The Battle-Day and Other Poems By Ernest Jones |
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THE HARPER WIND.
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 | The Battle-Day and Other Poems |  |
141
THE HARPER WIND.
The wind's a bard—a bard so rude,
And a many-toned harp he plays.
He's the harper wild to the field and flood,
And sings them stirring lays.
And a many-toned harp he plays.
He's the harper wild to the field and flood,
And sings them stirring lays.
He sings to the forest that slumbers in shade,
And the green boughs dance for glee,
And the dead leaves wake from their grave in the glade,
And whirl round the parent tree.
And the green boughs dance for glee,
And the dead leaves wake from their grave in the glade,
And whirl round the parent tree.
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He sings to the mountain a shrill sharp tone,
And scatters its frosty snow;
The avalanche starts from its icy throne,
And bounds to the vale below.
And scatters its frosty snow;
The avalanche starts from its icy throne,
And bounds to the vale below.
He sings to the ocean a stormy song,
And wakes its waves to dance—
As it hears his voice the surf rolls strong,
And the white sea-breakers glance.
And wakes its waves to dance—
As it hears his voice the surf rolls strong,
And the white sea-breakers glance.
He sings to the tempest that sleeps on a cloud—
And it wakes as it hears his call,
And its thunder-mirth grows deep and loud
In the light of its flashing hall.
And it wakes as it hears his call,
And its thunder-mirth grows deep and loud
In the light of its flashing hall.
But his song is not ever so wild and rude—
In his lay there is softer power;
His voice is dread in his stormy mood,
But 'tis sweet in his calmer hour.
In his lay there is softer power;
His voice is dread in his stormy mood,
But 'tis sweet in his calmer hour.
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Hear him sing when the eve draws nigh:
While the sun blushes deep o'er its fall,
And shadows like dreams on the pale earth lie—
There is love in his vesper-call:
While the sun blushes deep o'er its fall,
And shadows like dreams on the pale earth lie—
There is love in his vesper-call:
When youth is gone with all its brightness,
And hope with its flowers is fading,
When the broken spirit hath lost its lightness,
'Neath care's untimely shading:
And hope with its flowers is fading,
When the broken spirit hath lost its lightness,
'Neath care's untimely shading:
Who sings us a song of early days?
Of the hours too dear to last?
'Tis the wailing wind in his evening-lays,
That comes like a voice of the past.
Of the hours too dear to last?
'Tis the wailing wind in his evening-lays,
That comes like a voice of the past.
When the mariner rests on the silent shore,
Who sings him a song of the main?—
'Tis the wind who tunes to the breaker's roar
His wild harp's boisterous strain!
Who sings him a song of the main?—
'Tis the wind who tunes to the breaker's roar
His wild harp's boisterous strain!
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When the mariner roameth afar from land,
And the night shines down from above—
The soft wind stealing from distant strand,
Sings to him of home and of love!
And the night shines down from above—
The soft wind stealing from distant strand,
Sings to him of home and of love!
When fortune from our hand has passed,
And gladness from our heart,
Hear then how well the fierce proud blast
In our despair takes part.
And gladness from our heart,
Hear then how well the fierce proud blast
In our despair takes part.
When in the lighted and festal hall
We scorn the frivolous scene,
Hear how the wind comes and whoops at the wall,
As though mocking the triflers within.
We scorn the frivolous scene,
Hear how the wind comes and whoops at the wall,
As though mocking the triflers within.
When the lost one rests in the silent tomb,
And none draw nigh to mourn,
And none to cheer in the cold grave's gloom
Cast a floweret frail on his urn:
And none draw nigh to mourn,
And none to cheer in the cold grave's gloom
Cast a floweret frail on his urn:
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Who then will come with sigh and wail,
When all else are passing away?
'Tis the low sweet voice of the evening gale,
That mourns at the close of day.
When all else are passing away?
'Tis the low sweet voice of the evening gale,
That mourns at the close of day.
The wind's a bard, a bard so rude,
And a many-toned harp he plays;
And a key that sounds to each human mood
He can strike in his endless lays.
And a many-toned harp he plays;
And a key that sounds to each human mood
He can strike in his endless lays.
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