« PreviousContinue »
And with childlike, credulous affection,
We behold their tender buds expand ; —
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 pale
Beleaguered 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 bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell,
On the alarmed air.
Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army Aed;
The ghastly host was dead.
I have read in the marvellous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,
Beleaguer the human soul.
Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,
Portentous through the night.
Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,
Flows the River of Life between.
No other voice, nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
But the rushing of Life's wave.