Jephthah and Other Mysteries

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!