Tired of seeing ads? Click here to upgrade to Elite Membership!

Author

Message / Information

Jennypeg
Researcher

Codnor Castle
replied on: 8/27/2008 12:36:42 PM

Codnor Castle

1854 Ilkeston Pioneer

A tradition is still current in the neighbourhood that the last of the Zouches, possessors of Codnor Castle, died of want. Mullen, in his Cottager’s Sabbath, has so beautifully described this circumstance as well as the present state of the noble ruin that it seems not amiss to introduce his lines here:

The mournful breeze sighs through Codnor Hall,

Where nettles wild in broken casements grow,

Through long wide cracks the scattered moonbeams fall,

And rustling weeds wave idly to and fro,

O’er broken floors and gaping vaults below,

On roofless walls portentous ruin scowls;

For there the fox through each apartment prowls,

Disturbing as he creeps the dreams of sleeping owls.

White hoary moss is coated on the wall,

Dark by waves in beauty’s broken bower;

Disjointed stones from sinking arches fall,

The wide hall chimney, open to the showers,

More dreary looks than desolate tower.

Mid long dark, weeds the aged thistle grows,

Where once the “Lady’s Garden” used to flower;

Where still is seen a weak and sickly rose,

That o’er the ruined waste a faded beauty throws.

Uncounted leaves fill up the choking moat

Where fallen beams and broken columns lie;

With scattered fragments of a rotten boat,

Confusedly mixed, chaotic to the eye,

Part standing quite erect, but more awry.

The massy gates like skeletons appear,

Whose crumbling dust their outward look belie,

While gateways dark sepulchral terrors wear,

And all about the place is silent, sad and drear.

How changed the scene, since first Lord Thomas brought

His youthful bride to grace his father’s halls!

When bannered knights and bright-eyed ladies sought

The festive joys that sparkled in these walls,

In ceaseless rounds of masquerades and balls.

The newborn days successive pleasures bring,

To join the chase the shrilly bugle calls,

Or minstrel’s gay their merry roundels sing

And loud obstreperous mirth makes a roof and rafters ring.

Month rolled on month, and years on years were piled

Without abatement of that tide of joy;

Around their path the rosy moments smiled,

No cloud arose their sunshine to destroy,

Or accident befell that might annoy.

Wealth, honour, state and pleasure at command,

A thousand menials toiled in his employ,

O'er hill and dale his wide domains expand,

'Twould take a summer's day to ride across his land.

What ails Lord Thomas? Gloomy, dark, severe;

By fits he starts or hurries up and down;

Now stops to gaze, his wild eyes full of fear,

Then staring forth, he darts an angry frown

Or laughs in scorn his inward fears to drown.

What ails Lord Thomas? once so blythe and gay,

So rich, so great, so full of fair renown?

Alas! for him the passion rose for play,

And now the fatal dice have thrown his lands away.

Where hides he now? Rude strangers claim his Hall;

His wife hath sickened like a blighted flower,

Those summer friends unmoved behold his fall,

Who hung about him in his day of power;

And now assist his substance to devour.

Where hides he now? Behold yon roofless shed

To storms exposed and soaking with shower,

There may you see the great Lord Thomas dead,

Whose famished looks declare, he DIED FOR WANT OF BREAD!

Tired of seeing ads? Click here to upgrade to Elite Membership!

ChatArea.com Help & News Forums | Terms of Use | Contact ChatArea.com | Advertising