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, But, when the old cathedral bell The white pavilions rose and fell 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 Beleaguer the human soul. 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, No other voice, nor sound is there, But the rushing of Life's wave. 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 Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead. MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR, 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, The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow; Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, It is a sound of woe, A sound of woe! |