The bard, and minor poems By John Walker Ord ... Collected and edited by John Lodge |
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| I. |
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| II. | II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
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| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
 | II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
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 | The bard, and minor poems |  |
II.
Ah! who is here amid the snow,
The dews all frozen in his hair,
Cold drops of ice upon his brow—
That forehead bright and fair!
His lips are trembling in the chill,
His robes float streaming on the gale;
And the wild voices of the hill
Sound o'er him, like a demon's wail.
On the cold ground the form doth rest,
Beneath the blasts of night;
The snow-flakes slumber on his breast,
In their careerings light.
The dews all frozen in his hair,
Cold drops of ice upon his brow—
That forehead bright and fair!
His lips are trembling in the chill,
His robes float streaming on the gale;
And the wild voices of the hill
Sound o'er him, like a demon's wail.
On the cold ground the form doth rest,
Beneath the blasts of night;
The snow-flakes slumber on his breast,
In their careerings light.
“Poor youth, some frantic grief is thine—
Some canker at thy brain;
Grief's chains of molten fire entwine
Thy heart, thou second Cain!”
Some canker at thy brain;
Grief's chains of molten fire entwine
Thy heart, thou second Cain!”
“Thou lonely shape, why linger here,
Whilst frowns the winter cloud?
Even now I list the storm-winds near,
And the torrents thundering loud!
Where are the loved, that long ago
Did clasp thee to their breast?
Alas, if they beheld thy woe,
In the grave they could not rest!
Behold that brow so flush'd and wild,
Where quiet peace no more shall lie:
Thy father weeps to see his child,
Amid the songs on high.
That quivering lip, why its unrest?
Those wither'd hands, why are they prest
Above that sad and weary breast,
As in dying agony?
Like one who in a wilderness,
Where flower nor streamlet dwells,
Long time he hopes some sight may bless,
Of fragrant bloom, or spring that wells
Sweet crystal drink from out the sand:
But neither these, nor fruitful tree,
Rejoice in all that barren land!
Then, whither shall the wanderer flee?
How doth he on the hot ground lie,
In piteous prayer, lamenting loud?
Like a worn child, he sinks to die,
And the white desert is his shroud.”
Whilst frowns the winter cloud?
Even now I list the storm-winds near,
And the torrents thundering loud!
5
Did clasp thee to their breast?
Alas, if they beheld thy woe,
In the grave they could not rest!
Behold that brow so flush'd and wild,
Where quiet peace no more shall lie:
Thy father weeps to see his child,
Amid the songs on high.
That quivering lip, why its unrest?
Those wither'd hands, why are they prest
Above that sad and weary breast,
As in dying agony?
Like one who in a wilderness,
Where flower nor streamlet dwells,
Long time he hopes some sight may bless,
Of fragrant bloom, or spring that wells
Sweet crystal drink from out the sand:
But neither these, nor fruitful tree,
Rejoice in all that barren land!
Then, whither shall the wanderer flee?
How doth he on the hot ground lie,
In piteous prayer, lamenting loud?
Like a worn child, he sinks to die,
And the white desert is his shroud.”
| The bard, and minor poems | |