Текст оригинала на английском языке
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.
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