Classic Poem

Let clouds upon the mountains rest,
Wan spirits haunt the skies,
Fell fear assail the pilgrim's breast;
And stormy winds arise:
From bellowing clouds, the tempest break,
While answering torrents roar,
From shatter'd roofs, the windows shake,
And drops be-dew the floor.
And, let the vague, astonish'd sight
The green-wing'd meteor trace—
As, slanting down the brow of night,
It speeds its fiery race:
Or, rise the moon,—from mountain sheen—
Her pale refulgence spread,
Or, pass a lurid cloud between
And wrap her radiant head—
Alike, is waning night to me,
Blue, stormy, gloomy, still:
Night's shadows 'fore the morning flee,
When pour'd from eastern hill:
The young-day, rises from his gloom,
The hours, his beams restore;
But man, once set—beneath the tomb,
Returns, alas! no more.
Ah! where are now our chieftains fled;
Our kings, of mighty name?
The well-fought fields, erst strew'd with dead,
No more declare their fame!
Scarce now their mossy tombs remain:
We too, shall quickly pass,
Our sons shall seek this hall, in vain,
Among the spiry grass:
E'en they, shall ask, of aged seer—
“Where stood our father's wall?
“No vestige marks its ruins here,
“No trait records its fall.”

Then raise the song,—to cheerful sound
Of harp, your voices raise:
Dispense the joyous shells around;
On high, let tapers blaze!
And bid the youths, and maids advance;
And some grey bard, be near,
Who, as they thrid the mazy dance,
May charm my listening ear:
And while with raptured voice he sings,
Of deeds, and times of yore,
Of chieftains famed, and valiant kings,
Whom we behold no more,—

The cheery night shall wear away,
And rosy morning rise;
When thro' the hall, her welcome ray
Salutes our glowing eyes—
(The skilful bow-men, all at hand,
The dogs of fleetest pace,
Which lead along the racy land,
The youths, that love the chace—)
Then, up the steepy hill we'll go—
With shouts, the morning cheer!
Till, from the rustling brake below—
Out starts—the trembling deer!