Take thy lute and sing By the ruined castle walls, Where the torrent-foam falls, And long weeds wave:
Take thy lute and sing, O'er the grey ancestral grave! Daughter of a King, Tune thy string.
Sing of happy hours, In the roar of rushing time; Till all the echoes chime To the days gone by;
Sing of passing hours To the ever-present sky; - Weep — and let the showers Wake thy flowers.
Sing of glories gone: - No more the blazoned fold From the banner is unrolled; The gold sun is set.
Sing his glory gone, For thy voice may charm him yet; Daughter of the dawn, He is gone!
Pour forth all thy grief! Passionately sweep the chords, Wed them quivering to thy words; Wild words of wail!
Shed thy withered grief - But hold not Autumn to thy bale; The eddy of the leaf Must be brief!
Sing up to the night: Hard it is for streaming tears To read the calmness of the spheres; Coldly they shine;
Sing up to their light; They have views thou may'st divine - Gain prophetic sight From their light!
On the windy hills Lo, the little harebell leans On the spire-grass that it queens, With bonnet blue;
Trusting love instils Love and subject reverence true; Learn what love instils On the hills!
By the bare wayside Placid snowdrops hang their cheeks, Softly touch'd with pale green streaks, Soon, soon, to die;
On the clothed hedgeside Bands of rosy beauties vie, In their prophesied Summer pride.
From the snowdrop learn; Not in her pale life lives she, But in her blushing prophecy. Thus be thy hopes,
Living but to yearn Upwards to the hidden scopes; - Even within the urn Let them burn!
Heroes of thy race - Warriors with golden crowns, Ghostly shapes with marbled frowns Stare thee to stone;
Matrons of thy race Pass before thee making moan; Full of solemn grace Is their pace.
Piteous their despair! Piteous their looks forlorn! Terrible their ghostly scorn! Still hold thou fast; -
Heed not their despair! - Thou art thy future, not thy past; Let them glance and glare Thro’ the air.
Thou the ruin's bud, Be not that moist rich-smelling weed With its arras-sembled brede, And ruin-haunting stalk;
Thou the ruin's bud, Be still the rose that lights the walk, Mix thy fragrant blood With the flood!
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