That winter it was, a month thereafter, That the home of the Cliffords, roof and rafter, Burned.--I could swear 'twas the Strongbow's doing, Were I sure that he knew of the Clifford's wooing His daughter; and so, by the Rood and Cross! Made a torch of Hugh's home to avenge his loss.-- So over the Channel to France with his King, The Black Prince, sailed to the wars--to deaden The ache of the mystery--Hugh that spring And fell at Poitiers; for his loss lay leaden O' his heart; and his life was a weary sadness, So he flung it away in a moment's madness. And the baron died. And the bridegroom?--well, Unlucky was he in truth!--to tell Of him there is nothing.--The baron died, The last of the Strongbows he--gramercy! And the Clare estate with its wealth and pride Devolved to the Bloets, Walter and Percy. And years went by. And it happened that they Ransacked the old castle; and so, one day, In a lonesome tower uprummaged a chest, From Flanders; of ebon, and wildly carved All over with masks: a sinister crest 'Mid gargoyle faces distorted and starved: Fast-fixed with a spring, which they forced and, lo! When they opened it--Death, like a lady dressed, Grinned up at their terror!--but no, not so! Fantastic a skeleton, jeweled and wreathed With flowers of dust; and a miniver Around it clasped, that the ruin sheathed Of a once rich raiment of silk and of fur. I'd have given my life to hear him tell, The courtly Clifford, how this befell! He'd have known how it was: For, you see, in groping For the secret spring of that panel, hoping And fearing as nearer and nearer drew The search of retainers, why, out she blew The tell-tale taper; and seeing this chest, Would hide her a minute in it, mayhap, Till the hurry had passed; but the death-lock, pressed By the lid's great weight, shut down with a snap, And her life went out in the hellish trap. MY LADY OF VERNE It all comes back as the end draws near; All comes back like a tale of old! Shall I tell you what? Will you lend an ear? You, with your face so stern and cold; You, who have found me dying here.... Lady Valora's villa at Verne-- You have walked its terraces, where the fount And statue gleam and the fluted urn; Its world-old elms, that are avenues gaunt Of shadow and flame when the west is a-burn. 'Tis a lonely region of tarns and trees, And hollow hills that circle the west; Haunted of rooks and the far-off sea's Immemorial vague unrest; A land of sorrowful memories. A gray sad land, where the wind has its will, And the sun its way with the fruits and flowers; Where ever the one all night is shrill, And ever the other all day brings hours Of glimmering hush that dead dreams fill.