“Say, knew’st thou never fear or awe?”
Thus Patrick, and the Bard replied:
“Yea, once: for once a man I saw
Who—not in battle—died.
“I sang the things I loved—the fight—
The chance inspired that all decides—
That pause of death, when Fate and Flight
Drag back the battle tides:
The swords that blent their lightnings blue—
The midnight march—the city’s sack—
The advancing ridge of spears that threw
The levelled sunrise back.
“And yet my harp could still the storm,
Redeem the babe from magic blight,
Restore to human heart and form
The unhappy spell-bound knight.
“And some could hear a sobbing hind
Among my chords; and some would swear
They heard that kiss of branch and wind
That lulled the wild-deer’s lair!
“I sang not lies: where base men thronged,
I sat not, neither harped for gold:
My song no generous foeman wronged,
No woman’s secret told.
“I sang among the sea-side flocks
When sunset flushed the bowery spray,
Or when the white moon scaled the rocks
And glared upon the bay.
“My stately music I rehearsed
On shadowing cliffs, when, far below,
In rolled the moon-necked wave, and burst,
And changed black shores to snow.
“But now I tread a darker brink:
Far down, unfriendlier waters moan:
And now of vanished times I think;
Now of that bourn unknown.
“I strike my harp; I make good cheer;
Yet scarce myself can catch its sound:
I see but shadows bending near
When feasters press around.