Poems By Edward Quillinan. With a Memoir by William Johnston |
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24
WANSFELL.
It was only yester-eve,
While the sun was taking leave
Of the mountain he loves best,
Tawny Wansfell seem'd to grieve—
For I saw the brackens heave
On his breast.
While the sun was taking leave
Of the mountain he loves best,
Tawny Wansfell seem'd to grieve—
For I saw the brackens heave
On his breast.
And I heard his firs bewailing,
With a shudder first, and quailing
From the tidings of the breeze;
Then in a chorus firmer,
With a long and sweeping murmur,
Like the sea's.
With a shudder first, and quailing
From the tidings of the breeze;
Then in a chorus firmer,
With a long and sweeping murmur,
Like the sea's.
It was not for daylight's setting,
That his russet ferns were fretting,
While his groves were thrill'd with fear,
For the light returns to-morrow,
But not he for whom they sorrow—
The Old Year.
That his russet ferns were fretting,
While his groves were thrill'd with fear,
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But not he for whom they sorrow—
The Old Year.
The last hour was drawing nigh,
Of the mountain's true ally,
In the merry seasons past:—
As a friend about to perish,
With a fonder love we cherish
At the last:
Of the mountain's true ally,
In the merry seasons past:—
As a friend about to perish,
With a fonder love we cherish
At the last:
So the mountain seem'd revealing
A regret like human feeling
While the twilight round it hung;
But ere night had pass'd away,
And the dawn of New-Year's Day
Upward sprung,
A regret like human feeling
While the twilight round it hung;
But ere night had pass'd away,
And the dawn of New-Year's Day
Upward sprung,
What had changed the mourner's face?
Not a feature can we trace!
We behold a giant white,
From whose robe of silver tissue,
Ten thousand sparkles issue,
Jewel-bright.
Not a feature can we trace!
We behold a giant white,
From whose robe of silver tissue,
Ten thousand sparkles issue,
Jewel-bright.
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After all his rustic nurture,
The old mountain has turn'd courtier,
And to greet the New-Year's Day
He has deck'd his shoulders proud,
From his wardrobe in the cloud,
All so gay.
The old mountain has turn'd courtier,
And to greet the New-Year's Day
He has deck'd his shoulders proud,
From his wardrobe in the cloud,
All so gay.
All night on silent Wansfell
A shower like down of swans fell,
A shower of frosted dew:
And the shroud of the Old Year,
Is the mountain's festal gear
For the New.
A shower like down of swans fell,
A shower of frosted dew:
And the shroud of the Old Year,
Is the mountain's festal gear
For the New.
January 1, 1843.
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