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TALE OF THE 14TH CENTURY.
No transient shade will sorrow cast,
When age the spirit's might has bowed!
And as he sees the land grow dim,
That native land, now lost to him,
Fixed are his eyes, and clasped his hands,
And long in speechless grief he stands.
So desolately calm his air,
He seems an image, wrought to bear
The stamp of deep, though hushed despair;
Motion and life no sign bespeaks
Save that the night-breeze, o'er his cheeks,
Just waves his silvery hair!
Nought else could teach the eye to know
He was no sculptured form of woe!
Long gazing o'er the darkening flood,
Pale in that silent grief he stood;
Till the cold moon was waning fast,
And many a lovely star had died,
And the gray heavens deep shadows cast
Far o'er the slumbering tide;
