THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale, Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, White as a sea-fog, landward bound, No other voice nor sound was there, 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 Uprose the glorious morning-star, I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, Upon its midnight battle-ground No other voice, nor sound is there, 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 shineth as a morning-star, Our ghastly fears are dead. MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. YES, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! 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-passes And the hooded clouds, like friars, There he stands in the foul weather, Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, A king, a king! Then comes the summer-like day, His joy! his last! Oh, the old man grey To the crimson woods he saith, - Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, 66 Pray do not mock me so! Do not laugh at me!" And now the sweet day is dead; No mist or stain! Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, Then comes, with an awful roar, Howl! howl! and from the forest Sweep the red leaves away! |