Classic Poem

Three castles in my district rise,
Whereon I gaze with loving eyes;
And I, th' appointed minstrel good,
Who freely range through field and wood,
How may I dare their praise to scorn,
When all so well the land adorn?

The First scarce claims a castle's place,
Small are the ruined heaps you trace;
It lies beneath a wooded steep,
Its very name long buried deep;
For since its towers no longer last,
The wanderer's queries too are past.
Yet onward through the thickets pace,
Tho' supple twigs should lash your face;
There, where the axe's strokes resound,
Strange notes of elfin bugles sound;
There may'st thou wondrous legends hear
From towers that now no more appear.
Yes! if (when shines the moon) alone
Thou sitst upon some fallen stone,
Soon will some wondrous tale, unsought,
Before thy silent soul be brought.

The Second of the Castles Three
Is less than what it seems to be;
Thou see'st it on the mountain-height
Gleam proudly in the sunshine bright,
With towers and battlements bedight,
With fosses deep surrounded quite;
Filled everywhere with statues great;
Two marble lions guard the gate.
But all within is waste and still,
Tall grass the lonely court doth fill;
Ne'er water in the fosses flows;
Within, nor step nor room it shews;
Round it the ivy-branches creep,
Swift swallows through the windows sweep.
There once, gold-crowned, enthroned on high,
Stern rulers sat in days gone by.
Thence heroes rushed to fight and bleed,
Whose names in History's page we read.
The rulers rested in the grave,
In fight had fall'n the heroes brave,
The hum of men had died away,
When flashed from heav'n a fiery ray;
In flames the treasures met their doom,
In ruin fell each stair and room.
Within, the fort is ruined all,
Without, unscathed is every wall.
When passed away the owner's state,
Ere long the house lay desolate;
But — as old story still records
The names of knights and mighty lords —
So still the towers and walls have stood,
And statues huge of heroes good;
And future ages wonderingly
The brave memorials yet shall spy,
And mark that fort on yonder height
Gleam glorious in the sunshine bright.

Halfway between this ruined pair
Is seen the Third, a Castle fair.
Not proudly perched on mountain-height,
But on a rising hillock pight.
Not 'neath a forest's darksome screen,
But girt with trees of vivid green;
With scarlet tiles, walls dazzling white,
And sunlit windows flashing bright.
Too small 'tis found for History's view,
For legend or romance too new.
Yet I, th' appointed minstrel good,
Who range at will through field and wood,
Must strive that now no longer should
This castle still unknown abide.
At morning and at evening-tide
I wander round it, singing clear;
And whensoe'er my Claelia dear
To greet me at the window hies,
A hope doth in my heart arise
That soon a tale, where history
With minstrel-verse entwined shall be,
That such a tale the bliss shall prove
Of Claelia's and her minstrel's love!