And with childlike, credulous affection, Emblems of the bright and better land. THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I HAVE read in some old marvellous tale, Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, 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 bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell, On the alarmed air. Down the broad valley fast and far 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 wan Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, In Fancy's misty light, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Upon its midnight battle-ground And with a sorrowful, deep sound, Flows the River of Life between. No other voice, nor sound is there, But the rushing of Life's wave. |