In the sad Southwest, in the mystical Sunland,
Far from the toil and the turmoil of gain;
Hid in the heart of the only — the one land
Beloved of the Sun, and bereft of the rain;
The one weird land where the wild winds blowing,
Sweep with a wail o'er the plains of the dead,
A ruin ancient beyond all knowing,
Rears its head.
On the canon's side, in the ample hollow,
That the keen winds carved in ages past,
The Castle walls, like the nest of a swallow,
Have clung and have crumbled to this at last.
The ages since man's foot has rested
Within these walls, no man may know;
For here the fierce grey eagle nested
Long ago.
Above those walls the crags lean over,
Below, they dip to the river's bed;
Between, fierce-winged creatures hover;
Beyond, the plain's wild waste is spread.
No foot has climbed the pathway dizzy,
That crawls away from the blasted heath,
Since last it felt the ever busy
Foot of Death.
In that haunted Castle — it must be haunted,
For men have lived here, and men have died,
And maidens loved, and lovers daunted,
Have hoped and feared, have laughed and sighed —
In that haunted Castle the dust has drifted,
But the eagles only may hope to see
What shattered Shrines and what Altars rifted,
There may be.
The white, bright rays of the sunbeam sought it;
The cold, clear light of the moon fell here;
The west wind sighed, and the south wind brought it
Songs of Summer year after year.
Runes of Summer, but mute and runeless,
The Castle stood; no voice was heard,
Save the harsh, discordant, wild and tuneless
Cry of bird.
The spring rains poured, and the torrent rifted
A deeper way — the foam-flakes fell,
Held for a moment poised and lifted,
Down to a fiercer whirlpool's hell.
On the Castle tower no guard, in wonder,
Paused in his marching to and fro,
For on the turret the mighty thunder
Found no foe.
No voice of Spring — no Summer glories
May wake the warders from their sleep,
Their graves are made by the sad Dolores,
And the barren headlands of Hoven-weep.
Their graves are nameless — their race forgotten,
Their deeds, their words, their fate, are one
With the mist, long ages past begotten,
Of the Sun.
Those castled cliffs they made their dwelling;
They lived and loved, they fought and fell;
No faint, far voice comes to us telling
More than those crumbling walls can tell.
They lived their life, their fate fulfilling,
Then drew their last faint, faltering breath,
Their hearts congealed, clutched by the chilling
Hand of Death.
Dismantled towers, and turrets broken,
Like grim and war-worn braves who keep
A silent guard, with grief unspoken
Watch o'er the graves by the Hoven-weep.
The nameless graves of a race forgotten;
Whose deeds, whose words, whose fate are one
With the mist, long ages past begotten,
Far from the toil and the turmoil of gain;
Hid in the heart of the only — the one land
Beloved of the Sun, and bereft of the rain;
The one weird land where the wild winds blowing,
Sweep with a wail o'er the plains of the dead,
A ruin ancient beyond all knowing,
Rears its head.
On the canon's side, in the ample hollow,
That the keen winds carved in ages past,
The Castle walls, like the nest of a swallow,
Have clung and have crumbled to this at last.
The ages since man's foot has rested
Within these walls, no man may know;
For here the fierce grey eagle nested
Long ago.
Above those walls the crags lean over,
Below, they dip to the river's bed;
Between, fierce-winged creatures hover;
Beyond, the plain's wild waste is spread.
No foot has climbed the pathway dizzy,
That crawls away from the blasted heath,
Since last it felt the ever busy
Foot of Death.
In that haunted Castle — it must be haunted,
For men have lived here, and men have died,
And maidens loved, and lovers daunted,
Have hoped and feared, have laughed and sighed —
In that haunted Castle the dust has drifted,
But the eagles only may hope to see
What shattered Shrines and what Altars rifted,
There may be.
The white, bright rays of the sunbeam sought it;
The cold, clear light of the moon fell here;
The west wind sighed, and the south wind brought it
Songs of Summer year after year.
Runes of Summer, but mute and runeless,
The Castle stood; no voice was heard,
Save the harsh, discordant, wild and tuneless
Cry of bird.
The spring rains poured, and the torrent rifted
A deeper way — the foam-flakes fell,
Held for a moment poised and lifted,
Down to a fiercer whirlpool's hell.
On the Castle tower no guard, in wonder,
Paused in his marching to and fro,
For on the turret the mighty thunder
Found no foe.
No voice of Spring — no Summer glories
May wake the warders from their sleep,
Their graves are made by the sad Dolores,
And the barren headlands of Hoven-weep.
Their graves are nameless — their race forgotten,
Their deeds, their words, their fate, are one
With the mist, long ages past begotten,
Of the Sun.
Those castled cliffs they made their dwelling;
They lived and loved, they fought and fell;
No faint, far voice comes to us telling
More than those crumbling walls can tell.
They lived their life, their fate fulfilling,
Then drew their last faint, faltering breath,
Their hearts congealed, clutched by the chilling
Hand of Death.
Dismantled towers, and turrets broken,
Like grim and war-worn braves who keep
A silent guard, with grief unspoken
Watch o'er the graves by the Hoven-weep.
The nameless graves of a race forgotten;
Whose deeds, whose words, whose fate are one
With the mist, long ages past begotten,