Classic Poem

Flingeth still the sun of spring-tide
Far o'er mead and mere its light?
Still do verdant boughs, o'er-arching,
Form sweet bowers of calm delight?
Ah! the maid my heart remembers
Gives no more her May's bright gleam,
Wanders not through groves full-blossomed,
Rests not by the bubbling stream.

Yes! there once were days more happy,
When, in files with garlands crowned,
Through the grove young lads and lasses
Wandered, as o'er sacred ground;
When the maid, her pitcher bearing,
Oft to fountains cool would rove,
Whilst the wanderer, smit with longing,
Craved at once a draught and love!

Ah! the din of ruthless tempests
Hence that golden spring did tear;
Castles rose aloft, and turrets —
Sadly sat the maiden there,
Nightly, for a dear voice listened,
Saw the battle rage beneath;
Saw, amidst the press of weapons,
How her warrior sank in death.

Then an age, all sad and gloomy,
Brooded darkly o'er the earth,
Like a dream dissolving wholly
Youth's bright love and buoyant mirth.
They who hoped, close yoked for ever,
Souls to mingle, heart to heart,
Now with saddened glances greeting
Pass with hurried steps, and part.

Fade, ye trees and lovely blossoms,
Deepen not true love's sad smart;
Wither, wither, springing branches,
Pine and die, thou swelling heart!
Sink, ye youths, in lonely darkness,
Rest within the silent tomb;
Alders in the breezes rustle,
O'er your graves sweet roses bloom.