White as a sea-fog, landward bound, The spectral camp was seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, The river flowed between. No other voice nor sound was there, No drum, nor sentry's pace; The mist-like banners clasped the air, As clouds with clouds embrace. But, when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarmed air. Down the broad valley fast and far Up rose the glorious morning star, I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul. Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, In Fancy's misty light, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Upon its midnight battle-ground And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, No other voice, nor sound is there, But the rushing of Life's wave. And, when the solemn and deep church-bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away. Down the broad Vale of Tears afar Our ghastly fears are dead. MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. YES, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow; "Caw! caw!" the rooks are calling, It is a sound of woe, A sound of woe! MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 27 Through woods and mountain passes They are chanting solemn masses, Singing; "Pray for this poor soul, And the hooded clouds, like friars, There he stands in the foul weather, Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, Like weak, despised Lear, A king, a king! |