| |
| A STILLNESS crept about the house | |
| At evenfall, in noontide glare; | |
| Upon the silent hills looked forth | |
| The many-windowed House of Quair. | |
| |
| The peacock on the terrace screamed; | 5 |
| Browsed on the lawn the timid hare; | |
| The great trees grew i’ the avenue, | |
| Calm by the sheltered House of Quair. | |
| |
| The pool was still; around its brim | |
| The alders sickened all the air; | 10 |
| There came no murmur from the streams, | |
| Though nigh flowed Leithen, Tweed, and Quair. | |
| |
| The days hold on their wonted pace, | |
| And men to court and camp repair, | |
| Their part to fill, of good or ill, | 15 |
| While women keep the House of Quair. | |
| |
| And one is clad in widow’s weeds, | |
| And one is maiden-like and fair, | |
| And day by day they seek the paths | |
| About the lonely fields of Quair. | 20 |
| |
| To see the trout leap in the streams, | |
| The summer clouds reflected there, | |
| The maiden loves in pensive dreams | |
| To hang o’er silver Tweed and Quair. | |
| |
| Within, in pall-black velvet clad, | 25 |
| Sits stately in her oaken chair— | |
| A stately dame of ancient name— | |
| The mother of the House of Quair. | |
| |
| Her daughter broiders by her side, | |
| With heavy drooping golden hair, | 30 |
| And listens to her frequent plaint,— | |
| “Ill fare the brides that come to Quair. | |
| |
| “For more than one hath lived in pine, | |
| And more than one hath died of care, | |
| And more than one hath sorely sinned, | 35 |
| Left lonely in the House of Quair. | |
| |
| “Alas! and ere thy father died | |
| I had not in his heart a share, | |
| And now—may God forfend her ill— | |
| Thy brother brings his bride to Quair.” | 40 |
| |
| She came; they kissed her in the hall, | |
| They kissed her on the winding stair, | |
| They led her to the chamber high, | |
| The fairest in the House of Quair. | |
| |
| They bade her from the window look, | 45 |
| And mark the scene how passing fair, | |
| Among whose ways the quiet days | |
| Would linger o’er the wife of Quair. | |
| |
| “’T is fair,” she said, on looking forth, | |
| “But what although ’t were bleak and bare—” | 50 |
| She looked the love she did not speak, | |
| And broke the ancient curse of Quair. | |
| |
| “Where’er he dwells, where’er he goes, | |
| His dangers and his toils I ’ll share.” | |
| What need be said,—she was not one | 55 |
| Of the ill-fated brides of Quair. | |
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