SOUND not the horn!—the guarded relic keep: | |
| A faithful sharer of its master’s sleep: | |
| His life it gladdened, to his life belonged,— | |
| Pause, ere thy lip the royal dead hath wronged. | |
| Its weary weight but mocks thy feeble hand; | 5 |
| Its desolate note, the shrine wherein we stand. | |
| Not such the sound it gave in days of yore, | |
| When that rich belt a monarch’s bosom wore,— | |
| Not such the sound! Far over hill and dell | |
| It waked the echoes with triumphant swell; | 10 |
| Heard midst the rushing of the torrent’s fall, | |
| From castle crag to roofless ruined hall, | |
| Down the ravine’s precipitous descent, | |
| Through the wild forest’s rustling boughs it went, | |
| Upon the lake’s blue bosom lingered fond, | 15 |
| And faintly answered from the hills beyond: | |
| |
| Pause!—the free winds that joyous blast have borne: | |
| Dead is the hunter!—silent be the horn! | |
| |
| Sound not the horn! Bethink thee of the day | |
| When to the chase an emperor led the way; | 20 |
| In all the pride of manhood’s noblest prime, | |
| Untamed by sorrow, and untired by time, | |
| Life’s pulses throbbing in his eager breast, | |
| Glad, active, vigorous,—who is now at rest: | |
| How he gazed round him with his eagle eye, | 25 |
| Leapt the dark rocks that frown against the sky, | |
| Grasped the long spear, and curbed the panting steed | |
| (Whose fine nerves quiver with his headlong speed), | |
| At the wild cry of danger smiled in scorn, | |
| And firmly sounded that re-echoing horn! | 30 |
| |
| Ah! let no touch the ivory tube profane | |
| Which drank the breath of living Charlemagne; | |
| Let not like blast by meaner lips be blown, | |
| But by the hunter’s side the horn lay down! | |
| |
| Or, following to his palace, dream we now | 35 |
| Not of the hunter’s strength, or forest bough, | |
| But woman’s love! Her offering this, perchance,— | |
| This, granted to each stranger’s casual glance, | |
| This, gazed upon with coldly curious eyes, | |
| Was given with blushes, and received with sighs! | 40 |
| We see her not;—no mournful angel stands | |
| To guard her love-gift from our careless hands; | |
| But fancy brings a vision to our view,— | |
| A woman’s form, the trusted and the true: | |
| The strong to suffer, though so weak to dare, | 45 |
| Patient to watch through many a day of care, | |
| Devoted, anxious, generous, void of guile, | |
| And with her whole heart’s welcome in her smile; | |
| Even such I see! Her maidens, too, are there, | |
| And wake, with chorus sweet, some native air; | 50 |
| But though her proud heart holds her country dear, | |
| And though she loves those happy songs to hear, | |
| She bids the tale be hushed, the harp be still, | |
| For one faint blast that dies along the hill. | |
| Up, up, she springs; her young head backward thrown; | 55 |
| “He comes! my hunter comes!—mine own,—mine own!” | |
| |
| She loves, and she is loved,—her gift is worn,— | |
| ’T is fancy, all!—And yet—lay down the horn! | |
| |
| Love,—life,—what are ye?—since to love and live | |
| No surer record to our times can give! | 60 |
| Low lies the hero now, whose spoken name | |
| Could fire with glory, or with love inflame; | |
| Low lies the arm of might, the form of pride, | |
| And dim tradition dreameth by his side. | |
| Desolate stand those painted palace-halls, | 65 |
| And gradual ruin mines the massy walls, | |
| Where frank hearts greeted many a welcome guest, | |
| And loudly rang the beaker and the jest;— | |
| While here, within this chapel’s narrow bound, | |
| Whose frozen silence startles to the sound | 70 |
| Of stranger voices ringing through the air, | |
| Or faintly echoes many a humble prayer; | |
| Here, where the window, narrow arched, and high, | |
| With jealous bars shuts out the free blue sky,— | |
| Where glimmers down, with various-painted ray, | 75 |
| A prisoned portion of God’s glorious day,— | |
| Where never comes the breezy breath of morn, | |
| Here, mighty hunter, feebly wakes thy horn! | |
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