 | Dryburgh Abbey and other poems |  |
TO THE NIGHT WIND.
I
Art thou a lover, wandering the green lanes,And murmuring to thyself some legend old—
Strange tale of Night, from dungeon-tower and chains,
Led by some spirit from the vaulted mould?
Art thou a lover, through the moon's fond hours,
Fancying thy bride's cheek in the blushing flowers?
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II
Or mourn'st thou now some faithful heart and dear,That in the churchyard gray thou stay'st so long;
Leaving upon the tall rank grass a tear,
Sighing thy wild and melancholy song?
Art thou a mourner, thou mysterious Wind,
O'er beauty lost—affections left behind?
III
Or com'st thou from the distant vessel's side,With blessings laden, to the widow's cot?
Her Sailor-Boy! her buried husband's pride!
Still his lone mother's home forgets he not?
Say; art thou herald of the thousand tongues
That pour on thee their joys, griefs, hopes, and wrongs?
IV
Yes; sighs are on thee—musical as love;Hopes which are half immortal in their flight;
Joys which, like angels, waft the soul above;
Wrongs that call heaven to vindicate the right!
The cherished secrets of each heart and mind
Lie bare to thee, thou unrecording wind?
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V
All things of earth are radiant with romance;A spiritual language breathes around!
Even thou, lone Wind! that touchest few perchance,
Art still the very poetry of sound!
From thy soft rising to thy wildest hour,
Thou sing'st of life, eternity, and power!
| Dryburgh Abbey and other poems | |