Classic Poem

A LADY exquisite and old
Lies beneath the shadowy gold
Canopy, about her head
The cold patience of the dead;
And the lady's maid beside
Watches, breathless and wide-eyed
At each far-off murmuring,
Like some hunted forest thing
Without a friend or a pretence,
Whose dumbness is its one defence.
The physician now has gone
And the rector soft withdrawn,
Nothing left to say or do.
What are these come stealing through
The tranced house, from room to room
Peering, troubling the rich gloom,
Till by different doors they reach
The silent chamber, without speech
Confronting one another, eyes
Averted, with a pale surprise?
Sudden explanations break
From all. With dignity all make
It evident they could not rest
When their relative's request
Had called them hither, — they had come.
The lady's maid sits frozen dumb.
Each one, shrugging doubtfully,
Starts upon a specialty,
With incredulous, veiled looks.
One proceeds to search the books,
Turning leaves and scattering
White light through the chamber dim.
One bends with assured air
Above the old and carven chair
Of the watcher by the bed,
Whispering. She shakes her head.
One, aghast and tremulous,
Vexed with himself he should be thus
When the rest have equal claim
To a supernatural blame,
Holds his wife's effects, while she
Flings the jewels restlessly
From their dark Etruscan case,
Strews the gowns of dewy lace
And sunset cloud about the floor,
Fumbles for a secret door
Behind the portrait frame, that, stirred,
Groans almost a spoken word.
And the lady keeps her state,
High, and yet inviolate,
Like a halo round her head
The cold patience of the dead.