The Bard

Through the dark wood seest thou that thorn-crown’d heap,
That o’er the lingering rivulet seems to rest;
Where the still stream glides by, as if in sleep,
And scarce a leaf is by the zephyr prest:
There hangs a harp--a garland, see!
That heap--it is a minstrel’s bed:
There are his ashes scattered--
Bard! woe is thee!

His soul was lovely--infant purity
Dwelt in his heart--a fleeting pilgrim, driven
By life’s first gales o’er seas of misery,
Sighing and longing for death’s silent haven--
That haven reach’d he speedily:
He sleeps death’s sleep--so dark, so dull--
His life was short, but sorrowful--
Bard! woe is thee!

He sang the song of friendship loud and sweet--
But ah! the friend is gone;--his holy strain
Breathed of pure love--’twas sad, though exquisite,
For he knew nought of love but love’s deep pain!
All slumbers now--all--silently,
Young bard! with thee--thy music’s breath
Is still--still’d by the frown of death:--
Bard! woe is thee!

Here, by this shrine, when the tir’d sun was setting
In melancholy brightness, thus he pour’d
His farewell hymn, ‘Fair world! thy charms forgetting,
‘I leave thee, and for ever!--I adored
‘A wild dream’s shade--an ecstasy!
‘’Tis past!--Thou lyre! be still--my hand
‘Is chill’d--I seek a brighter land:--
‘Bard! woe is thee!

‘That wild dream fled--what else is left?--the sky
‘O’erclouded--the storm raging--an abyss
‘Yawning around--hopes that just smile, and fly
‘To darkness--solid woes, and shadowy bliss.
‘Haven of peace! for me, for me
‘Prepare thy welcome, grave, whose road,
‘Though misty, leads to joy’s abode!
‘Bard! woe is thee!’

Yes! he is fled--that magic harp is still,
His footstep-traces now are worn away;
And sorrow dwells on stream, and vale, and hill--
And silence, save when thoughtless zephyrs play
With the dried wreath that carelessly
Hangs--or in twilight’s feeble ray
Some spirit bids the harp-strings say,
Bard! woe is thee!