That lulling monotone did sing
Of broken rock and shaggy glen;
Of welcome for the moorcock's wing,
But not of wail for men!
Nothing of heaven or earth to show
One sign of sympathising woe,
And nothing but that agony
In her now unconscious eye,
To weigh upon the labouring breast
And prove she did not pass at rest.
But he who watched in thought had gone,
Retracing back her lifetime flown;
Like sudden ghosts, to memory came
Full many a face, and many a name,
Full many a heart, that in the tomb,
He almost deemed, might have throbbed again
Had they but known her dreary doom,
Had they but seen their idol then,
A wreck of desolate despair,
Left to the wild birds of the air,
And mountain winds and rain!
For him—no tear his stern eye shed
As he looked down upon the dead.
'Wild morn,' he thought, 'and doubtful noon;
But yet it was a glorious sun,
Though comet-like its course was run;
That sun should never have been given
To burn and dazzle in the heaven
Or night has quenched it far too soon!