The Leaedy's Tower

An' then we went along the gleaedesO' zunny turf, in quiv'ren sheaedes,A-winden off, vrom hand to hand,Along a path o' yollow zand,An' clomb a stickle slope, an' voundAn open patch o' lofty ground,Up where a steaetely tow'r did spring,So high as highest larks do zing.

"Oh! Meaester Collins," then I zaid,A-looken up wi' back-flung head;Vor who but he, so mild o' feaece,Should teaeke me there to zee the pleaece."What is it then theaese tower do meaen,A-built so feaeir, an' kept so cleaen?""Ah! me," he zaid, wi' thoughtvul feaece,"'Twer grief that zet theaese tower in pleaece.The squier's e'thly life's a-blestWi' gifts that mwost do teaeke vor best;The lofty-pinion'd rufs do riseTo screen his head vrom stormy skies;His land's a-spreaden roun' his hall,An' hands do leaebor at his call;The while the ho'se do fling, wi' pride,His lofty head where he do guide;But still his e'thly jay's a-vled,His woone true friend, his wife, is dead.Zoo now her happy soul's a-gone,An' he in grief's a-ling'ren on,Do do his heart zome good to showHis love to flesh an' blood below.An' zoo he rear'd, wi' smitten soul,Theaese Leaedy's Tower upon the knowl.An' there you'll zee the tow'r do springTwice ten veet up, as roun's a ring,Wi' pillars under mwolded eaeves,Above their heads a-carv'd wi' leaves;An' have to peaece, a-walken roundHis voot, a hunderd veet o' ground.An' there, above his upper wall,A rounded tow'r do spring so tall'S a springen arrow shot upright,A hunderd giddy veet in height.An' if you'd like to strain your kneesA-climen up above the trees,To zee, wi' slowly wheelen feaece,The vur-sky'd land about the pleaece,You'll have a flight o' steps to wearVor forty veet, up steaeir by steaeir,That roun' the risen tow'r do wind,Like withwind roun' the saplen's rind,An' reach a landen, wi' a seat,To rest at last your weary veet,'Ithin a breast be-screenen wall,To keep ye vrom a longsome vall.An' roun' the winden steaeirs do springAight stwonen pillars in a ring,A-reachen up their heavy strangthDrough forty veet o' slender langth,To end wi' carved heads belowThe broad-vloor'd landen's airy bow.Aight zides, as you do zee, do boundThe lower builden on the ground,An' there in woone, a two-leav'd doorDo zwing above the marble vloor:An' aye, as luck do zoo betideOur comen, wi' can goo inside.The door is oben now. An' zooThe keeper kindly let us drough.There as we softly trod the vloorO' marble stwone, 'ithin the door,The echoes ov our vootsteps vledOut roun' the wall, and over head;An' there a-painted, zide by zide,In memory o' the squier's bride,In zeven paintens, true to life,Wer zeven zights o' wedded life."

Then Meaester Collins twold me allThe teaeles a-painted roun' the wall;An' vu'st the bride did stan' to plightHer wedden vow, below the lightA-shooten down, so bright's a fleaeme,In drough a churches window freaeme.An' near the bride, on either hand,You'd zee her comely bridemaids stand,Wi' eyelashes a-bent in streaeksO' brown above their bloomen cheaeks:An' sheenen feaeir, in mellow light,Wi' flowen heaeir, an' frocks o' white.

"An' here," good Meaester Collins cried,"You'll zee a creaedle at her zide,An' there's her child, a-lyen deep'Ithin it, an' a-gone to sleep,Wi' little eyelashes a-metIn fellow streaeks, as black as jet;The while her needle, over head,Do nimbly leaed the snow-white thread,To zew a robe her love do meaekeWi' happy leaebor vor his seaeke.

"An' here a-geaen's another pleaece,Where she do zit wi' smilen feaece,An' while her bwoy do leaen, wi' pride,Ageaen her lap, below her zide,Her vinger tip do leaed his lookTo zome good words o' God's own book.

"An' next you'll zee her in her pleaece,Avore her happy husband's feaece,As he do zit, at evenen-tide,A-resten by the vier-zide.An' there the childern's heads do riseWi' laughen lips, an' beamen eyes,Above the bwoard, where she do layHer sheenen tacklen, wi' the tea.

"An' here another zide do showHer vinger in her scizzars' bowAvore two daughters, that do stand,Wi' leaernsome minds, to watch her handA-sheaepen out, wi' skill an' ceaere,A frock vor them to zew an' wear.

"Then next you'll zee her bend her headAbove her ailen husband's bed,A-fannen, wi' an inward pray'r,His burnen brow wi' beaeten air;The while the clock, by candle light,Do show that 'tis the dead o' night.

"An' here ageaen upon the wall,Where we do zee her last ov all,Her husband's head's a-hangen low,'Ithin his hands in deepest woe.An' she, an angel ov his God,Do cheer his soul below the rod,A-liften up her han' to callHis eyes to writen on the wall,As white as is her spotless robe,'Hast thou remembered my servant Job?'

"An' zoo the squier, in grief o' soul,Built up the Tower upon the knowl."