HAUNTED GROUND.
“And slight, withal, may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever—it may be a sound,
A tone of music, Summer eve, or Spring,
A flower—the wind—the ocean—which shall wound,
Striking the electric train, where with we are darkly bound.”
Byron.
Yes, it is haunted, this quiet scene,
Fair as it looks, and all softly green;
Yet fear thou not—for the spell is thrown,
And the might of the shadow, on me alone.
Are thy thoughts wandering to elves and fays,
And spirits that dwell where the water plays?
Oh! in the heart there are stronger powers,
That sway, though viewless, this world of ours!
Have I not lived 'midst these lonely dells,
And loved, and sorrow'd, and heard farewells,
And learn'd in my own deep soul to look,
And tremble before that mysterious book?
Have I not, under these whispering leaves,
Woven such dreams as the young heart weaves?
Shadows—yet unto which life seem'd bound;
And is it not—is it not haunted ground?
Must I not hear what thou hearest not,
Troubling the air of the sunny spot?
Is there not something to rouse but me,
Told by the rustling of every tree?
Song hath been here—with its flow of thought,
Love—with its passionate visions fraught;
Death—breathing stillness and sadness round—
And is it not—is it not haunted ground?
Are there no phantoms, but such as come
By night from the darkness that wraps the tomb?—
A sound, a scent, or a whispering breeze,
Can summon up mightier far than these!
But I may not linger amidst them here!
Lovely they are, and yet things to fear;
Passing and leaving a weight behind,
And a thrill on the chords of the stricken mind.
Away, away!—that my soul may soar
As a free bird of blue skies once more!
Here from its wing it may never cast
The chain by those spirits brought back from the past.
Doubt it not—smile not—but go thou, too,
Look on the scenes where thy childhood grew—
Where thou hast pray'd at thy mother's knee,
Where thou hast roved with thy brethren free;
Go thou, when life unto thee is changed,
Friends thou hast loved as thy soul, estranged;
When from the idols thy heart hath made,
Thou hast seen the colours of glory fade;
Oh! painfully then, by the wind's low sigh,
By the voice of the stream, by the flower-cup's dye,
By a thousand tokens of sight and sound,
Thou wilt feel thou art treading on haunted ground.
