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 | The forest minstrel |  |
Who now is brooding over luckless love?
Who reckons up, and glories in his gains?
Who thinks of pale consumption and disease?
Who dwells with sad regretful memories
Of loved ones, who have passed the cold dark porch
Of the eternal city, at whose gates
They all stand shuddering? Where is now the flush
Of the wine fever? Where the vivid glow
Of proud success? Where has the dark hue fled
Which gushes from the baffled writhing heart
Up to the gambler's brow?
Each cheek is pale,
And every spirit passionless and faint
With cold death-sickness.
Through the shattered hull
The wild relentless waters rushed and roared,
As the fierce armies of the olden time
Rushed shouting through the breaches in the wall
Of some proud kingly city.
To the boats!
All life's fond hopes are with them! and Despair
To that frail refuge turned her piercing eyes—
But they were filled, and paddled from the wreck,
And lay—aghast with terror, as it were—
Watching the fearful issue. Even those
Who proved victorious in the fearful strife
To reach the boats—even they, with wide still eyes
Looked back upon the death whose certainty
They hardly had eluded. While their loved
And loving ones shrieked, with extended arms,
To them for succour—while it seemed that heaven
Could not now save them. Every buoyant thing
From off those decks now rides upon the wave,
Each freighted with a life; and God alone
Can see the sharp and varied agonies
Of those half-frantic souls, that cling to life,
Even on the icy bosom of Despair—
Or those that still remain upon the wreck.
Who reckons up, and glories in his gains?
Who thinks of pale consumption and disease?
Who dwells with sad regretful memories
Of loved ones, who have passed the cold dark porch
Of the eternal city, at whose gates
They all stand shuddering? Where is now the flush
Of the wine fever? Where the vivid glow
Of proud success? Where has the dark hue fled
Which gushes from the baffled writhing heart
Up to the gambler's brow?
Each cheek is pale,
And every spirit passionless and faint
With cold death-sickness.
Through the shattered hull
The wild relentless waters rushed and roared,
140
Rushed shouting through the breaches in the wall
Of some proud kingly city.
To the boats!
All life's fond hopes are with them! and Despair
To that frail refuge turned her piercing eyes—
But they were filled, and paddled from the wreck,
And lay—aghast with terror, as it were—
Watching the fearful issue. Even those
Who proved victorious in the fearful strife
To reach the boats—even they, with wide still eyes
Looked back upon the death whose certainty
They hardly had eluded. While their loved
And loving ones shrieked, with extended arms,
To them for succour—while it seemed that heaven
Could not now save them. Every buoyant thing
From off those decks now rides upon the wave,
Each freighted with a life; and God alone
Can see the sharp and varied agonies
Of those half-frantic souls, that cling to life,
Even on the icy bosom of Despair—
Or those that still remain upon the wreck.
| The forest minstrel | |