 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
From “The Buccaneer.”—Dana.
A sound is in the Pyrenees!
Whirling and dark, comes roaring down
A tide, as of a thousand seas,
Sweeping both cowl and crown.
On field and vineyard thick and red it stood.
Spain's streets and palaces are full of blood;—
Whirling and dark, comes roaring down
A tide, as of a thousand seas,
Sweeping both cowl and crown.
On field and vineyard thick and red it stood.
Spain's streets and palaces are full of blood;—
And wrath and terror shake the land;
The peaks shine clear in watchfire lights;
Soon comes the tread of that stout band—
Bold Arthur and his knights.
Awake ye, Merlin! Hear the shout from Spain!
The spell is broke!—Arthur is come again!—
The peaks shine clear in watchfire lights;
Soon comes the tread of that stout band—
Bold Arthur and his knights.
Awake ye, Merlin! Hear the shout from Spain!
The spell is broke!—Arthur is come again!—
Too late for thee, thou young, fair bride:
The lips are cold, the brow is pale,
That thou didst kiss in love and pride.
He cannot hear thy wail,
Whom thou didst lull with fondly murmured sound—
His couch is cold and lonely in the ground.
The lips are cold, the brow is pale,
That thou didst kiss in love and pride.
He cannot hear thy wail,
Whom thou didst lull with fondly murmured sound—
His couch is cold and lonely in the ground.
He fell for Spain—her Spain no more;
For he was gone who made it dear;
And she would seek some distant shore,
At rest from strife and fear,
And wait, amidst her sorrows, till the day
His voice of love should call her thence away.
For he was gone who made it dear;
And she would seek some distant shore,
At rest from strife and fear,
And wait, amidst her sorrows, till the day
His voice of love should call her thence away.
101
Lee feigned him grieved, and bowed him low.
'Twould joy his heart could he but aid
So good a lady in her wo,
He meekly, smoothly said.
With wealth and servants, she is soon aboard,
And that white steed she rode beside her lord.
'Twould joy his heart could he but aid
So good a lady in her wo,
He meekly, smoothly said.
With wealth and servants, she is soon aboard,
And that white steed she rode beside her lord.
The sun goes down upon the sea;
The shadows gather round her home.
“How like a pall are ye to me!
My home, how like a tomb!
O, blow, ye flowers of Spain, above his head.
Ye will not blow o'er me when I am dead.”
The shadows gather round her home.
“How like a pall are ye to me!
My home, how like a tomb!
O, blow, ye flowers of Spain, above his head.
Ye will not blow o'er me when I am dead.”
And now the stars are burning bright;
Yet still she looks towards the shore
Beyond the waters black in night.
“I ne'er shall see thee more!
Ye're many, waves, yet lonely seems your flow,
And I'm alone—scarce know I where I go.”
Yet still she looks towards the shore
Beyond the waters black in night.
“I ne'er shall see thee more!
Ye're many, waves, yet lonely seems your flow,
And I'm alone—scarce know I where I go.”
Sleep, sleep, thou sad one, on the sea!
The wash of waters lulls thee now;
His arm no more will pillow thee,
Thy hand upon his brow.
He is not near, to hush thee, or to save.
The ground is his—the sea must be thy grave.
The wash of waters lulls thee now;
His arm no more will pillow thee,
Thy hand upon his brow.
He is not near, to hush thee, or to save.
The ground is his—the sea must be thy grave.
| The American common-place book of poetry | |