Poem by Robert Stephen Hawker

Annot of Benallay

AT lone midnight the death-bell tolled,
  To summon Annot’s clay:
For common eyes must not behold
  The griefs of Benallay.

Meek daughter of a haughty line,
  Was Lady Annot born:
That light which was not long to shine,
  The sun that set at morn.

They shrouded her in maiden white,
  They buried her in pall;
And the ring he gave her faith to plight
  Shines on her finger small.

The curate reads the dead man’s prayer
  The silent leech stands by:
The sob of voiceless love is there,
  And sorrow’s vacant eye.

’T is over. Two and two they tread
  The churchyard’s homeward way:
Farewell! farewell! thou lovely dead:
  Thou Flower of Benallay.

The sexton stalks with tottering limb
  Along the chancel floor:
He waits, that old man gray and grim,
  To close the narrow door.

“Shame! shame! these rings of stones and gold!”
  The ghastly caitiff said;
“Better that living hands should hold,
  Than glisten on the dead.”

The evil wish wrought evil deed,
  The pall is rent away:
And lo! beneath the shattered lid,
  The Flower of Benallay.

But life gleams from those opening eyes,
  Blood thrills that lifted hand:
And awful words are in her cries,
  Which none may understand.

Joy! ’t is the miracle of yore,
  Of the city calléd Nain:—
Lo! glad feet throng the sculptured floor,
  To hail their dead again.

Joy in the hall of Benallay,
  A stately feast is spread:
Lord Harold is the bridegroom gay,
  The bride the arisen dead.

1. The Ringers of Lancell’s Tower
2. The Well of St. John
3. Dupath Well
4. The Cell
5. The Doom-Well of St. Madron

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