TAKE thy lute and sing By the ruined castle walls, Where the torrent-foam falls, And long weeds wave: Take thy lute and sing, O'er the grey ancestral grave! Daughter of a King, Tune thy string. Sing of happy hours, In the roar of rushing time; Till all the echoes chime To the days gone by; Sing of passing hours To the ever-present sky; -- Weep -- and let the showers Wake thy flowers. Sing of glories gone: -- No more the blazoned fold From the banner is unrolled; The gold sun is set. Sing his glory gone, For thy voice may charm him yet; Daughter of the dawn, He is gone! Pour forth all thy grief! Passionately sweep the chords, Wed them quivering to thy words; Wild words of wail! Shed thy withered grief -- But hold not Autumn to thy bale; The eddy of the leaf Must be brief! Sing up to the night: Hard it is for streaming tears To read the calmness of the spheres; Coldly they shine; Sing up to their light; They have views thou may'st divine -- Gain prophetic sight From their light! On the windy hills Lo, the little harebell leans On the spire-grass that it queens, With bonnet blue; Trusting love instils Love and subject reverence true; Learn what love instils On the hills! By the bare wayside Placid snowdrops hang their cheeks, Softly touch'd with pale green streaks, Soon, soon, to die; On the clothed hedgeside Bands of rosy beauties vie, In their prophecied Summer pride. From the snowdrop learn; Not in her pale life lives she, But in her blushing prophecy. Thus be thy hopes, Living but to yearn Upwards to the hidden copes; -- Even within the urn Let them burn! Heroes of thy race -- Warriors with golden crowns, Ghostly shapes with marbled frowns Stare thee to stone; Matrons of thy race Pass before thee making moan; Full of solemn grace Is their pace. Piteous their despair! Piteous their looks forlorn! Terrible their ghostly scorn! Still hold thou fast; -- Heed not their despair! -- Thou art thy future, not thy past; Let them glance and glare Thro' the air. Thou the ruin's bud, Be not that moist rich-smelling weed With its arras-sembled brede, And ruin-haunting stalk; Thou the ruin's bud, Be still the rose that lights the walk, Mix thy fragrant blood With the flood! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOLY THURSDAY, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE DON JUAN: CANTO 1 by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE HUDSON by GEORGE SIDNEY HELLMAN CONTINENT'S END by ROBINSON JEFFERS UNDERWOODS: BOOK 1: 8. TO MINNIE (WITH A HAND-GLASS) by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON TO THE RETURNED GIRLS by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS I WOULD NOT LIFT THY VEIL by A. LOUISE ASHWORTH |