 | The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien |  |
53
DOWN IN THE GLEN AT IDLEWILD.
The red moon, like a golden grape,
Hangs slowly ripening in the sky,
And o'er the helmets of the hills
Like plumes the summer lightnings fly.
The solemn pine-trees stoop above
The brook, that, like a sleeping child,
Lies babbling of its simple dreams
Down in the glen at Idlewild.
Hangs slowly ripening in the sky,
And o'er the helmets of the hills
Like plumes the summer lightnings fly.
The solemn pine-trees stoop above
The brook, that, like a sleeping child,
Lies babbling of its simple dreams
Down in the glen at Idlewild.
The red mill in the distance sleeps,—
The old mill that, when winter comes,
Wakes to a wild, spasmodic life,
And through the rocky channel hums.
And starry-flowered water-plants,
With myriad eyes of moistened light,
Peep coyly from their sheltered nooks,—
The shy companions of the night.
The old mill that, when winter comes,
Wakes to a wild, spasmodic life,
And through the rocky channel hums.
And starry-flowered water-plants,
With myriad eyes of moistened light,
Peep coyly from their sheltered nooks,—
The shy companions of the night.
But brighter than the starry flowers
There shine a maiden's lustrous eyes,
And yellower shines her yellow hair
Than the full moon that floods the skies,
As where the waters kiss the cliff
She waits for him, the pearl of men,
And idly plucks the ivy leaves,
And listens, and then waits again.
There shine a maiden's lustrous eyes,
And yellower shines her yellow hair
Than the full moon that floods the skies,
As where the waters kiss the cliff
She waits for him, the pearl of men,
And idly plucks the ivy leaves,
And listens, and then waits again.
She waits to hear the well-known call,
The echoes of the agile foot,
The bursting of the lacing boughs,
The crackling of the fragile root;
But ah! the path is steep and dark,
The jagged rocks lie far below;
And heaven must help the wight who slips,
Up where those treacherous mosses grow.
The echoes of the agile foot,
The bursting of the lacing boughs,
The crackling of the fragile root;
54
The jagged rocks lie far below;
And heaven must help the wight who slips,
Up where those treacherous mosses grow.
At last he comes! she hears his step!
But ah! what means that fearful crash?
Down the steep cliff a dark shape falls,—
From rock to rock she sees it dash.
Was it for this you waited long,
O loving heart! O hapless child!
Dead at her feet her lover lies,
Down in the glen at Idlewild!
But ah! what means that fearful crash?
Down the steep cliff a dark shape falls,—
From rock to rock she sees it dash.
Was it for this you waited long,
O loving heart! O hapless child!
Dead at her feet her lover lies,
Down in the glen at Idlewild!
| The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien | |