some with sighs expressed what pain
Had pierced their simple bosoms thorow
To hear his song of death and sorrow.

"Come bear the mead-cup to our guest,"
Said Thorold to his daughter;
"We thought to hear, at our Yule feast,
A lay of mirth and laughter;
But, to thy harp, thou well hast sung
A song that may impart,
For future hours, to old and young,
Deep lessons to the heart.
Yet, should not life be all a sigh!
Good Snell, do thou a burthen try
Shall change our sadness into joy:
Such as thou trollest in blythe mood,