 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
369
THE DESERTED HALL.
To a mortal heart how humbling
Is a view of yon old hall,
Into dust and darkness crumbling,
While rude winds shake roof and wall.
Moss is round the casement spreading,
And no more the windows blaze
When the weary day is shedding
His last red and quivering rays.
Is a view of yon old hall,
Into dust and darkness crumbling,
While rude winds shake roof and wall.
Moss is round the casement spreading,
And no more the windows blaze
When the weary day is shedding
His last red and quivering rays.
Under the neglected arbor
Foxes in the night-time bark,
And the bat and spider harbor
In its chambers drear and dark.
Weeds, about the door-stone growing,
Whisper of decay and blight—
On the hearth no ember glowing
Sheds a warm and cheerful light.
Foxes in the night-time bark,
And the bat and spider harbor
In its chambers drear and dark.
Weeds, about the door-stone growing,
Whisper of decay and blight—
On the hearth no ember glowing
Sheds a warm and cheerful light.
Near the ruin is a river,
And the waves while flowing on,
From their lips of crystal, ever
Breathe that word of mourning—GONE!
Round the place old poplars cluster,
And the leaves give out strange tones
When the moon flings pallid lustre
On the roof and basement stones.
And the waves while flowing on,
From their lips of crystal, ever
Breathe that word of mourning—GONE!
Round the place old poplars cluster,
And the leaves give out strange tones
When the moon flings pallid lustre
On the roof and basement stones.
Saddened and deserted dwelling!
Of a wronged and broken heart,
While the dirge of hope is knelling,
Oh! a mournful type thou art!
Flowers of love, untimely perished,
In its barren realm lie waste,
Like thy garden-grounds once cherished
By the moulding hand of taste.
Of a wronged and broken heart,
370
Oh! a mournful type thou art!
Flowers of love, untimely perished,
In its barren realm lie waste,
Like thy garden-grounds once cherished
By the moulding hand of taste.
Creatures that haunt places lonely
In thy empty halls are bred,
And that HEART is peopled only
By the shadows of the dead.
As yon moon, with look subduing,
Lights the home of days gone by,
In that heart—a nobler ruin—
Sadly glimmers memory.
In thy empty halls are bred,
And that HEART is peopled only
By the shadows of the dead.
As yon moon, with look subduing,
Lights the home of days gone by,
In that heart—a nobler ruin—
Sadly glimmers memory.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |