It looks as if a bright and sudden beam, Within that oak, broke forth with fervid ray, Tinting its old boughs with a golden gleam, Bright as the deep glow of the parting day; Tempting the passer-by to linger still, Amid the deep'ning gloom that broods o'er dale and hill. Ah! linger still, nor fear the chill night-wind; It comes not yet, for scarce the sun is gone! Each living emblem, speaking to the mind, May counsel well, and cheer, if reft and lone, Thy sad thoughts, earthward bend, giving but little heed To signs of mercy near, waiting each hour of need. Men may learn from them, be it joy or pain, That bids the heart its wonted calm forego, Sunbeams, or showers, loud wind, or driving rain, The morning hoar frost, or the dazzling snow, The small bird, journeying through the pathless skies, May win dull thought, from earthly care to rise. It might be, that in such a glowing hour, When shone the old oak, as with living flame, While anxious thoughts within her breast had power, Forth from yon aged hall[39] a lady came To meet the freshness of the evening breeze, Viewless, yet rustling still among the trees. Oh! there were hearts within that stately hall, Though ruined now, that beat with high alarm, And champing steeds, and warders waiting all To guard, if need might be, from gathering harm, And cautious looks, and voices speaking low, As if they feared an hour of coming woe. Yes, life or death, eternity or time, Waited the passing of that anxious day; A throne, a prison, much perchance of crime, Should statesmen battle, each in stern array; Should death steal onward through a palace gate, Warning his victim from her hall of state. The mind back glancing through long ages past, E'en to the changes in that fitful scene, Calls forth from out the dim, the lone, the vast, One act to gaze on, noting what hath been In dreamy life; though all we now descry Seems as a mournful vision sweeping by. Look then on her, for whom no evening gleam, Nor soft wind rustling in the young green trees, Can soothe the wasting grief--the fever'd dream-- The wandering thought, finding but little ease; For each fond hope from the sad heart is flown, Like leaves by autumn winds, all sear'd and gone. Her hall is lonely now, her throne of state Strangers may gaze at; one lone couch of pain Holdeth her now, and pale care seems to wait Beside that couch, despite the weeping train Who vainly seek, with fond officious zeal, To soothe the rankling grief they may not heal. Through the dim oriel streams that sunny glow Which tints the old oak with its parting beam And one last flush gleams on the cold, damp brow Whence life is ebbing, like a fitful dream,-- Too soon for those whom anxious boding fill, Her weeping train of ladies, watching still.