As the pale cloud that circled in morning the hill top,
Flitteth, in fleecy wreathes, fast in the sun-blaze ;
Or, as the slim shadows steal silently over
The gray walls at noon-tide, so ghost-like ongliding,
And leave not a line for remembrance to linger on ;
So soon and so sadly have terribly perished
The joys we did muse of in youth's mildest morn;
Time spreads o'er the brow soon his pale sheaf of sorrow,
And freezes each heart-fount that whilome gushed freely;
Oh! Dream of Life's early day, farewell for ever.
The woods and the waters, the great winds of heaven,
Sound on and for ever their grand solemn symphonies;
The moon gleams with gladness,—the wakeful stars wander,
With bright eyes of beauty that ever beam pleasure;
The sun scatters golden fire-bright rays of glory-
Till proud glows the earth, graithed in harness from heaven ;
The fields flourish fragrant with summer flower blossoms;
Time robs not the earth of its brightness and braveries,
But he strips the lorn heart of the loves that it lived by.
Oh! Dream of Life's early day, farewell for ever.
We have sought for the smiles that shed sunshine around us,
For the voices that mingled mind-music with ours;
For hearts whose roots grew where the roots of our own grew,
While pulse sang to pulse the same lay of love-longing.,
In the fair forest firth, on the wide waste of waters,
By brooks that gleam brightest, and banks that blush bravest,
On hill and in hollow, green holm, and broad meadow,
We have sought for these loved things, but never could find
them,
We have shouted their names, and sad echoes made answer,
Oh! Dream of Life's early day, farewell for ever.
As EAGLES return to their eyrie, Gorged with the flesh of the young kid, Even so we return from the battle
The banquet of noble blood.
We are drunk with that ruddy wine;
We are stained with its droppings all over ;
We have drunk till our full veins are bursting,
Till the vessel was drained to its dregs--
Till the tall flaggons fell from our hands,
That were wearied with ever uplifting them :
We have drunk till we no longer could find
The liquor divine of heroes.
The Ritters ride home!
Ask where great glory is won?
Enquire of the desolate land ;
Of the city that hath no life,
Of the bay that hath no white sail,
The land that is trenched with mad feet,
Which turned up the soil in despair;
The city is silent and fireless,
And each threshold is crowded with dry bones;
The bay glitters sheenly in sunlight,
No oar shivers now its clear mirror;
The mast of the bark is not there,
Nor the shout of the mariner bold.
But the sea-maidens know of strange men,
Beclasped in strong plaits of iron:
They know of the pale-faced and silent,
Who sleep underneath the waves,
And never shall waken again
To stride o'er the beautiful dales,
green and the flower-studded land.
The Ritters ride home!
We have come from the strife of shields; From the bristling of mighty spears;
From the smith-shop, where brynies were anvils,
And the hammers were long swords and axes.
We have come from the mounds of the dead,
Where hero forms lay like hewn forests;
Where rivers run red in the sun,
And the ravens of heaven were made glad!
The Ritters ride home!
The small ones of earth pass away,
As chaff they have drifted and gone.
When the angry winds rush from the North,
And sound their great trumpets of wrath,
The tempest-steeds rush forth to battle,
They plough up the earth in their course,
They hollow a grave for the dead,
As the share scoops a bed for the seed.
The Ritters ride home!
Beautiful! beautiful! beautiful!
Is the home-coming of the War-faring;
Of them who have swam on the ocean;
Of fountains that spring from great hearts.
The sunshine of glory's around them;
Their names are the burthen of songs;
Their armour and banners become
The richest adornments of halls.
The Ritters ride home!
Beautiful! beautiful! beautiful!
Sounds the home-coming of the War-faring;
And their triumph-song echoes for ever
'Mid the vastness of gloomy Valhalla.
The Ritters' last home!
Written after a Visit to the Grave of my Friend, WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, November, 1847.
PLACE we a stone at his head and his feet;
Sprinkle his sward with the small flowers sweet ;
Piously hallow the Poet's retreat !
Ever approvingly,
Ever most lovingly,
Turned he to nature, a worshipper meet.
Harm not the thorn which grows at his head;
Odorous honours its blossoms will shed,
Grateful to him, early summoned, who sped
Hence, not unwillingly-
For he felt thrillingly—
To rest his poor heart 'mong the low-lying dead.
Dearer to him than the deep Minster bell,
Winds of sad cadence, at midnight, will swell,
Vocal with sorrows he knoweth too well,
Who, for the early day,
Plaining this roundelay,
Might his own fate from a brother's foretell.
Worldly ones treading this terrace of graves,
Grudge not the minstrel the little he craves,
When o'er the snow-mound the winter-blast raves-
Tears-which devotedly,
Flow from their spring, in the soul's silent caves.
Dreamers of noble thoughts, raise him a shrine, Graced with the beauty which lives in his line; Strew with pale flow'rets, when pensive moons shine, His grassy covering,
Where spirits hovering,
Chaunt, for his requiem, music divine.
Not as a record he lacketh a stone !
Pay a light debt to the singer we've known-
Proof that our love for his name hath not flown
With the frame perishing—
That we are cherishing
Feelings akin to the lost Poet's own.
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