 | Poems by John B. Tabb |  |
65
LINDENWOOD.
Revelry wakes in the dim halls of Lindenwood;
Strange is the minstrelsy there to be heard;
Long have they slumbered in silence and solitude,
Haunted alone of the night-roving bird.
Strange is the minstrelsy there to be heard;
Long have they slumbered in silence and solitude,
Haunted alone of the night-roving bird.
Swells with its chorus the mirth-mingled banquet song,
Fresh as the tide-lifted billows at play—
Why to the festal board comes not the bridal throng?
Where, with his bride, doth the bridegroom delay?
Fresh as the tide-lifted billows at play—
Why to the festal board comes not the bridal throng?
Where, with his bride, doth the bridegroom delay?
Lingering still, stands the lord of green Lindenwood,
Waiting the bride, for her nuptials arrayed,
Loth to be led from the bower of her maidenhood,
Lady of lineage proud to be made.
Waiting the bride, for her nuptials arrayed,
Loth to be led from the bower of her maidenhood,
Lady of lineage proud to be made.
Silently there, at her portal, he listeneth:
Gloweth his heart with a rapture inspired;
While, in his glance, as a beacon-star, glisteneth
Love with the flash of expectancy fired.
Gloweth his heart with a rapture inspired;
While, in his glance, as a beacon-star, glisteneth
Love with the flash of expectancy fired.
Lo! is it she, in the moonlight, that beckoneth,
Timing her step to the faint-flowing song?
Nought but the spell of her presence he reckoneth,
Flitting the intricate mazes along.
Timing her step to the faint-flowing song?
Nought but the spell of her presence he reckoneth,
Flitting the intricate mazes along.
66
Still from his touch like a shadow ethereal,
Glideth she on, in the dim-veiling light,
Till, as the torch, in a vapor funereal,
Quenched is the wildering vision to sight!
Glideth she on, in the dim-veiling light,
Till, as the torch, in a vapor funereal,
Quenched is the wildering vision to sight!
Hark! let the choral-song cease in old Lindenwood!
Pray for a soul from life's revelry fled!
High in her chamber, the shrine of her maidenhood,
Pale as her bridal-wreath, lieth she, dead—
Pray for a soul from life's revelry fled!
High in her chamber, the shrine of her maidenhood,
Pale as her bridal-wreath, lieth she, dead—
Mourn, let us mourn for the grey walls of Lindenwood,
There, nevermore, be the minstrelsy heard:
Leave them alone in their silence and solitude,
Haunted again of the night-roving bird.
There, nevermore, be the minstrelsy heard:
Leave them alone in their silence and solitude,
Haunted again of the night-roving bird.
| Poems by John B. Tabb | |