« PredošláPokračovať »
But the vision faded and all was still,
No sound was there save the wailing breeze,
PICTURES IN THE FIRE.
HAT is it you ask me, darling?
All my stories, child, you know;
Tell you glorious scenes of travel?
Yet strange sights in truth I witness,
Wondrous pictures, changing ever,
As I look into the fire.
There, last night, I saw a cavern,
And a knight in dismal armour
And his crest was all of flame.
As I gazed the dragon faded,
And, instead, sate Pluto crowned, By a lake of burning fire;
Spirits dark were crouching round.
That was gone, and lo! before me,
As I watched the wreathèd pillars,
And a group of swarthy Indians
Stay; a cataract glancing brightly,
Then I saw a maiden wreathing
That was wrapped about her feet?
That fell crashing all and vanished;
I could almost hear the clarions,
They were gone; and lo! bright angels,
On a barren mountain wild,
Raised appealing arms to Heaven,
Bearing up a little child.
And I gazed, and gazed, and slowly
Gathered in my eyes sad tears,
And the fiery pictures bore me
Back through distant dreams of years.
Once again I tasted sorrow,
With past joy was once more gay,
WO stranger youths in the Far West,
Pausing, amid their toil to rest,
Spake of their home beyond the seas;
Spake of the hearts that beat so warmly,
Of the hearts they loved so well,
In their chilly northern country.
"Would," they cried, "some voice could tell
Where they are, our own beloved ones!"
That gently played among
The acacia trees.
And did no warning spirit answer,
Know she stands a smiling bride!