The Lake.
The last pale light was on the sky,
That comes when summer sunbeams die;
An amber wave, with just a surge
Of crimson on its utmost verge;
And, spread beneath, like a green ocean,
With not one single wave in motion,
Stood a thick wood; then far away,
Dark outlined in the sky's clear gray,
Rose mountain-heights, till, to the eye,
They gloomed like storm-clouds piled on high.
Upon the other eastern shore
Grew, in light groups, the sycamore—
Gay with the bright tints that recall
How autumn and ambition fall;
Alike departing in their hour,
Of riches, pride, and pomp, and power.
And in their shadow the red deer
Grazed as they had no hour of fear;
As never here a bow was drawn,
Nor hunter's cry rose with the dawn.
Near, like a wilderness of bloom,
Waved the gold banners of the broom—
Light as the graceful maiden's shape,
And sunny as the curls that 'scape
From the blue snood with which her care
Has had such pride to braid her hair.
The Lake was that deep blue, which night
Wears in the zenith moon's full light;
With pebbles shining thro', like gems
Lighting sultana's diadems:
A little isle laid on its breast,
A fairy gift in its sweet rest.
There stood a convent once—bright eyes
Wasted their light, soft lips their sighs.
Oh! who can say how much each cell
Has known of youth and hope's farewell—
Of midnight's vigil, when each prayer
Laid all the burning bosom bare,
Of those who bowed not down to sleep,
Of those whom they alone saw weep?
Or it might tell of those who sought
The peacefulness of holy thought—
The broken heart, the bleeding breast,
That turned them to a place of rest.
All is forgotten: There is not
More than trace to mark the spot
So holy once; just a stained stone,
Broken, and with gray moss o'ergrown;
A fragment of a shattered wall;
One fallen arch; and these are all.
Wild roses, with their summer glow,
Are tenants of the island now;
Perhaps thus springing fresh and fair
Upon the graves of those who were
Once lovely as themselves. L. E. L.
