Classic Poem

The weed mourns on the castle wall,
The grass lies on the chamber floor,
And on the hearth, and in the hall,
Where merry music danced of yore!
And the blood-red wine no longer
Runs,—(how it used to run!)
And the shadows within, grown stronger,
Look black on the mid-day sun!
All is gone; save a Voice
That never did yet rejoice:
'Tis sweet and low; 'tis sad and lone;
And it biddeth us love the thing that's flown.

The Gardens feed no fruit nor flowers,
But childless seem, and in decay;
The traitor clock forsakes the hours,
And points to times—oh, far away!
And the steed no longer neigheth,
At morn, with a shrilly sound;
And the blood-hound no longer bayeth,
Startling the silence 'round!
All is gone; save a Voice
That never did yet rejoice:
'Tis sweet and low; 'tis sad and lone;
And it biddeth us love the thing that's flown.

The Lord of all the lone domain,
An undeserving master flies;
And leaves a home where he might reign,
For alien hearts and stranger skies:

And the peasant disdains the story,
He loved to recount of yore;
And the Name, that was once a glory,
Is heard in the land no more!
All is gone: save a Voice
That never did yet rejoice:
'Tis sweet and love; 'tis sad and lone;
And it biddeth us love the thing that's flown.