Upon the height of old was Wyndham Towers, Clinging to rock there, like an eagle's nest, With moat and drawbridge once, and good for siege; Four towers it had to front the diverse winds: Built God knows when, all record being lost, Locked in the memories of forgotten men. In Caesar's day, a pagan temple; next A monastery; then a feudal hold; Later a manor, and at last a ruin. Such knowledge have we of it, vaguely caught Through whispers fallen from tradition's lip. This shattered tower, with crenellated top And loops for archers, alone marks the spot, Looming forlornly--a gigantic harp Whereon the invisible fingers of the wind Its fitful and mysterious dirges play. Here dwelt, in the last Tudor's virgin reign, One Richard Wyndham, Knight and Gentleman, (The son of Rawdon, slain near Calais wall When Bloody Mary lost her grip on France,) A lonely wight that no kith had nor kin Save one, a brother--by ill-fortune's spite A brother, since 't were better to have none-- Of late not often seen at Wyndham Towers, Where he in sooth but lenten welcome got When to that gate his errant footstep strayed. Yet held he dear those gray majestic walls, Time-stained and crusted with the sea's salt breath; There first his eyes took color of the sea, There did his heart stay when fate drove him thence, And there at last--but that we tell anon. Darrell they named him, for an ancestor Whose bones were whitening in Holy Land, The other Richard; a crusader name, Yet it was Darrell had the lion-heart. No love and little liking served this pair, In look and word unpaired as white and black-- Of once rich bough the last unlucky fruit. The one, for straightness like a Norland pine Set on some precipice's perilous edge, Intrepid, handsome, little past blown youth, Of all pure thought and brave deed amorous, Moulded the court's high atmosphere to breathe, Yet liking well the camp's more liberal air-- Poet, soldier, courtier, 't was the mode; The other--as a glow-worm to a star-- Suspicious, morbid, passionate, self-involved, The soul half eaten out with solitude, Corroded, like a sword-blade left in sheath Asleep and lost to action--in a word, A misanthrope, a miser, a soured man, One fortune loved not and looked at askance. Yet he a pleasant outward semblance had. Say what you will, and paint things as you may, The devil is not black, with horn and hoof, As gossips picture him: he is a person Quite scrupulous of doublet and demeanor, As was this Master Wyndham of The Towers, Now latterly in most unhappy case, Because of matters to be here set forth.