 | The forest minstrel |  |
THE WINTER WIND.
Thou hast a mournful voice, oh, Winter Wind!
A mournful voice and dirgelike melody;
And deeper sadness penetrates the mind,
As with thy wailing song thou lingerest by.
A mournful voice and dirgelike melody;
And deeper sadness penetrates the mind,
As with thy wailing song thou lingerest by.
There is a pleading sadness in thy tone,
As with thy wing thou beatest at the door,
Or shak'st the shutters, chaunting in the tone
Of wild and fitful minstrelsy of yore.
As with thy wing thou beatest at the door,
Or shak'st the shutters, chaunting in the tone
Of wild and fitful minstrelsy of yore.
I listen to thy harpings, and at times
Distinctly catch the burden of thy lay;
Some tale of human suffering, wreathed in rhyme,
That wakens the deep heart of sympathy.
Distinctly catch the burden of thy lay;
Some tale of human suffering, wreathed in rhyme,
That wakens the deep heart of sympathy.
Oh, mournful are thy stories, Winter Wind,
And few there be that love thy truthful lay;
Wild fiction better suits the general mind,—
The viol pleases best the rich and gay.
And few there be that love thy truthful lay;
Wild fiction better suits the general mind,—
The viol pleases best the rich and gay.
The happy do not heed thee; but the poor,
The weeping widow, and the orphan child,
The lone wife listening at the cottage door,
The silent mourner, and the weeper wild;—
The weeping widow, and the orphan child,
The lone wife listening at the cottage door,
The silent mourner, and the weeper wild;—
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These hear thy sobbing voice, and sadly blend
Their sighs and wailing with thy plaintive lay;
Oh, sadder words than romance ever penned,
Compose the chorus of thy minstrelsy.
Their sighs and wailing with thy plaintive lay;
Oh, sadder words than romance ever penned,
Compose the chorus of thy minstrelsy.
Moans of the perishing, who, all life long,
Have struggled with misfortune's cruel sway;
Who might have won the richest meed of earth,
Had one Samaritan came by that way.
Have struggled with misfortune's cruel sway;
Who might have won the richest meed of earth,
Had one Samaritan came by that way.
Of some who lie beneath the crushing weight
Of scorn, and poverty, perchance of crime;
Who, raised and cheered by generous sympathy,
Had won the proudest height the soul can climb.
Of scorn, and poverty, perchance of crime;
Who, raised and cheered by generous sympathy,
Had won the proudest height the soul can climb.
Oh, bitter voices mingle in thy hymn;
For bitter is the voice of that despair
Which will not sue to man, and has not faith
To offer to the Merciful one prayer.
For bitter is the voice of that despair
Which will not sue to man, and has not faith
To offer to the Merciful one prayer.
And painful are thy sobbing cadences,
The mournful sighing of the desolate,
In whose cold hearts the last dear bud of hope
Lies withered by the wintry blast of fate.
The mournful sighing of the desolate,
In whose cold hearts the last dear bud of hope
Lies withered by the wintry blast of fate.
Oh, Winter Wind, thou hast a mournful voice
Of mingled shrieks and wailings, sighs and moans;
The poor and wretched understand thy song,
And feel, ah, keenly feel, thy piercing tones.
Of mingled shrieks and wailings, sighs and moans;
The poor and wretched understand thy song,
And feel, ah, keenly feel, thy piercing tones.
| The forest minstrel | |