Long have I striven
With my deep foreboding soul,
But the full tide now its bounds hath riven,
And darkly on must roll!
—There 's a young brow smiling near,
With a bridal white-rose wreath,—
— Unto me it smiles from a flowery bier,
Touch'd solemnly by Death!
Fair art thou, Morna!
The sadness of thine eye
Is beautiful as silvery clouds
On the dark-blue summer sky!
And thy voice comes like the sound
Of a sweet and hidden rill,
That makes the dim woods tuneful round—
—But soon it must be still!
Silence and dust
On thy sunny lips must lie!
Make not the strength of love thy trust,
A stronger yet is nigh!
No strain of festal flow
That my hand for thee hath tried,
But into dirge-notes, wild and low,
Its ringing tones have died!
Young art thou, Morna!
Yet on thy gentle head,
Like heavy dew on the lily's leaves,
A spirit hath been shed!
And the glance is thine which sees
Through nature's awful heart—
But bright things go with the summer's breeze,
And thou, too, must depart!
Yet shall I weep?
I know that in thy breast
There swells a fount of song too deep,
Too powerful for thy rest!
And the bitterness I know,
And the chill of this world's breath—
—Go, all undimm'd in thy glory, go!
Young and crown'd bride of Death!
Take hence to Heaven
Thy holy thoughts, and bright,
And soaring hopes, that were not given
For the touch of mortal blight!
Might we follow in thy track,
This parting should not be!
—But the spring shall give us violets back.
And every flower but thee!
—There was a burst of tears around the bard:
All wept but one, and she serenely stood,
With her clear brow and dark religious eye,
Raised to the first faint star above the hills,
And cloudless; though it might be that her cheek
Was paler than before.—So Morna heard
The Minstrel's prophecy.—
And spring return'd
Bringing the earth her lovely things again,
All, save the loveliest far!—a voice, a smile,
A young, sweet spirit gone!
