Classic Poem

BOOK III.

O'er " Wharncliffe of the Demons " thou,
Dear Ellen, hast a wanderer been:
Thy second letter places now
Before my soul the beauteous scene.
But thou hast nam'd a name that brings
Back the deplor'd and hopeless past,
And o'er remember'd Wharncliffe flings
An angel's shadow, flitting fast.
Why did'st thou name that mournful name?
Beautiful in its worth and woe,
Over my sadden'd heart it came,
Like funeral music, wailing low;
Or like a deep cathedral toll,
At midnight swung o'er Witham's wave,
Proclaiming that a weary soul
Had cast his staff into the grave.
Oh, never more will Lycid see
That relic of the forest old
Which spread, " like an eternity, "
Its green night over plain and wold;
Grey Wharncliffe, and the oaks, that stand
Like spectres of their sires sublime;
Yet how unlike, though old and grand,
Those giants of the olden time!
Symbols of age-long funerals,
They frown'd o'er fear's suspended breath,
And pillar'd in their living halls
The deathless might of mental death.
Oh, Superstition! cruel, blind,
False, restless, fair, as ocean's foam,
How shall I paint, where shall I find,
Save in man's darkness, thy dark home?