154 MYSTERIES:
An idle song it was the poet sang,
A quavering note—no brazen kettle’s clang,
But gentle, drooping, tearful. But achieve!
I can remember how the finish rang
Clear, sharp, and loud; the harp is glad to die
And give the clarion one note silver-high.
It was too sweet for music, and I weave
In vain the tattered woof of memory.
Ashes and dust,
Cold cinders dead,
Our swords are rust,
Our lives are fled
Like dew on glass ;
In vain we lust,
Our hopes are sped,
Alas! alas!
From heaven we are thrust, we have no more trust,
Alas !
Gold hairs and gray,
Red lips and white,
Warm hearts, cold clay,
Bright day, dim night,
Our spirits pass
Like the hours away.
We have no light,
Alas! alas!
We have no more day, we are fain to say
Alas!