 | Hours of life, and other poems |  |
THE ENCHANTED CASTLE.
FROM “THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.”
All slept: the armorial bannerals
Drooped idly from the castle walls,
Nor wooed the morning's beam:
The bell, within the mouldering tower,
No longer tolled the passing hour;
The castle was a dream.
Drooped idly from the castle walls,
Nor wooed the morning's beam:
The bell, within the mouldering tower,
No longer tolled the passing hour;
The castle was a dream.
A pathless forest, wild and wide,
Engirt the wall on every side,
And stretched for many a mile:
Eternal silence brooded there,
Eternal shadows filled the air,
And veiled the slumbering pile.
Engirt the wall on every side,
And stretched for many a mile:
Eternal silence brooded there,
Eternal shadows filled the air,
And veiled the slumbering pile.
121
So high the ancient cedars sprung,
So far aloft their branches flung,
So thick the covert grew,
No foot its mazes could invade,
No eye could pierce its depths of shade,
Or see the welkin through.
So far aloft their branches flung,
So thick the covert grew,
No foot its mazes could invade,
No eye could pierce its depths of shade,
Or see the welkin through.
Yet oft, as, from some distant mound,
The traveler cast his eyes around
O'er wold and woodland grey;
He saw, athwart the glimmering light
Of moonbeams, on a misty night,
A castle, far away.
The traveler cast his eyes around
O'er wold and woodland grey;
He saw, athwart the glimmering light
Of moonbeams, on a misty night,
A castle, far away.
A hundred winters sapped the towers;
A hundred summers rained their flowers
Upon the castle lawn:
Through day and night, through night and day,
In charmèd rest, the lady lay,
Unmindful of the dawn.
A hundred summers rained their flowers
Upon the castle lawn:
Through day and night, through night and day,
In charmèd rest, the lady lay,
Unmindful of the dawn.
122
A hundred Norland winters passed;
A hundred golden summers cast
Their glory on the shore;
And still the guardant angels kept
The place all holy, where she slept,
And blessed her ever more.
A hundred golden summers cast
Their glory on the shore;
And still the guardant angels kept
The place all holy, where she slept,
And blessed her ever more.
| Hours of life, and other poems | |