VOICES OF THE NIGHTΠότνια, πότνια νὺξ,ὑπνοδότειρα τῶν πολυπόνον βροτῶν,Ἐρεβόθεν ἴθι μόλε μόλε κατάπτεροςἈγαμεμνόνιον ἐπὶ δόμονὑπὸ γὰρ ἀλγέων, ὑπὸ τε συμφορᾶςδιοιχόμεθ’, οἰχόμεθα.EURIPIDES.PRELUDEPleasant it was, when woods were green,And winds were soft and low,To lie amid some sylvan scene.Where, the long drooping boughs between,Shadows dark and sunlight sheenAlternate come and go;Or where the denser grove receivesNo sunlight from above,But the dark foliage interweavesIn one unbroken roof of leaves,Underneath whose sloping eavesThe shadows hardly move.Beneath some patriarchal treeI lay upon the ground;His hoary arms uplifted he,And all the broad leaves over meClapped their little hands in glee,With one continuous sound;—A slumberous sound, a sound that bringsThe feelings of a dream,As of innumerable wings,As, when a bell no longer swings,Faint the hollow murmur ringsO’er meadow, lake, and stream.And dreams of that which cannot die,Bright visions, came to me,As lapped in thought I used to lie,And gaze into the summer sky,Where the sailing clouds went by,Like ships upon the sea;Dreams that the soul of youth engageEre Fancy has been quelled;Old legends of the monkish page,Traditions of the saint and sage,Tales that have the rime of age,And chronicles of Eld.And, loving still these quaint old themes,Even in the city’s throngI feel the freshness of the streams,That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams,Water the green land of dreams,The holy land of song.Therefore, at Pentecost, which bringsThe Spring, clothed like a bride,When nestling buds unfold their wings,And bishop’s-caps have golden rings,Musing upon many things,I sought the woodlands wide.The green trees whispered low and mild;It was a sound of joy!They were my playmates when a child,And rocked me in their arms so wild!Still they looked at me and smiled,As if I were a boy;And ever whispered, mild and low,“Come, be a child once more!”And waved their long arms to and fro,And beckoned solemnly and slow;O, I could not choose but goInto the woodlands hoar,—Into the blithe and breathing air,Into the solemn wood,Solemn and silent everywhereNature with folded hands seemed thereKneeling at her evening prayer!Like one in prayer I stood.Before me rose an avenueOf tall and sombrous pines;Abroad their fan-like branches grew,And, where the sunshine darted through,Spread a vapor soft and blue,In long and sloping lines.And, falling on my weary brain,Like a fast-falling shower,The dreams of youth came back again,Low lispings of the summer rain,Dropping on the ripened grain,As once upon the flower.Visions of childhood! Stay, O stay!Ye were so sweet and wild!And distant voices seemed to say,“It cannot be! They pass away!Other themes demand thy lay;Thou art no more a child!“The land of Song within thee lies,Watered by living springs;The lids of Fancy’s sleepless eyesAre gates unto that Paradise,Holy thoughts, like stars, arise,Its clouds are angels’ wings.“Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be,Not mountains capped with snow,Nor forests sounding like the sea,Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly,Where the woodlands bend to seeThe bending heavens below.“There is a forest where the dinOf iron branches sounds!A mighty river roars between,And whosoever looks thereinSees the heavens all black with sin,Sees not its depths, nor bounds.“Athwart the swinging branches cast,Soft rays of sunshine pour;Then comes the fearful wintry blastOur hopes, like withered leaves, fail fast;Pallid lips say, ‘It is past!We can return no more!’“Look, then, into thine heart, and write!Yes, into Life’s deep stream!All forms of sorrow and delight,All solemn Voices of the Night,That can soothe thee, or affright,—Be these henceforth thy theme.”HYMN TO THE NIGHTἈσπασίη, τρίλλιστοςI heard the trailing garments of the NightSweep through her marble halls!I saw her sable skirts all fringed with lightFrom the celestial walls!I felt her presence, by its spell of might,Stoop o’er me from above;The calm, majestic presence of the Night,As of the one I love.I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,The manifold, soft chimes,That fill the haunted chambers of the NightLike some old poet’s rhymes.From the cool cisterns of the midnight airMy spirit drank repose;The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,—From those deep cisterns flows.O holy Night! from thee I learn to bearWhat man has borne before!Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,And they complain no more.Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!Descend with broad-winged flight,The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,The best-beloved Night!A PSALM OF LIFE.WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST.Tell me not, in mournful numbers,Life is but an empty dream!For the soul is dead that slumbers,And things are not what they seem.Life is real! Life is earnest!And the grave is not its goal;Dust thou art, to dust returnest,Was not spoken of the soul.Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,Is our destined end or way;But to act, that each to-morrowFind us farther than to-day.Art is long, and Time is fleeting,And our hearts, though stout and brave,Still, like muffled drums, are beatingFuneral marches to the grave.In the world’s broad field of battle,In the bivouac of Life,Be not like dumb, driven cattle!Be a hero in the strife!Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!Let the dead Past bury its dead!Act,—act in the living Present!Heart within, and God o’erhead!Lives of great men all remind usWe can make our lives sublime,And, departing, leave behind usFootprints on the sands of time;—Footprints, that perhaps another,Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,Seeing, shall take heart again.Let us, then, be up and doing,With a heart for any fate;Still achieving, still pursuing,Learn to labor and to wait.THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,And, with his sickle keen,He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,And the flowers that grow between.“Shall I have naught that is fair?” saith he;“Have naught but the bearded grain?Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,I will give them all back again.”He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,He kissed their drooping leaves;It was for the Lord of ParadiseHe bound them in his sheaves.“My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,”The Reaper said, and smiled;“Dear tokens of the earth are they,Where he was once a child.“They shall all bloom in fields of light,Transplanted by my care,And saints, upon their garments white,These sacred blossoms wear.”And the mother gave, in tears and pain,The flowers she most did love;She knew she should find them all againIn the fields of light above.O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,The Reaper came that day;’T was an angel visited the green earth,And took the flowers away.THE LIGHT OF STARS.The night is come, but not too soon;And sinking silently,All silently, the little moonDrops down behind the sky.There is no light in earth or heavenBut the cold light of stars;And the first watch of night is givenTo the red planet Mars.Is it the tender star of love?The star of love and dreams?O no! from that blue tent above,A hero's armor gleams.And earnest thoughts within me rise,When I behold afar,Suspended in the evening skies,The shield of that red star.O star of strength! I see thee standAnd smile upon my pain;Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,And I am strong again.Within my breast there is no lightBut the cold light of stars;I give the first watch of the nightTo the red planet Mars.The star of the unconquered will,He rises in my breast,Serene, and resolute, and still,And calm, and self-possessed.And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,That readest this brief psalm,As one by one thy hopes depart,Be resolute and calm.O fear not in a world like this,And thou shalt know erelong,Know how sublime a thing it isTo suffer and be strong.FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.When the hours of Day are numbered,And the voices of the NightWake the better soul, that slumbered,To a holy, calm delight;Ere the evening lamps are lighted,And, like phantoms grim and tall,Shadows from the fitful firelightDance upon the parlor wall;Then the forms of the departedEnter at the open door;The beloved, the true-hearted,Come to visit me once more;He, the young and strong, who cherishedNoble longings for the strife,By the roadside fell and perished,Weary with the march of life!They, the holy ones and weakly,Who the cross of suffering bore,Folded their pale hands so meekly,Spake with us on earth no more!And with them the Being Beauteous,Who unto my youth was given,More than all things else to love me,And is now a saint in heaven.With a slow and noiseless footstepComes that messenger divine,Takes the vacant chair beside me,Lays her gentle hand in mine.And she sits and gazes at meWith those deep and tender eyes,Like the stars, so still and saint-like,Looking downward from the skies.Uttered not, yet comprehended,Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,Breathing from her lips of air.Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,All my fears are laid aside,If I but remember onlySuch as these have lived and died!FLOWERS.Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.Stars they are, wherein we read our history,As astrologers and seers of eld;Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,Like the burning stars, which they beheld.Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,God hath written in those stars above;But not less in the bright flowerets under usStands the revelation of his love.Bright and glorious is that revelation,Written all over this great world of ours;Making evident our own creation,In these stars of earth, these golden flowers.And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing,Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a partOf the self-same, universal being,Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,Buds that open only to decay;Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,Flaunting gayly in the golden light;Large desires, with most uncertain issues,Tender wishes, blossoming at night!These in flowers and men are more than seeming;Workings are they of the self-same powers,Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,Seeth in himself and in the flowers.Everywhere about us are they glowing,Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born;Others, their blue eyes with tears o'er-flowing,Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn;Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,And in Summer's green-emblazoned field,But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,In the centre of his brazen shield;Not alone in meadows and green alleys,On the mountain-top, and by the brinkOf sequestered pools in woodland valleys,Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink;Not alone in her vast dome of glory,Not on graves of bird and beast alone,But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone;In the cottage of the rudest peasant,In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers,Speaking of the Past unto the Present,Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers;In all places, then, and in all seasons,Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,How akin they are to human things.And with childlike, credulous affectionWe 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 paleBeleaguered the walls of Prague.Beside the Moldau's rushing 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 bellProclaimed the morning prayer,The white pavilions rose and fellOn the alarmed air.Down the broad valley fast and farThe 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 wanBeleaguer the human soul.Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,In Fancy's misty light,Gigantic shapes and shadows gleamPortentous through the night.Upon its midnight battle-groundThe 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 rushing of Life's wave.And when the solemn and deep churchbellEntreats the soul to pray,The midnight phantoms feel the spell,The shadows sweep away.Down the broad Vale of Tears afarThe spectral camp is fled;Faith shineth as a morning star,Our ghastly fears are dead.MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEARYes, 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 passesThe winds, like anthems, roll;They are chanting solemn masses,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! O, the man grayLoveth that ever-soft voice,Gentle and low.To the crimson woods he saith,To the voice gentle and lowOf 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 spreadOver the glassy skies,No mist or stain!Then, too, the Old Year dieth,And the forests utter a moan,Like the voice of one who criethIn 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!Howl! howl! and from the forestSweep the red leaves away!Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,O Soul! could thus decay,And be swept away!For there shall come a mightier blast,There shall be a darker day;And the stars, from heaven down-castLike red leaves be swept away!Kyrie, eleyson!Christe, eleyson!
Πότνια, πότνια νὺξ,ὑπνοδότειρα τῶν πολυπόνον βροτῶν,Ἐρεβόθεν ἴθι μόλε μόλε κατάπτεροςἈγαμεμνόνιον ἐπὶ δόμονὑπὸ γὰρ ἀλγέων, ὑπὸ τε συμφορᾶςδιοιχόμεθ’, οἰχόμεθα.
EURIPIDES.
Pleasant it was, when woods were green,And winds were soft and low,To lie amid some sylvan scene.Where, the long drooping boughs between,Shadows dark and sunlight sheenAlternate come and go;Or where the denser grove receivesNo sunlight from above,But the dark foliage interweavesIn one unbroken roof of leaves,Underneath whose sloping eavesThe shadows hardly move.Beneath some patriarchal treeI lay upon the ground;His hoary arms uplifted he,And all the broad leaves over meClapped their little hands in glee,With one continuous sound;—A slumberous sound, a sound that bringsThe feelings of a dream,As of innumerable wings,As, when a bell no longer swings,Faint the hollow murmur ringsO’er meadow, lake, and stream.And dreams of that which cannot die,Bright visions, came to me,As lapped in thought I used to lie,And gaze into the summer sky,Where the sailing clouds went by,Like ships upon the sea;Dreams that the soul of youth engageEre Fancy has been quelled;Old legends of the monkish page,Traditions of the saint and sage,Tales that have the rime of age,And chronicles of Eld.And, loving still these quaint old themes,Even in the city’s throngI feel the freshness of the streams,That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams,Water the green land of dreams,The holy land of song.Therefore, at Pentecost, which bringsThe Spring, clothed like a bride,When nestling buds unfold their wings,And bishop’s-caps have golden rings,Musing upon many things,I sought the woodlands wide.The green trees whispered low and mild;It was a sound of joy!They were my playmates when a child,And rocked me in their arms so wild!Still they looked at me and smiled,As if I were a boy;And ever whispered, mild and low,“Come, be a child once more!”And waved their long arms to and fro,And beckoned solemnly and slow;O, I could not choose but goInto the woodlands hoar,—Into the blithe and breathing air,Into the solemn wood,Solemn and silent everywhereNature with folded hands seemed thereKneeling at her evening prayer!Like one in prayer I stood.Before me rose an avenueOf tall and sombrous pines;Abroad their fan-like branches grew,And, where the sunshine darted through,Spread a vapor soft and blue,In long and sloping lines.And, falling on my weary brain,Like a fast-falling shower,The dreams of youth came back again,Low lispings of the summer rain,Dropping on the ripened grain,As once upon the flower.Visions of childhood! Stay, O stay!Ye were so sweet and wild!And distant voices seemed to say,“It cannot be! They pass away!Other themes demand thy lay;Thou art no more a child!“The land of Song within thee lies,Watered by living springs;The lids of Fancy’s sleepless eyesAre gates unto that Paradise,Holy thoughts, like stars, arise,Its clouds are angels’ wings.“Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be,Not mountains capped with snow,Nor forests sounding like the sea,Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly,Where the woodlands bend to seeThe bending heavens below.“There is a forest where the dinOf iron branches sounds!A mighty river roars between,And whosoever looks thereinSees the heavens all black with sin,Sees not its depths, nor bounds.“Athwart the swinging branches cast,Soft rays of sunshine pour;Then comes the fearful wintry blastOur hopes, like withered leaves, fail fast;Pallid lips say, ‘It is past!We can return no more!’“Look, then, into thine heart, and write!Yes, into Life’s deep stream!All forms of sorrow and delight,All solemn Voices of the Night,That can soothe thee, or affright,—Be these henceforth thy theme.”
Ἀσπασίη, τρίλλιστος
I heard the trailing garments of the NightSweep through her marble halls!I saw her sable skirts all fringed with lightFrom the celestial walls!I felt her presence, by its spell of might,Stoop o’er me from above;The calm, majestic presence of the Night,As of the one I love.I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,The manifold, soft chimes,That fill the haunted chambers of the NightLike some old poet’s rhymes.From the cool cisterns of the midnight airMy spirit drank repose;The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,—From those deep cisterns flows.O holy Night! from thee I learn to bearWhat man has borne before!Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,And they complain no more.Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!Descend with broad-winged flight,The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,The best-beloved Night!
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,Life is but an empty dream!For the soul is dead that slumbers,And things are not what they seem.Life is real! Life is earnest!And the grave is not its goal;Dust thou art, to dust returnest,Was not spoken of the soul.Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,Is our destined end or way;But to act, that each to-morrowFind us farther than to-day.Art is long, and Time is fleeting,And our hearts, though stout and brave,Still, like muffled drums, are beatingFuneral marches to the grave.In the world’s broad field of battle,In the bivouac of Life,Be not like dumb, driven cattle!Be a hero in the strife!Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!Let the dead Past bury its dead!Act,—act in the living Present!Heart within, and God o’erhead!Lives of great men all remind usWe can make our lives sublime,And, departing, leave behind usFootprints on the sands of time;—Footprints, that perhaps another,Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,Seeing, shall take heart again.Let us, then, be up and doing,With a heart for any fate;Still achieving, still pursuing,Learn to labor and to wait.
There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,And, with his sickle keen,He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,And the flowers that grow between.“Shall I have naught that is fair?” saith he;“Have naught but the bearded grain?Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,I will give them all back again.”He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,He kissed their drooping leaves;It was for the Lord of ParadiseHe bound them in his sheaves.“My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,”The Reaper said, and smiled;“Dear tokens of the earth are they,Where he was once a child.“They shall all bloom in fields of light,Transplanted by my care,And saints, upon their garments white,These sacred blossoms wear.”And the mother gave, in tears and pain,The flowers she most did love;She knew she should find them all againIn the fields of light above.O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,The Reaper came that day;’T was an angel visited the green earth,And took the flowers away.
The night is come, but not too soon;And sinking silently,All silently, the little moonDrops down behind the sky.
There is no light in earth or heavenBut the cold light of stars;And the first watch of night is givenTo the red planet Mars.
Is it the tender star of love?The star of love and dreams?O no! from that blue tent above,A hero's armor gleams.
And earnest thoughts within me rise,When I behold afar,Suspended in the evening skies,The shield of that red star.
O star of strength! I see thee standAnd smile upon my pain;Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,And I am strong again.
Within my breast there is no lightBut the cold light of stars;I give the first watch of the nightTo the red planet Mars.
The star of the unconquered will,He rises in my breast,Serene, and resolute, and still,And calm, and self-possessed.
And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,That readest this brief psalm,As one by one thy hopes depart,Be resolute and calm.
O fear not in a world like this,And thou shalt know erelong,Know how sublime a thing it isTo suffer and be strong.
When the hours of Day are numbered,And the voices of the NightWake the better soul, that slumbered,To a holy, calm delight;
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,And, like phantoms grim and tall,Shadows from the fitful firelightDance upon the parlor wall;
Then the forms of the departedEnter at the open door;The beloved, the true-hearted,Come to visit me once more;
He, the young and strong, who cherishedNoble longings for the strife,By the roadside fell and perished,Weary with the march of life!
They, the holy ones and weakly,Who the cross of suffering bore,Folded their pale hands so meekly,Spake with us on earth no more!
And with them the Being Beauteous,Who unto my youth was given,More than all things else to love me,And is now a saint in heaven.
With a slow and noiseless footstepComes that messenger divine,Takes the vacant chair beside me,Lays her gentle hand in mine.
And she sits and gazes at meWith those deep and tender eyes,Like the stars, so still and saint-like,Looking downward from the skies.
Uttered not, yet comprehended,Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,Breathing from her lips of air.
Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,All my fears are laid aside,If I but remember onlySuch as these have lived and died!
Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.
Stars they are, wherein we read our history,As astrologers and seers of eld;Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,Like the burning stars, which they beheld.
Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,God hath written in those stars above;But not less in the bright flowerets under usStands the revelation of his love.
Bright and glorious is that revelation,Written all over this great world of ours;Making evident our own creation,In these stars of earth, these golden flowers.
And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing,Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a partOf the self-same, universal being,Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.
Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,Buds that open only to decay;
Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,Flaunting gayly in the golden light;Large desires, with most uncertain issues,Tender wishes, blossoming at night!
These in flowers and men are more than seeming;Workings are they of the self-same powers,Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,Seeth in himself and in the flowers.
Everywhere about us are they glowing,Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born;Others, their blue eyes with tears o'er-flowing,Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn;
Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,And in Summer's green-emblazoned field,But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,In the centre of his brazen shield;
Not alone in meadows and green alleys,On the mountain-top, and by the brinkOf sequestered pools in woodland valleys,Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink;
Not alone in her vast dome of glory,Not on graves of bird and beast alone,But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone;
In the cottage of the rudest peasant,In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers,Speaking of the Past unto the Present,Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers;
In all places, then, and in all seasons,Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,How akin they are to human things.
And with childlike, credulous affectionWe behold their tender buds expand;Emblems of our own great resurrection,Emblems of the bright and better land.
I have read, in some old, marvellous tale,Some legend strange and vague,That a midnight host of spectres paleBeleaguered the walls of Prague.
Beside the Moldau's rushing 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 bellProclaimed the morning prayer,The white pavilions rose and fellOn the alarmed air.
Down the broad valley fast and farThe 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 wanBeleaguer the human soul.
Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,In Fancy's misty light,Gigantic shapes and shadows gleamPortentous through the night.
Upon its midnight battle-groundThe 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 rushing of Life's wave.
And when the solemn and deep churchbellEntreats the soul to pray,The midnight phantoms feel the spell,The shadows sweep away.
Down the broad Vale of Tears afarThe spectral camp is fled;Faith shineth as a morning star,Our ghastly fears are dead.
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 passesThe winds, like anthems, roll;They are chanting solemn masses,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! O, the man grayLoveth that ever-soft voice,Gentle and low.
To the crimson woods he saith,To the voice gentle and lowOf 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 spreadOver the glassy skies,No mist or stain!
Then, too, the Old Year dieth,And the forests utter a moan,Like the voice of one who criethIn 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!
Howl! howl! and from the forestSweep the red leaves away!Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,O Soul! could thus decay,And be swept away!For there shall come a mightier blast,There shall be a darker day;
And the stars, from heaven down-castLike red leaves be swept away!Kyrie, eleyson!Christe, eleyson!