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And sorrow brought the sight and song more near;
In eyes and ears my spirit all was bent.

As on the judgment-day the dead past all
The Archangel's trumpet from the tomb shall call,
So from the song the dead bones upward grew
To giant forms, from sleep of death awake.
Pillars and arches from their ruin anew,
And countless oars splashed in the desert lake;
And soon the castle-gates wide open seemed,
And princes' crowns and warriors' armour gleamed.
Now sing the bards, the dance the maidens weave;
I dreamed of marvels,—and awoke to grieve.

Forests and native hills are vanished.
And thought doth fail, on weary pinions fled,
And sinketh in a hidden stillness drear.
The lute is silent in my stiffened hand.
And 'mid the groan of comrades of my land.
The voices of the past I may not hear.
Still something of that youthful fire once mine
Smoulders within me, and at times its light
Wakens the soul and maketh memory bright.
Then memory, like a lamp of crystalline.
The pencil has with painted colours decked,