Where a few lone palm-trees lift their heads, Or whether, in bright old lands renown'd, Voices and lights of the lonely place! There sucks the bee, for the richest flowers But the wild sweet tales, that with elves and fays And the memory left by departed love, These are your charms, bright streams! Now is the time of your flowery rites, THE VOICE OF THE WIND. From your marble urns ye have burst away, Yet holy still be your living springs, That gives the worn spirit its youth once more, 125 THE VOICE OF THE WIND. "There is nothing in the wide world so like the voice of a spirit." GRAY's Letters. OH! many a voice is thine, thou Wind! full many a voice is thine, From every scene thy wing o'ersweeps thou bear'st a sound and sign; A minstrel wild and strong thou art, with a mastery all thine own, And the spirit is thy harp, O Wind! that gives the answering tone. Thou hast been across red fields of war, where shiver'd helmets lie, And thou bringest thence the thrilling note of a clarion in the sky; A rustling of proud banner-folds, a peal of stormy drums, All these are in thy music met, as when a leader comes. Thou hast been o'er solitary seas, and from their wastes brought back Each noise of waters that awoke in the mystery of thy track The chime of low soft southern waves on some green palmy shore, The hollow roll of distant surge, the gather'd billows' roar. Thou art come from forests dark and deep, thou mighty rushing Wind! And thou bearest all their unisons in one full swell combined; The restless pines, the moaning stream, all hidden things and free, Of the dim old sounding wilderness, have lent their soul to thee. Thou art come from cities lighted up for the conqueror passing by, Thou art wafting from their streets a sound of haughty revelry; The rolling of triumphant wheels, the harpings in the hall, The far-off shout of multitudes, are in thy rise and fall. THE VOICE OF THE WIND. 127 Thou art come from kingly tombs and shrines, from ancient minsters vast, Through the dark aisles of a thousand years thy lonely wing hath pass'd; Thou hast caught the anthem's billowy swell, the stately dirge's tone, For a chief, with sword, and shield, and helm, to his place of slumber gone. Thou art come from long-forsaken homes, wherein our young days flew, Thou hast found sweet voices lingering there, the loved, the kind, the true; Thou callest back those melodies, though now all changed and fled Be still, be still, and haunt us not with music from the dead! Are all these notes in thee, wild wind? these many notes in thee? Far in our own unfathom'd souls their fount must surely be; Yes! buried, but unsleeping, there thought watches, memory lies, From whose deep urn the tones are pour'd through all earth's harmonies. THE VIGIL OF ARMS.1 A SOUNDING step was heard by night He walk'd in dreams of power and fame, For the hours were few that withheld his name Down the moonlit aisles he paced alone, But no dim warning of time or fate That youth's flush'd hopes could chill; He look'd to the banners on high that hung, The candidate for knighthood was under the necessity of keeping watch, the night before his inauguration, în a church, and completely armed. This was called "the Vigil of Arms." |