Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE WARNING WAIL, by JANET HAMILTON Poet's Biography First Line: A minstrel old, in feudal hall Last Line: Shut ye the flood-gates, never! Never! Alternate Author Name(s): Hamilton, Janet Thompson Subject(s): Grief; Lament; Minstrels; Singing & Singers; Sorrow; Sadness; Songs | ||||||||
A MINSTREL old, in feudal hall, When wassail bowls were brimm'd and flowing, Responsive to his chieftain's call, And joyous dame, young, bright, and glowing. With harp high strung, with voice of song, He camebright eyes were on him beaming, And poured the tuneful tide along, With eye of fire and white locks streaming. He sang of love, of war and fame, At first with harp and voice unfailing; But with the closing notes there came Deep tones of woe and mournful wailing. I may not wake my harp again, He said, to glory, love, and gladness; Oh, hear ye not each joyous strain Dies in a wail of funeral sadness? Fill up the bowl, hold revel high, Even till the lark shall bid good-morrow; The revel ends not so, they cry, The closing wail of coming sorrow. I sang the bridegroom, while his bride Wore on her brow the orange blossom; He gazed on her with tender pride, And fondly drew her to his bosom. And still I sang in glowing strain Of wedded love too soon to languish; Then sank my song in moans of pain, And died away in tones of anguish. And I have sung soft cradle songs Beside my rosy infant sleeping; He lived to crush my heart with wrongs, And drown my song in sobs and weeping. No more, no more!Be hushed the song, The strain that dies in tones of wailing; Oh, why the mournful strain prolong On one sad theme so unavailing? The Bard who woke with harp and song High strains of wassail, love, and gladness, And heard with awe, the chords among, A wail of more than mortal sadness. He deemed a spirit's hand had swept The chords the sudden doom foretelling Of his high chieftain, honour'd, wept, Or her, the love-light of his dwelling. More deep, more dread the wail of woe, The spirit-echo of my numbers, The haunting voice too well I know, 'Tis histhe fiend that never slumbers The cradle hymns, the bridal song, Oft sung in strains soft, true, and tender; The demon comesthe strain ere long But tones of wailing woe can render. The haunting fiend whose voice of fear Is in our midst for ever swelling; All that is tender, good, and dear, From thousand hearts and homes expelling. How sad the wail when life has fled! Yet words and tones of deeper sorrow Are wailing o'er the living dead, Word or wail I need not borrow. Up to heaven a cry has gone, Mourning, woe, and lamentation; The chains are thine in which we groan, Dread demon of Intoxication. We see the flood-gates opened wide, We see ten thousand victims floating Upon the foul and turbid tide, And licensed vultures o'er them gloating. They wider still the flood-gates throw, To let the red infernal river O'er all the land in torrents flow; Shut ye the flood-gates, never! never! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE APOLLO TRIO by CONRAD AIKEN BAD GIRL SINGING by MARK JARMAN CHAMBER MUSIC: 4 by JAMES JOYCE CHAMBER MUSIC: 5 by JAMES JOYCE CHAMBER MUSIC: 28 by JAMES JOYCE THE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE IS LIKE THE SCENT OF SYRINGA by MINA LOY A BALLAD FOUNDED ON A REAL INCIDENT WHICH OCCURED IN HIGH LIFE by JANET HAMILTON |
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