The same accusation has been adopted and circulated by the author of Leicesters Commonwealth, a satire written directly against the Earl of Leicester, which loaded him with the most horrid crimes, and, among the rest, with the murder of his first wife. It was alluded to in the Yorkshire Tragedy, a play erroneously ascribed to Shakespeare, where a baker, who determines to destroy all his family, throws his wife downstairs, with this allusion to the supposed murder of Leicesters lady,
The only way to charm a womans tongue
Is, break her neck a politician did it.
The reader will find I have borrowed several incidents as well as names from Ashmole, and the more early authorities; but my first acquaintance with the history was through the more pleasing medium of verse. There is a period in youth when the mere power of numbers has a more strong effect on ear and imagination than in more advanced life. At this season of immature taste, the author was greatly delighted with the poems of Mickle and Langhorne, poets who, though by no means deficient in the higher branches of their art, were eminent for their powers of verbal melody above most who have practised this department of poetry. One of those pieces of Mickle, which the author was particularly pleased with, is a ballad, or rather a species of elegy, on the subject of Cumnor Hall, which, with others by the same author, was to be found in Evanss Ancient Ballads (vol. iv., page 130), to which work Mickle made liberal contributions. The first stanza especially had a peculiar species of enchantment for the youthful ear of the author, the force of which is not even now entirely spent; some others are sufficiently prosaic.
CUMNOR HALL The dews of summer night did fall;
The moon, sweet regent of the sky,
Silverd the walls of Cumnor Hall,
And many an oak that grew thereby,
Now nought was heard beneath the skies,
The sounds of busy life were still,
Save an unhappy ladys sighs,
That issued from that lonely pile.
Leicester, she cried, is this thy love
That thou so oft hast sworn to me,
To leave me in this lonely grove,
Immured in shameful privity?
No more thou comst with lovers speed,
Thy once beloved bride to see;
But be she alive, or be she dead,
I fear, stern Earl, s the same to thee.
Not so the usage I received
When happy in my fathers hall;
No faithless husband then me grieved,
No chilling fears did me appal.
I rose up with the cheerful morn,
No lark more blithe, no flower more gay;
And like the bird that haunts the thorn,
So merrily sung the livelong day.
If that my beauty is but small,
Among court ladies all despised,
Why didst thou rend it from that hall,
Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized?
And when you first to me made suit,
How fair I was you oft would say!
And proud of conquest, pluckd the fruit,
Then left the blossom to decay.
Yes! now neglected and despised,
The rose is pale, the lilys dead;
But he that once their charms so prized,
Is sure the cause those charms are fled.
For know, when sickning grief doth prey,
And tender loves repaid with scorn,
The sweetest beauty will decay,
What floweret can endure the storm?
At court, Im told, is beautys throne,
Where every ladys passing rare,
That Eastern flowers, that shame the sun,
Are not so glowing, not so fair.
Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds
Where roses and where lilies vie,
To seek a primrose, whose pale shades
Must sicken when those gauds are by?
Mong rural beauties I was one,
Among the fields wild flowers are fair;
Some country swain might me have won,
And thought my beauty passing rare.
But, Leicester (or I much am wrong),
Or tis not beauty lures thy vows;
Rather ambitions gilded crown
Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.
Then, Leicester, why, again I plead
(The injured surely may repine)
Why didst thou wed a country maid,
When some fair princess might be thine?
Why didst thou praise my humble charms,
And, oh! then leave them to decay?
Why didst thou win me to thy arms,
Then leave to mourn the livelong day?
The village maidens of the plain
Salute me lowly as they go;
Envious they mark my silken train,
Nor think a Countess can have woe.
The simple nymphs! they little know
How far more happys their estate;
To smile for joy, than sigh for woe
To be content, than to be great.
How far less blest am I than them?
Daily to pine and waste with care!
Like the poor plant that, from its stem
Divided, feels the chilling air.
Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy
The humble charms of solitude;
Your minions proud my peace destroy,
By sullen frowns or pratings rude.
Last night, as sad I chanced to stray,
The village death-bell smote my ear;
They winkd aside, and seemed to say,
Countess, prepare, thy end is near!
And now, while happy peasants sleep,
Here I sit lonely and forlorn;
No one to soothe me as I weep,
Save Philomel on yonder thorn.
My spirits flag my hopes decay
Still that dread death-bell smites my ear;
And many a boding seems to say,
Countess, prepare, thy end is near!
Thus sore and sad that lady grieved,
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear;
And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved,
And let fall many a bitter tear.
And ere the dawn of day appeard,
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear,
Full many a piercing scream was heard,
And many a cry of mortal fear.
The death-bell thrice was heard to ring,
An aerial voice was heard to call,
And thrice the raven flappd its wing
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.
The mastiff howld at village door,
The oaks were shatterd on the green;
Woe was the hour for never more
That hapless Countess eer was seen!
And in that Manor now no more
Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball;
For ever since that dreary hour
Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.
The village maids, with fearful glance,
Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall;
Nor ever lead the merry dance,
Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.
Full many a traveller oft hath sighd,
And pensive wept the Countess fall,
As wandring onward theyve espied
The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.
ARBOTSFORD, 1st March 1831.