This page has been validated.
THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND.
111
Until that sullen boding knell
Flung out from every fane,
On harp and lip, and spirit, fell,
With a weight and with a chain.
Woe for the pilgrim then,
In the wild deer's forest far!
No cottage-lamp, to the haunts of men,
Might guide him, as a star.
And woe for him whose wakeful soul,
With lone aspirings fill'd,
Would have liv'd o'er some immortal scroll,
While the sounds of earth were still'd!
And yet a deeper woe
For the watcher by the bed,
Where the fondly lov'd in pain lay low,
In pain and sleepless dread!
