Classic Poem

1

U P from a sea that was Celtic,
On a midsummer night of old,
A fairy rose in the moonlight
Where the swooning waters roll'd
To a crag that was crown'd with a castle,
Irregular, round and high —
The castle bold, embattled,
Of days gone by.

2

And a piper paced the ramparts
In his own clan-tartan clad,
With the ancient arms accoutred
That his father's father had;
And the pipes that he play'd were chanting
Of valor and Highland pride —
To the tune of them kings had conquer'd,
And heroes died.

3

Tho' only a lad come twenty,
He could hold with any man,
And well was he taught in the music,
And well could he lead his clan;
And the gallant air he was playing
He played as never before —
Then he ceased and drew from its scabbard
His bright claymore.

4

And he waved it aloft, exulting
In the promise of coming years,
And feats of arms and glory
Got from the shock of spears —
Ah! the glint of that jewell'd claymore
That his father's father had —
'Twill be handled with honor surely
By that gay lad!

5

But O, my Bonnie, my Bonnie!
What sound is this in thine ears,
That no man nor maid in the castle
Nor drousing warder hears?
What music around thee is rising?
What Orient notes unknown?
O out on the sea what is singing
By the lone — by the lone?

6

In a maze he listen'd unmoving
Thro' the long sweet summer night
To the song of the water-kelpie,
Till the moon sank out of sight;
And the kitchen maids of the castle
Found him at break of day,
As they thought, on the ramparts, drunken:
He was fey — he was fey!

7

And the thrall of a lordly ambition,
And the combat for lands and gold,
And titles and trinkets of honor,
And things that are bought and sold,
O! thereafter he held them so lightly!
But aye as he went on his way,
Of a song he would be singing:
He was fey — he was fey!

8

The chieftain of all most gentle,
Most ready with loyal sword,
But not in the years did he prosper,
And he fail'd of the World's reward;
His king gave his lands to a stranger,
And his lady was lost, they say;
And he died in a battle, forgotten —
Well-a-day — well-a-day!

9

Comes something akin to a feeling
That no language of men can define,
Not to one in a million revealing
Its meaning by symbol or sign,
But told of in Sagas and olden
Legends of longing and weir —
A sound in a silence too golden
For many to hear.

10

Moments remote, unimagin'd,
That come and go in a breath,
Thro' the light of long days uneventful,
In the pallor of imminent death;
In the fire of some red revolution,
Perchance in the tapers' shine
On some extravagant altar, —
Some say in wine.

11

No matter, if only — if only
That sound from the silence it brings;
That ray from the occult reunion
Found in the finish of things;
Unfitted thereafter, exalted,
Uncaring, they pass among men,
And the World, as they knew it, is never
The same again.

12

Once, in the dull way of mortals,
As I lay in a stupor, I felt,
As I fancied, the palpable portals
Of darkness commingle and melt
Away into somnolent gardens,
Hidden forever from day:
Ah! from them I never would waken,
Could I stay — could I stay!

13

Could I dream within arbors Lethean,
Where the poppies that nod in the night
Have yielded at last to the perfume
Of roses enchantingly white;
Where Morphia lies, and her lore is
Reveal'd, and her secrets are told
In fragments of fathomless stories
Forgotten of old!

14

O souls made fit for the losing
Of all that the World implies,
Yet who tread not the pathway of heroes,
Nor of saints that agonize,
What vision is this that you treasure
Like children, until you are grey?
Elusive, alluring forever, —
You are fey — you are fey!