Classic Poem

I.

Come let us gather here upon the hill
 The noble hearts that yet beat pure and high,
And, while the lake beneath our feet is still,
 Sweetly our speech may run on chivalry,
And feats of arms, and old crusading days,
And tourneys bright, and minstrel's generous praise.

II.

For we have mourned o'er many a lonely place
 And moorland village with a knightly name,
And we have loved with wise regrets to trace
 The still unfaded relics of their fame.
Yon sun that sinks o'er Solway's distant bay
Sets not more proud and glorious than they.

III.

Oh, then, while round Blencathra's haunted crest
 The purple folds of summer twilight wind,
Spirits of feudal memory here shall rest
 With spells of dearest awe upon my mind;
And there shall ride full gallantly and fast
Pageants and shades of that romantic past!

IV.

Sweet to the brow the wind of evening blows,
 Sweet to the sight are evening's golden gleams,
Sweetest of all are they where Greta flows,
 And Glenderaterra, and the nameless streams,
Lonely and beautiful, where summer day
Fades o'er yon Cumbrian mountain far away.

V.

The clouds that build wild structures up on high
 Shall mould themselves to some baronial hall,
And the stray mist that wanders loosely by
 Be changed to a gigantic seneschal;
The wind that o'er the battlements doth float
Shall sound from thence an elfin warder's note.

VI.

But, when the last pale glow is on the heights;
 The dream may shift unto a maiden's bower,
Where every lattice shines with festal lights,
 And crimson pennons wave on every tower,
Where ladies welcome back their knights again
From the far hunting-field or battle-plain.

VII.

And by my side the page of Monstrelet
 With all its lifelike forms shall be unrolled,
And he, with eye undimmed and hair of gray,
 The chivalrous old Canon, shall unfold,
As in my boyish hours, his own dear lore,
Bright with the tints that shone in times of yore.

VIII.

Oh, in his boyhood's best and purest days
 Who hath not gathered round old Froissart's knee
Like children round a father, in whose lays
 Strange things were told with quaint and earnest glee,
Prizing each year his well-known strains the more,
When we have heard them ten times told before?

IX.

Come, then, and we will make a mimic tale:—
 The store of legendary things that lie
Far in the woods of many a Cumbrian vale
 Shall weave for us the mingled destiny
Of a young knight and of a templar bold,
In those most gorgeous Chronicles untold.