 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
203
LAMENT OF A SPIRIT.
Down poured the sleet, when ceased to beat
The pulse of the poor Old Year;
And at midnight hour, a voice of power
From dreams I woke to hear:
“He lieth low in a robe of snow,”
It shouted in thrilling tones—
“Proud heir! unmeet is such winding-sheet
For thy father's royal bones.
The pulse of the poor Old Year;
And at midnight hour, a voice of power
From dreams I woke to hear:
“He lieth low in a robe of snow,”
It shouted in thrilling tones—
“Proud heir! unmeet is such winding-sheet
For thy father's royal bones.
“On his frozen corse with pitiless force
The blows of Winter fall,
While light feet bound to the viol's sound
In Pleasure's glittering hall:
And the crownless head of a Monarch dead
Reclines on a snowy bank,
While wine is poured at the festal board,
And thy health with plaudits drank.
The blows of Winter fall,
While light feet bound to the viol's sound
In Pleasure's glittering hall:
And the crownless head of a Monarch dead
Reclines on a snowy bank,
While wine is poured at the festal board,
And thy health with plaudits drank.
“No bell is tolled for the slumberer old—
No bier with sable hung;
Save the hollow moan of the blast alone,
No ‘ullalulla’ sung:—
He felt the smart of a broken heart
When the flowers grew pale and died,
And the leafy crown of the oak grew brown,
And tattered his robe of pride.
No bier with sable hung;
Save the hollow moan of the blast alone,
No ‘ullalulla’ sung:—
He felt the smart of a broken heart
When the flowers grew pale and died,
And the leafy crown of the oak grew brown,
And tattered his robe of pride.
“Go through the storm to the lifeless form
Of thy royal sire, and see
What thyself ere long, though young and strong,
Gay reveller, wilt be!
My warning mark!—round thy body stark
The night-blast too shall rave—
Twelve flaps of the wing of Time, proud King,
Shall waft thee to thy grave.”
Of thy royal sire, and see
What thyself ere long, though young and strong,
Gay reveller, wilt be!
My warning mark!—round thy body stark
The night-blast too shall rave—
Twelve flaps of the wing of Time, proud King,
Shall waft thee to thy grave.”
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |