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    Wyndham Towers
    Wyndham Towers
    Wyndham Towers
    Ebook64 pages41 minutes

    Wyndham Towers

    By Thomas Bailey Aldrich

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateJun 1, 2004
    Wyndham Towers
    Author

    Thomas Bailey Aldrich

    Thomas Bailey Aldrich; November 11, 1836 – March 19, 1907) was an American writer, poet, critic, and editor. He is notable for his long editorship of The Atlantic Monthly, during which he published works by Charles W. Chesnutt and others. He was also known for his semi-autobiographical book The Story of a Bad Boy, which established the "bad boy's book" sub genre in nineteenth-century American literature, and for his poetry, which included "The Unguarded Gates" (Wikipedia)

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      Book preview

      Wyndham Towers - Thomas Bailey Aldrich

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Wyndham Towers, by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Wyndham Towers

      Author: Thomas Bailey Aldrich

      Release Date: November 23, 2008 [EBook #1830]

      Last Updated: November 30, 2012

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WYNDHAM TOWERS ***

      Produced by Donald Lainson, and David Widger

      WYNDHAM TOWERS

      By Thomas Bailey Aldrich

      TO EDWIN BOOTH. MY DEAR BOOTH:

      In offering these verses to you, I beg you to treat them (as you have many a time advised a certain lord chamberlain to treat the players) not according to their desert. Use them after your own honor and dignity; the less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty.

      These many years your friend and comrade,

      T. B. ALDRICH.

      Contents

      NOTE

      The motif of the story embodied in the following poem was crudely outlined in a brief sketch printed in an early collection of the authors verse, and subsequently cancelled for a purpose not until now accomplished. Wyndham Towers is not to be confused with this discarded sketch, the text of which has furnished only a phrase, or an indirect suggestion, here and there. That the writer's method, when recasting the poem, was more or less influenced by the poets he had been studying—chiefly the dramatists of the Elizabethan era—will, he hopes, be obvious. It was part of his design, however far he may have fallen from it, to give his narrative something of the atmosphere and color of the period in which the action takes place, though the story is supposed to be told at a later date.

      WYNDHAM TOWERS.

           Before you reach the slender, high-arched bridge,

           Like to a heron with one foot in stream,

           The hamlet breaks upon you through green boughs—

           A square stone church within a place of graves

           Upon the slope; gray houses oddly grouped,

           With plastered gables set with crossed oak-beams,

           And roofs of yellow tile and purplish slate.

           That is The Falcon, with the swinging sign

           And rustic bench, an ancient hostelry;

           Those leaden lattices were hung on hinge

           In good Queen Bess's time, so old it is.

           On ridge-piece, gable-end, or dove-cot vane,

           A gilded weathercock at intervals

           Glimmers—an angel on the wing, most like,

           Of local workmanship; for since the reign

           Of pious Edward here have carvers thrived,

           In saints'-heads skillful and winged cherubim

           Meet for rich abbeys.  From yon crumbling tower,

           Whose brickwork base the cunning Romans laid—

           And now of no use else except to train

           The ivy of an idle legend on—

           You see, such lens is this thin Devon air,

           If it so chance no fog comes rolling in,

           The Torridge where its branching crystal spreads

           To join the Taw.  Hard by from a chalk cliff

           A torrent leaps: not lovelier Sappho was

           Giving herself all silvery to the sea

           From that Leucadian rock.  Beneath your feet

           Lie sand and surf in curving parallels.

           Off shore, a buoy gleams like a dolphin's back

           Dripping with brine, and guards a sunken reef

           Whose sharp incisors have gnawed many a keel;

           There frets the sea and turns white at the lip,

           And in ill-weather lets the ledge show fang.

           A very pleasant nook in Devon, this,

             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

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