Part 16 (1/2)

And with child-like, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

I have read, in some old marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rus.h.i.+ng stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound, The spectral camp was seen, And with a sorrowful, deep sound, The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there, No drum, nor sentry's pace; The mist-like banners clasped the air, As clouds with clouds embrace.

But, when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far The troubled army fled; Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead.

I have read in the marvellous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rus.h.i.+ng stream, In Fancy's misty light, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground The spectral camp is seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice nor sound is there, In the army of the grave; No other challenge breaks the air, But the rus.h.i.+ng of Life's wave.

And when the solemn and deep church bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith s.h.i.+neth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead.

MIDNIGHT Ma.s.s FOR THE DYING YEAR.

Yes, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared!

Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely,--sorely!

The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow; Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, It is a sound of woe, A sound of woe!

Through woods and mountain pa.s.ses The winds, like anthems, roll; They are chanting solemn ma.s.ses, Singing, ”Pray for this poor soul, Pray,--pray!”

And the hooded clouds, like friars, Tell their beads in drops of rain, And patter their doleful prayers;-- But their prayers are all in vain, All in vain!

There he stands in the foul weather, The foolish, fond Old Year, Crowned with wild flowers, and with heather, Like weak, despised Lear, A king,--a king!

Then comes the summer-like day, Bids the old man rejoice!

His joy! his last! Oh, the old man grey Loveth that ever-soft voice, Gentle and low.

To the crimson woods he saith-- To the voice gentle and low Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath-- ”Pray do not mock me so!

Do not laugh at me!”

And now the sweet day is dead; Cold in his arms it lies; No stain from its breath is spread Over the gla.s.sy skies, No mist or stain!

Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, Like the voice of one who crieth In the wilderness alone, ”Vex not his ghost!”

Then comes, with an awful roar, Gathering and sounding on, The storm-wind from Labrador, The wind Euroclydon, The storm-wind!