 | Poems |  |
259
ÆOLIAN HARP.
A Traveller wendeth over the wold,
Black the air and black the ground,
(Would he were cherished from the cold
Nigh this blaze we sit around!)
Into the dark and through the dark,
Over marsh and mound,
—Death-bell like, his heart hath tolled
One groan—no other sound.
Hush!—hark!
Black the air and black the ground,
(Would he were cherished from the cold
Nigh this blaze we sit around!)
Into the dark and through the dark,
Over marsh and mound,
—Death-bell like, his heart hath tolled
One groan—no other sound.
Hush!—hark!
A creeping wind cometh over the wold,
Creeping through the pitch-dark air,
Whistling for Will-o'-the-Wisp to hold
His flickering lantern there.
High it is, and low it is,
And the dead man's face is bare;
But the prying wind is not so bold
As to touch his blood-wet hair.
—What is this?
Creeping through the pitch-dark air,
Whistling for Will-o'-the-Wisp to hold
His flickering lantern there.
260
And the dead man's face is bare;
But the prying wind is not so bold
As to touch his blood-wet hair.
—What is this?
Is't a tale by warm fireside?
Paused the whispering pair, and sighed?
—Draw the window-curtains close,
Blackest night is round the house.
The cat purs loud, the crickets sing;
How shadowy sweet our tranquil ring.
Hush!—hush!
The wind's in the chimney: and below
The softly-crackling fire sheds dusky glow.
Paused the whispering pair, and sighed?
—Draw the window-curtains close,
Blackest night is round the house.
The cat purs loud, the crickets sing;
How shadowy sweet our tranquil ring.
Hush!—hush!
The wind's in the chimney: and below
The softly-crackling fire sheds dusky glow.
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