 | The battle of Niagara |  |
213
THE MINSTREL.
Heave darkly now my harp—friends of my lonely hour!
Cold swell thy numbers!
Away with the trumpet song—the wintry requiem pour,
The hymning for the dead—the rush of churchyard shower—
For she who loved thee!
She who moved thee!
She who proved thee!
In darkness slumbers!
O, who has not felt, in the dead of the night,
The breathing of some one near to him?
The waving of some soft angel plume—
A vision of peace in an hour of gloom—
While a nameless wish on his heart sat light,
And the net-work over its pulse grew tight,
As he thought of her who was dear to him!
Cold swell thy numbers!
Away with the trumpet song—the wintry requiem pour,
The hymning for the dead—the rush of churchyard shower—
For she who loved thee!
She who moved thee!
She who proved thee!
In darkness slumbers!
O, who has not felt, in the dead of the night,
The breathing of some one near to him?
The waving of some soft angel plume—
A vision of peace in an hour of gloom—
While a nameless wish on his heart sat light,
And the net-work over its pulse grew tight,
As he thought of her who was dear to him!
And who has not wished that the day might never
Intrude on such innocent sleep?
And prayed that the vision might stay for ever,
And who has not wakened to weep!
And who has not murmured—in agony too—
When the tenant of heaven away from him flew—
And he felt 'twas a vision indeed!
Such—such are the phantoms, my days pursue,
And will 'till my spirit is freed.
Intrude on such innocent sleep?
And prayed that the vision might stay for ever,
And who has not wakened to weep!
And who has not murmured—in agony too—
When the tenant of heaven away from him flew—
And he felt 'twas a vision indeed!
Such—such are the phantoms, my days pursue,
And will 'till my spirit is freed.
I awake from a trance on the cliff's stormy height,
While such visions are fading away from my sight—
And feel—while my senses are going astray—
Like one that can watch his own heart in decay—
Like a dreamer that's wandered uncovered in day!
And find, as I start from the spell that enthralled me,
That the voices and wings of the spirits that called me,
Are pageants that flit thro' the fire of the brain:—
Commissioned to waken my heart from its sleep—
To stir my young blood—'till the maniac weep—
But commissioned—by Mercy—in vain!—
Nay—silence my harp!—the enchantment is near—
Her pinions are waving!—my Ellen, appear!
While such visions are fading away from my sight—
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Like one that can watch his own heart in decay—
Like a dreamer that's wandered uncovered in day!
And find, as I start from the spell that enthralled me,
That the voices and wings of the spirits that called me,
Are pageants that flit thro' the fire of the brain:—
Commissioned to waken my heart from its sleep—
To stir my young blood—'till the maniac weep—
But commissioned—by Mercy—in vain!—
Nay—silence my harp!—the enchantment is near—
Her pinions are waving!—my Ellen, appear!
| The battle of Niagara | |