Classic Poem

I

O'er the clouds is a glow, o'er the lake is a sheen,
There's sunlight on beach and on ness,
Around them the woods are a glorious green,
The grass feels the south wind's caress.

'Mid summer and beauty and pure-scented breeze
I hail this my native strand. —
But there is a void by the maple-trees
Where my father's home used to stand.

It is gone, it is burned, there is nought left behind
Save the rocks of all traces bereft!
But memory comes with the cool-breathing wind,
And memory is all that is left.

I see a white gable before me again,
A window stands open within it,
Through which there is wafted the rollicking strain
Of a melody played on the spinet.

And I hear now my father singing his best
As in youth when his spirit was glad.
The song was soon hushed in his languishing breast
And his life became weary and sad.

It is gone, it is burned. I will lie by the side
Of the lake here and hark to his tale
Of the woman who lived as the calm years glide,
The old wife of Alsterdale.

He sings of her grief in a voice as low
And soft as a dream-song's tone:
" That is over these twenty long years ago,
That's dead and buried and gone.

" Where you, lovely visions, would formerly throng
The moonlight falls lonely and pale. —
And that is the end of my cradle-song
Of the old wife of Alsterdale. "

II

That grove! — the cuckoo called from there,
And little girls would bound,
In ragged skirts with feet all bare,
Where berries might be found.
And here was shade and there was sun,
And yon were violets many a one;
To me it all is dear,
My childhood whispers here.

III

Here the path ascends, here the forest grew,
Here the kingdom of fable enthralled our gaze,
Here is the stone that a troll once threw
At a Christian monk in heathen days.

Here is Wolf's castle of boulders drear
Hence rang his piercing, treacherous cries,
Here sat little Ulva, his daughter dear,
With hairy breast and strange mad eyes.

Here goes the road to Happiness Land,
But 'tis long and narrow and weed-begrown;
And no Puss-in-Boots is now at hand
To show us the way as in years long gone.

IV

King Lily-o'th'-Valley so stately
Has a helmet silvery bright,
The young king sorroweth greatly
For his frost-slain princess white.

King Lily-o'th'-Valley, he sinketh
His head so heavy with care,
The light of his helmet blinketh
In the hueless evening air.

A shroud of cobweb covers
The form so fair in death,
While soft flower-incense hovers
And fills the woods with its breath.

From the birch-tops mournfully swinging,
From green vines nodding on high
Wee songs of lament are ringing,
Till the woods are filled with a sigh.

Through the glades a messenger beareth
The sigh to each whispering leaf,
Till all the wide forest heareth
Of Lily-o'th'-Valley's grief.