 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
THE ENGLISH RIVER.
A FANTASY.
It floweth on, with pleasant sound,
A vague and dream-like measure,
And singeth to the flowers around
A song of quiet pleasure;
No rugged cliff obstructs the way
Where the glad waters leap and play;
Or, if a tiny rock look down
In the calm stream with mimic frown,
The gentle waves new music make,
As at its base they flash and break.
It speedeth on, like joy's bright hours,
Traced but by verdure and by flowers;
But whether sunbeams on it rest,
Or storm-clouds hover o'er its breast,
Still in that green and shady glen,
Beside the busy haunts of men,
The river singeth on.
A vague and dream-like measure,
And singeth to the flowers around
A song of quiet pleasure;
No rugged cliff obstructs the way
Where the glad waters leap and play;
Or, if a tiny rock look down
In the calm stream with mimic frown,
The gentle waves new music make,
As at its base they flash and break.
It speedeth on, like joy's bright hours,
Traced but by verdure and by flowers;
But whether sunbeams on it rest,
Or storm-clouds hover o'er its breast,
Still in that green and shady glen,
Beside the busy haunts of men,
The river singeth on.
281
It floweth on, past tree and flower,
Until the stream is laving
The ruins of Strathallen's tower,
With ivy banners waving.
Methinks the river's pleasant chime
Tells me a tale of olden time,
When mail-clad knights were often seen
Upon its banks of living green,
And gentle dames of lineage high,
With jeweled brow and flashing eye;
While many a squire, whose humble name
Was yet unheralded by fame,
Here wove his dreams of high emprise,
While musical as lovers' sighs,
The river singeth on.
Until the stream is laving
The ruins of Strathallen's tower,
With ivy banners waving.
Methinks the river's pleasant chime
Tells me a tale of olden time,
When mail-clad knights were often seen
Upon its banks of living green,
And gentle dames of lineage high,
With jeweled brow and flashing eye;
While many a squire, whose humble name
Was yet unheralded by fame,
Here wove his dreams of high emprise,
While musical as lovers' sighs,
The river singeth on.
It floweth on, this gentle stream,
And seems to tell the story
Of old-world heroes, and their dream
Of fame and martial glory;
The war-cry on its banks has pealed,
Blent with the clang of lance and shield;
Waked to new life by war's alarms,
Bold knights, and squires, and men-at-arms,
Have sallied forth in proud array
With hearts impatient for the fray;
While the clear streamlet still gave back
The glittering sheen that marked their track.
Though nature's voice is all unheard
When pulses are thus madly stirred,
The river singeth on.
And seems to tell the story
Of old-world heroes, and their dream
Of fame and martial glory;
The war-cry on its banks has pealed,
Blent with the clang of lance and shield;
Waked to new life by war's alarms,
Bold knights, and squires, and men-at-arms,
Have sallied forth in proud array
With hearts impatient for the fray;
While the clear streamlet still gave back
The glittering sheen that marked their track.
Though nature's voice is all unheard
When pulses are thus madly stirred,
The river singeth on.
282
Yet over e'en the sunniest fate
Hangs the dark cloud of sorrow,
And sadder scenes the fancy wait,
Since dreams from truth we borrow;
A well worn path, now grass-o'ergrown,
And hid by many a fallen stone,
To yonder roofless chapel led,
Where sleep Strathallen's buried dead;
Full often that pure stream has glassed
The funeral train as slow it passed:
Hark! as the cowlèd monks repeat
The Requiescat low and sweet,
The river singeth on.
Hangs the dark cloud of sorrow,
And sadder scenes the fancy wait,
Since dreams from truth we borrow;
A well worn path, now grass-o'ergrown,
And hid by many a fallen stone,
To yonder roofless chapel led,
Where sleep Strathallen's buried dead;
Full often that pure stream has glassed
The funeral train as slow it passed:
Hark! as the cowlèd monks repeat
The Requiescat low and sweet,
The river singeth on.
The vision fades, the phantoms flee,
And nought of all remaineth;
The river runneth fast and free,
The wind through ruins plaineth;
The feudal lord and belted knight,
And spurless squire and lady bright,
Long since have shared the common lot,
All, save their haughty name, forgot;
The line is ended,—there is none
To prize the fame his fathers won.
The ivy wreathes the ruined shrine,
And flaunts beneath the glad sunshine;
The fallen buttress, ruined wall,
And crumbling battlements are all
That still are left to tell the tale
Of those who ruled o'er that fair vale;
Nature resumes her lonely sway,
And flowers and music mark the way
The river singeth on.
And nought of all remaineth;
The river runneth fast and free,
The wind through ruins plaineth;
The feudal lord and belted knight,
And spurless squire and lady bright,
Long since have shared the common lot,
All, save their haughty name, forgot;
The line is ended,—there is none
To prize the fame his fathers won.
The ivy wreathes the ruined shrine,
And flaunts beneath the glad sunshine;
The fallen buttress, ruined wall,
And crumbling battlements are all
That still are left to tell the tale
Of those who ruled o'er that fair vale;
283
And flowers and music mark the way
The river singeth on.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |