From his case,
Though still the sky wore dark and drumly
A scarr’d and frowning face:
Then troubled, tawny, dense, dun-bellied,
Scowling and sea-blue,
Every dye that’s in the tartan
O’er it grew.
Far away to the wild westward
Grim it lowered,
Where rain-charged clouds on thick squalls wandering
Loomed and towered.
Up they raised the speckled sails through
Cloud-like light,
And stretched them on the mighty halyards,
Tense and tight.
High on the mast so tall and stately--
Dark-red in hue--
They set them firmly, set them surely,
Set them true.
Round the iron pegs the ropes ran,
Each its right ring through;
Thus having ranged the tackle rarely,
Well and carefully,
Every man sat waiting bravely,
Where he ought to be.
For now the airy windows opened,
And from spots of bluish grey
Let loose the keen and crabbed wild winds--
A fierce band were they--
’Twas then his dark cloak the ocean
Round him drew.
Dusky, livid, ruffling, whirling,
Round at first it flew,
Till up he swell’d to mountains, or to glens,
Dishevelled, rough, sank down--
While the kicking, tossing waters
All in hills had grown.
Its blue depth opened in huge maws,
Wild and devouring,
Down which, clasped in deadly struggles,
Fierce strong waves were pouring.
It took a man to look the storm-winds
Right in the face--
As they lit up the sparkling spray on every surge-hill,
In their fiery race.
The waves before us, shrilly yelling,
Raised their high heads hoar,
While those behind, with moaning trumpets,
Gave a bellowing roar.
When we rose up aloft, majestic,
On the heaving swell,
Need was to pull in our canvas
Smart and well:
When she sank down with one huge swallow
In the hollow glen,
Every sail she bore aloft
Was given to her then.
The drizzling surges high and roaring
Rush’d on us louting,
Long ere they were near us come,
We heard their shouting:--
They roll’d sweeping up the little waves
Scourging them bare,
Till all became one threatening swell,
Our steersman’s care.
When down we fell from off the billows’
Towering shaggy edge,
Our keel was well-nigh hurled against
The shells and sedge;
The whole sea was lashing, dashing,
All through other:
It kept the seals and mightiest monsters
In a pother!
The fury and the surging of the water,
And our good ship’s swift way
Spatter’d their white brains on each billow,
Livid and grey.
With piteous wailing and complaining
All the storm-tossed horde,
Shouted out “We’re now your subjects;
Drag us on board.”
And the small fish of the ocean
Turn’d over their white breast--
Dead, innumerable, with the raging
Of the furious sea’s unrest.
The stones and shells of the deep channel
Were in motion;
Swept from out their lowly bed
By the tumult of the ocean;
Till the sea, like a great mess of pottage,
Troubled, muddy grew
With the blood of many mangled creatures,
Dirty red in hue--
When the horn’d and clawy wild beasts,
Short-footed, splay,
With great wailing gumless mouths
Huge and wide open lay.
But the whole deep was full of spectres,
Loose and sprawling
With the claws and with the tails of monsters,
Pawing, squalling.
It was frightful even to hear them
Screech so loudly;
The sound might move full fifty heroes
Stepping proudly.
Our whole crew grew dull of hearing
In the tempest’s scowl,
So sharp the quavering cries of demons
And the wild beasts’ howl.
With the oaken planks the weltering waves were wrestling
In their noisy splashing;
While the sharp beak of our swift ship
On the sea-pigs came dashing.
The wind kept still renewing all its wildness
In the far West,
Till with every kind of strain and trouble
We were sore distress’d.
We were blinded with the water
Showering o’er us ever;
And the awful night like thunder,
And the lightning ceasing never.
The bright fireballs in our tackling
Flamed and smoked;
With the smell of burning brimstone
We were well-nigh choked.
All the elements above, below,
Against us wrought;
Earth and wind and fire and water,
With us fought.
But when the evil one defied the sea
To make us yield,
At last, with one bright smile of pity,
Peace with us she seal’d:
Yet not before our yards were injured,
And our sails were rent,
Our poops were strained, our oars were weaken’d,
All our masts were bent.
Not a stay but we had started,
Our tackling all was wet and splashy,
Nails and couplings, twisted, broken.
Feeshie, fashie,
All the thwarts and all the gunwale
Everywhere confess’d,
And all above and all below,
How sore they had been press’d.
Not a bracket, not a rib,
But the storm had loosed;
Fore and aft from stem to stern,
All had got confused.
Not a tiller but was split,
And the helm was wounded;
Every board its own complaint
Sadly sounded.
Every trennel, every fastening
Had been giving way;
Not a board remain’d as firm
As at the break of day.
Not a bolt in her but started,
Not a rope the wind that bore,
Not a part of the whole vessel
But was weaker than before.
The sea spoke to us its peace prattle
At the cross of Islay’s Kyle,
And the rough wind, bitter boaster!
Was restrained for one good while.
The tempest rose from off us into places
Lofty in the upper air,
And after all its noisy barking
Ruffled round us fair.
Then we gave thanks to the High King,
Who rein’d the wind’s rude breath,
And saved our good Clan Ranald
From a bad and brutal death.
Then we furl’d up the fine and speckled sails
Of linen wide,
And we took down the smooth red dainty masts,
And laid them by the side--
On our long and slender polish’d oars
Together leaning--
They were all made of the fir cut by Mac Barais
In Eilean Fionain--
We went with our smooth, dashing rowing,
And steady shock,
Till we reach’d the good port round the point
Of Fergus’ Rock.
There casting anchor peacefully
We calmly rode;
We got meat and drink in plenty,
And there we abode.
The Lament of the Deer.
(Cumha nam Fiadh.)
[Sidenote: ANGUS MACKENZIE]
O for my strength! once more to see the hills!
The wilds of Strath-Farar of stags,
The blue streams, and winding vales,
Where the flowering tree sends forth its sweet perfume.
My thoughts are sad and dark!--
I lament the forest where I loved to roam,
The secret corries, the haunt of hinds,
Where often I watched them on the hill!
Corrie-Garave! O that I was within thy bosom
Scuir-na-Làpaich of steeps, with thy shelter,
Where feed the herds which never seek for stalls,
But whose skin gleams red in the sunshine of the hills.
Great was my love in youth, and strong my desire,
Towards the bounding herds;
But now, broken, and weak, and hopeless,
Their remembrance wounds my heart.
To linger in the laich[24] I mourn,
My thoughts are ever in the hills;
For there my childhood and my youth was nursed--
The moss and the craig in the morning breeze was my delight.
Then was I happy in my life,
When the voices of the hill sung sweetly;
More sweet to me, than any string,
It soothed my sorrow or rejoiced my heart.
My thoughts wandered to no other land
Beyond the hill of the forest, the shealings of the deer,
Where the nimble herds ascended the hill,--
As I lay in my plaid on the dewy bed.
The sheltering hollows, where I crept towards the hart,
On the pastures of the glen, or in the forest wilds--
And if once more I may see them as of old,
How will my heart bound to watch again the pass!
Great was my joy to ascend the hills
In the cause of the noble chief,
Mac Shimé of the piercing eye--never to fail at need,
With all his brave Frasers, gathered beneath his banner.
When they told of his approach, with all his ready arms,
My heart bounded for the chase--
On the rugged steep, on the broken hill,
By hollow, and ridge, many were the red stags which he laid low.
He is the pride of hunters; my trust was in his gun,
When the sound of its shot rung in my ear,
The grey ball launched in flashing fire,
And the dun stag fell in the rushing speed of his course.
When evening came down on the hill,
The time for return to the star of the glen,
The kindly lodge where the noble gathered,
The sons of the tartan and the plaid,
With joy and triumph they returned
To the dwelling of plenty and repose;
The bright blazing hearth--the circling wine--
The welcome of the noble chief!
Ben Dorain.
[Sidenote: DUNCAN BAN MACINTYRE]
The honour o’er each hill
Hath Ben Dorain;
Scene, to me, the sweetest still
That day dawns upon:
Its long moor’s level way,
And its nooks whence wild deer stray,
To the lustre on the brae
Oft I’ve lauded them.
Dear to me its dusky boughs,
In the wood where green grass grows,
And the stately herd repose,
Or there wander slow;
But the troops with bellies white,
When the chase comes into sight,
Then I love to watch their flight,
Going nosily.
The stag is airy, brisk, and light,
And no pomp has he;
Though his garb’s the fashion quite,
Never haughty he:
Yet a mantle’s round him spread,
Not soon threadbare, then shed,
And its hue as wax is red--
Fairly clothing him.
The delight I felt to rise
At the morning’s call!
And to see the troops I prize
The hills thronging all:
Ten score with stately tread,
And with light uplifted head,
Quite unpampered there that fed,
Fond and fawning all.
Lightsomely there came
From each clean and shapely frame,
Through their murmuring lips, a tame
Chant, with drawling fall.
In the pool one rolled a low--
With the hind one played the beau,
As she trotted to and fro,
Looking saucily.
I would rather have the deer
Gasping moaningly,
Than all Erin’s songs to hear
Sung melodiously;
For above the finest bass
Hath the stag’s sweet voice a grace,
As he bellows on the face
Of Ben Dorain.
Loud and long he gives a roar
From his very inmost core,
Which is heard behind, before,
Far and fallingly;
But the hind of softer notes,
With her calf that near her trots,
Match each other’s tuneful throats,
Crying longingly.
Her eye’s soft and tender ray
With no flaw in it,
O’er whose lid the brow is gray,
Guides her wandering feet:
Very well she walks, and bold,
Lively o’er the russet wold,
Tripping from her desert hold
Most undauntingly.
Faultless is her pace,
And her leap is full of grace--
Ha! the last when in the race
Never saw I her:
When she takes yon startled stride,
Nor once turns her head aside,
Aught to match her hasty pride
Is not known to me.
But now she’s on the heath,
As she ought to be,
Where the tender grass she seeth,
Growing dawtily;
The dry bent, the moor grass bare,
With the sappy herbs are there,
That make fat, and full, and fair,
Her plump quarters all.
And those little wells are nigh,
Where the water-cresses lie,
Above wine she likes to try
Their waves’ solacing;
Of the rye-grass, twisted rows,
On the rude hill side it grows,
Than of rarest festal shows,
Is she fonder far.
The choice increase of the earth
Forms her joyous treat;
The primrose, St John’s wort,
Tops of gowans sweet,
The new buds of the groves,
The soft heath o’er which she roves,
Are the tit-bits that she loves,
With good cause too.
For speckled, spotted, rare,
Tall, and fine, and fair,
From such food before her there
She grows sonsily;
And it is still the surest mean
To cure the weak ones and the lean,
Who for any time have been
Wasted, wan, and low.
Soon it would clothe their back
With the garb which most they lack--
That rich fat, which they can pack
Most commodiously.
She’s a flighty young hind
When leaves ward her,
Nearer her haunts where they bind
The brae border:
Lightsome and urbane
Is her gay heart, free of stain,
Tho’ rash head and somewhat vain--
Somewhat thoughtless.
Yet her form, so full of grace,
She keeps hiding in a place,
Where the green glen shows no trace
Of a falling off;
But she’s so healthy, and so clean--
So chaste where’er she’s seen--
Should you kiss her lips, I ween
’Twould not cause you shame.
Greatly prized is she, I know,
By the stag with crested brow,
Whose thundering hoofs around him throw
Such a saucy sound;
When with him she meets the view
Red and yellow in her hue,
And of virtues not a few
That belong to her,
Then too is she free of fear,
And in speed without a peer,
And the primest ear to hear
In all Europe’s hers.
Oh! how sweetly they embrace,
Young and fawning,
When they gather to their place
In the gloaming;
There, till silent night is by,
Never terror comes them nigh,
While beneath the bush they lie--
Their known haunt of old.
Let the wild herd seek their bed,
Let them slumber, free of dread,
Where yon mighty moor is spread,
Broad and brawly;
Where, with joy, I’ve often spied
The sun colour their red hide,
As they wandered in their pride
O’er Ben Dorain.
The Hill-Water.
From the rim it trickles down
Of the mountain’s granite crown
Clear and cool;
Keen and eager though it go
Through your veins with lively flow,
Yet it knoweth not to reign
In the chambers of the brain
With misrule;
Where dark water-cresses grow
You will trace its quiet flow,
With mossy border yellow,
So mild, and soft, and mellow,
In its pouring.
With no shiny dregs to trouble
The brightness of its bubble
As it threads its silver way
From the granite shoulders grey
Of Ben Dorain.
Then down the sloping side
It will slip with glassy slide
Gently welling,
Till it gather strength to leap,
With a light and foamy sweep,
To the corrie broad and deep
Proudly swelling;
Then bends amid the boulders,
’Neath the shadow of the shoulders
Of the Ben,
Through a country rough and shaggy,
So jaggy and so knaggy,
Full of hummocks and of hunches,
Full of stumps and tufts and bunches,
Full of bushes and of rushes,
In the glen,
Through rich green solitudes,
And wildly hanging woods
With blossom and with bell,
In rich redundant swell,
And the pride
Of the mountain daisy there,
And the forest everywhere,
With the dress and with the air
Of a bride.
Song for Macleod of Macleod.
[Sidenote: MARY MACLEOD]
Alone on the hill-top,
Sadly and silently,
Downward on Islay
And over the sea--
I look and I wonder
How time hath deceived me:
A stranger in Muile[25]
Who ne’er thought to be.
Ne’er thought it, my island!
Where rests the deep dark shade
Thy grand mossy mountains
For ages have made--
God bless thee, and prosper!
Thy chief of the sharp blade,
All over these islands,
His fame never fade!
Never fade it, Sir Norman!
For well ’tis the right
Of thy name to win credit
In council or fight;
By wisdom, by shrewdness,
By spirit, by might,
By manliness, courage,
By daring, by sleight.
In council or fight, thy kindred
Know these should be thine--
Branch of Lochlin’s wide-ruling
And king-bearing line!
And in Erin they know it--
Far over the brine:
No Earl would in Albin
Thy friendship decline.
[Sidenote: MARY MACLEOD]
Yes! the nobles of Erin
Thy titles well know,
To the honour and friendship
Of high and of low.
Born the deed-marks to follow,
Thy father did show,--
That friend of the noble--
That manliest foe.
That friend of the noble--
From him art thou heir
To virtues which Albin
Was proud to declare:
Crown’d the best of her chieftains
Long, long may’st thou wear
The blossoms paternal
His broad branches bare!
O banner’d Clan Ruari!
Whose loss is my woe,
Of this chief who survives
May I ne’er hear he’s low;
But, darling of mortals!
From him though I go,
Long the shapeliest, comeliest
Form may he show!
The shapeliest, comeliest,
Faultless in bearing--
Cheerful, cordial, and kind,
The red and white wearing,
Well looks the blue-eyed chief;
Blue, bright, and daring,
His eye o’er his red cheek shines,
Blue, bright, calmly daring.
His red cheek shines,
Like hip on the brier-tree,
’Neath the choicest of curly hair
Waving and free.
A warm hearth, a drinking cup,
Meet shall he see,
And a choice of good armour
Whoe’er visits thee.
Drinking-horns, trenchers bright,
And arms old and new;
Long, narrow-bladed swords,
Cold, clear, and blue--
These are seen in thy mansion,
With rifles and carbines, too;
And hempen-strung long-bows,
Of hard, healthy yew.
Long-bows and cross-bows,
With strings that well wear;
Arrows, with polish’d heads,
In quivers full and fair,
From the eagle’s wing feather’d,
With silk fine and rare;
And guns dear to purchase--
Long slender--are there.
My heart’s with thee, hero!
May Mary’s son keep
My stripling who loves
The lone forest to sweep;
Rejoicing to feel there
The solitude deep
Of the long moor and valley,
And rough mountain steep.
The mountain steep searching
And rough rocky chains;
The old dogs he caresses,
The young dogs he restrains:
Then, soon from my chieftain’s spear
The life-blood rains
Of the red-hided deer or doe
And the green heather stains.
[Sidenote: MARY MACLEOD]
Fall the red stag, the white-bellied doe;
Then stand on the heather,
Thy gentle companions,
Well arm’d altogether,
Well taught on the hunter’s craft,
Well skill’d in the weather;
They know the rough sea as well
As the green heather!
III
MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY SCOTO-CELTIC
Monaltri.
[Sidenote: ANON.]
There’s a sound on the hill,
Not of joy but of ailing;
Dark-hair’d women mourn--
Beat their hands, with loud wailing.
They cry out, Ochon!
For the young Monaltri,
Who went to the hill;
But home came not he.
Without snood, without plaid
Katrina’s gone roaming.
O Katrina, my dear!
Homeward be coming.
Och! hear, on the castle
Yon pretty bird singing,
“Snoodless and plaidless,
Her hands she is ringing.”
An Coineachan--A Highland Lullaby.
Hó-bhan, hó-bhan, Goiridh òg O,
Goiridh òg O, Goiridh òg O;
Hó-bhan, hó-bhan, Goiridh òg O,
I’ve lost my darling baby O!
I left my darling lying here,
A-lying here, a-lying here;
I left my darling lying here,
To go and gather blaeberries.
I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track,
The otter’s track, the otter’s track;
I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track,
But ne’er a trace of baby O!
I found the track of the swan on the lake,
The swan on the lake, the swan on the lake;
I found the track of the swan on the lake,
But not the track of baby O!
I found the track of the yellow fawn,
The yellow fawn, the yellow fawn;
I found the track of the yellow fawn,
But could not trace my baby O!
I’ve found the trail of the mountain mist,
The mountain mist, the mountain mist;
I’ve found the trail of the mountain mist,
But ne’er a trace of baby O!
A Boat Song.
[Sidenote: ANON.]
Ho, my bonnie boatie,
Thou bonnie boatie mine!
So trim and tight a boatie
Was never launched on brine.
Ho, my bonnie boatie,
My praise is justly thine
Above all bonnie boaties
Were builded on Loch Fyne!
_Hò mo bhàta laghach,
’S tu mo bhàta grinn;
Hò mo bhàta laghach,
’S tu mo bhàta grinn.
Hò mo bhàta laghach,
’S tu mo bhàta grinn:
Mo bhàta boidheach laghach,
Thogadh taobh Loch Fin._
To build thee up so firmly,
I knew the stuff was good;
Thy keel of stoutest elm-tree,
Well fixed in oaken wood;
Thy timbers ripely seasoned
Of cleanest Norway pine
Well cased in ruddy copper,
To plough the deep were thine!
_Hò mo bhàta, etc._
How lovely was my boatie
At rest upon the shore,
Before my bonnie boatie
Had known wild ocean’s roar.
Thy deck so smooth and stainless,
With such fine bend thy rim,
Thy seams that know no gaping,
Thy masts so tall and trim.
_Hò mo bhàta, etc._
And bonnie was my boatie
Afloat upon the bay,
When smooth as mirror round her
The heaving ocean lay;
While round the cradled boatie
Light troops of plumy things
To praise the bonnie boatie
Made music with their wings.
_Hò mo bhàta, etc._
How eager was my boatie
To plough the swelling seas,
When o’er the curling waters
Full sharply blew the breeze!
O, ’twas she that stood to windward,
The first among her peers,
When shrill the blasty music
Came piping round her ears!
_Hò mo bhàta, etc._
And where the sea came surging
In mountains from the west,
And reared the racing billow
Its high and hissing crest;
She turned her head so deftly,
With skill so firmly shown,
The billows they went their way
The boatie went her own.
_Hò mo bhàta, etc._
And when the sudden squall came
Black swooping from the Ben,
And white the foam was spinning
Around thy topmast then,
O never knew my boatie
A thought of ugly dread,
But dashed right through the billow,
With the spray-shower round her head!
_Hò mo bhàta, etc._
[Sidenote: ANON.]
Yet wert thou never headstrong
To stand with forward will,
When yielding was thy wisdom
And caution was my skill.
How neatly and how nimbly
Thou turned thee to the wind,
With thy leeside in the water
And a swirling trail behind!
_Hò mo bhàta, etc._
What though a lonely dwelling
On barren shore I own,
My kingdom is the blue wave,
My boatie is my throne!
I’ll never want a dainty dish
To breakfast or to dine,
While men may man my boatie
And fish swim in Loch Fyne!
_Hò mo bhàta laghach,
’S tu mo bhàta grinn.
Hò mo bhàta laghach,
’S tu mo bhàta grinn.
Hò mo bhàta laghach,
’S tu mo bhàta grinn:
Mo bhàta boidheach laghach,
Thogadh taobh Loch Fin._
The Old Soldier of the Gareloch Head.
[Sidenote: JOHN STUART BLACKIE]
I’ve wander’d east and west,
And a soldier I hae been;
The scars upon my breast
Tell the wars that I have seen.
But now I’m old and worn,
And my locks are thinly spread,
And I’m come to die in peace,
By the Gareloch Head.
When I was young and strong,
Oft a wandering I would go,
By the rough shores of Loch Long,
Up to lone Glencroe.
But now I’m fain to rest,
And my resting-place I’ve made,
On the green and gentle bosom
Of the Gareloch Head.
’Twas here my Jeanie grew,
Like a lamb amid the flocks,
With her eyes of bonnie blue,
And her gowden locks.
And here we often met,
When with lightsome foot we sped,
O’er the green and grassy knolls
At the Gareloch Head.
’Twas here she pined and died--
O! the salt tear in my e’e
Forbids my heart to hide
What Jeanie was to me!
’Twas here my Jeanie died,
And they scoop’d her lowly bed,
’Neath the green and grassy turf
At the Gareloch Head.
[Sidenote: JOHN STUART BLACKIE]
Like a leaf in leafy June,
From the leafy forest torn,
She fell, and I’ll fall soon
Like a sheaf of yellow corn.
For I’m sere and weary now,
And I soon shall make my bed
With my Jeanie ’neath the turf
At the Gareloch Head.
Flower of the World.
[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN]
Wherever men sinned and wept,
I wandered in my quest;
At last in a Garden of God
I saw the Flower of the World.
This Flower had human eyes,
Its breath was the breath of the mouth;
Sunlight and starlight came,
And the Flower drank bliss from both.
Whatever was base and unclean,
Whatever was sad and strange,
Was piled around its roots;
It drew its strength from the same.
Whatever was formless and base
Pass’d into fineness and form;
Whatever was lifeless and mean
Grew into beautiful bloom.
Then I thought “O Flower of the World,
Miraculous Blossom of things,
Light as a faint wreath of snow
Thou tremblest to fall in the wind:
“O beautiful Flower of the World,
Fall not nor wither away;
He is coming--He cannot be far--
The Lord of the Flow’rs and the Stars.”
And I cried, “O Spirit divine!
That walkest the Garden unseen,
Come hither, and bless, ere it dies,
The beautiful Flower of the World.”
The Strange Country.
[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN]
I have come from a mystical Land of Light
To a Strange Country;
The Land I have left is forgotten quite
In the Land I see.
The round Earth rolls beneath my feet,
And the still Stars glow,
The murmuring Waters rise and retreat,
The Winds come and go.
Sure as a heart-beat all things seem
In this Strange Country;
So sure, so still, in a dazzle of dream,
All things flow free.
’Tis life, all life, be it pleasure or pain,
In the Field and the Flood,
In the beating Heart, in the burning Brain,
In the Flesh and the Blood.
Deep as Death is the daily strife
Of this Strange Country:
All things thrill up till they blossom in Life,
And flutter and flee.
Nothing is stranger than the rest,
From the pole to the pole,
The weed by the way, the eggs in the nest,
The Flesh and the Soul.
Look in mine eyes, O Man I meet
In this Strange Country!
Lie in my arms, O Maiden sweet,
With thy mouth kiss me!
Go by, O King, with thy crownèd brow
And thy sceptred hand--
Thou art a straggler too, I vow,
From the same strange Land.
O wondrous Faces that upstart
In this Strange Country!
O Souls, O Shades, that become a part
Of my Soul and me!
What are ye working so fast and fleet,
O Humankind?
“We are building Cities for those whose feet
Are coming behind;
“Our stay is short, we must fly again
From this Strange Country;
But others are growing, women and men,
Eternally!”
Child, what art thou? and what am _I_?
But a breaking wave!
Rising and rolling on, we hie
To the shore of the grave.
I have come from a mystical Land of Light
To this Strange Country;
This dawn I came, I shall go to-night,
Ay me! ay me!
I hold my hand to my head and stand
’Neath the air’s blue arc,
I try to remember the mystical Land,
But all is dark.
And all around me swim Shapes like mine
In this Strange Country;--
They break in the glamour of gleams divine,
And they moan “Ay me!”
[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN]
Like waves in the cold Moon’s silvern breath
They gather and roll,
Each crest of white is a birth or a death,
Each sound is a Soul.
Oh, whose is the Eye that gleams so bright
O’er this Strange Country?
It draws us along with a chain of light,
As the Moon the Sea!
The Dream of the World without Death.
Now, sitting by her side, worn out with weeping,
Behold, I fell to sleep, and had a vision,
Wherein I heard a wondrous Voice intoning:
Crying aloud, “The Master on His throne
Openeth now the seventh seal of wonder,
And beckoneth back the angel men name Death.