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 THE BELEAGUERED CITY. Down the broad valley fast and far Up rose the glorious morning star, I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, In Fancy's misty light, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam 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. 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! MIDNIGHT MASS. 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! O, the old man gray Gentle and low. To the crimson woods he saith,- Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, 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, The storm-wind! Howl! howl! and from the forest And be swept away! For there shall come a mightier blast, There shall be a darker day; And the stars, from heaven down-cast, Like red leaves be swept away! Kyrie, eleyson! Christe, eleyson! |