For, while the children of the Spring Blush into life, and die; And Summer's joy-birds take light wing When Autumn mists are nigh; And soon the year--a winterling-- With its fall'n leaves doth lie; That ruin gray-- Mirror'd, alway, Deep in the silver stream, Doth summon weird-wrought visions vast, That show the actors of the past Pictured, as in a dream. Meseemeth, now, before mine eyes, The pomp-clad phantoms dimly rise, Till the full pageant bright-- A throng of warrior-barons bold, Glittering in burnished steel and gold, Bursts on my glowing sight. And, mingles with the martial train, Full many a fair-tressed beauty vain, On palfrey and jennet-- That proudly toss the tasselled rein, And daintily curvet; And war-steeds prance, And rich plumes glance On helm and burgonet; And lances crash, And falchions flash Of knights in tourney met. Fast fades the joust!--and fierce forms frown That man the leaguered tower,-- Nor quail to scan the kingly crown That leads the leaguering power. Trumpet and "rescue" ring!--and, soon, He who began the strife Is fain to crave one paltry boon:-- The thrall-king begs his life! Our fathers and their throbbing toil Are hushed in pulseless death; Hushed is the dire and deadly broil-- The tempest of their wrath;-- Yet, of their deeds not all for spoil Is thine, O sateless Grave! Songs of their brother-hours shall foil Thy triumph o'er the brave! Their bravery take, and darkly hide Deep in thy inmost hold! Take all their mailëd pomp and pride To deck thy mansions cold! Plunderer! thou hast but purified Their memories from alloy: Faults of the dead we scorn to chide-- Their virtues sing with joy. Lord of our fathers' ashes! list A carol of their mirth; Nor shake thy nieve, chill moralist! To check their sons' joy-birth:-- It is the season when our sires Kept jocund holiday; And, now, around our charier fires, Old Yule shall have a lay:-- A prison-bard is once more free; And, ere he yields his voice to thee, His song a merry-song shall be! * * * * * Sir Wilfrid de Thorold[2] freely holds What his stout sires held before-- Broad lands for plough, and fruitful folds,-- Though by gold he sets no store; And he saith, from fen and woodland wolds, From marish, heath, and moor,-- To feast in his hall, Both free and thrall, Shall come as they came of yore. "Let the merry bells ring out!" saith he To my lady of the Fosse;[3] "We will keep the birth-eve joyfully Of our Lord who bore the cross!"