  The ancient Highlanders believed the spirits of their departed friends continually present, and that their imagined appearances and voices communicated warnings of approaching death. Oh! set the bridal feast aside, And bear the harp away; The coronach must sound instead, From solemn kirk-yard gray. I heard last eve, at set of sun, The death-bell on the gale. It was no earthly melody:— The eglantine grew pale; With an unuttered prayer, As, fraught with desolateness wild, The strange notes stirred the air. And on the rugged mountain height, Where snow and sunbeam meet, That never yet in storm or shine Was trod by human feet, A weird and spectral presence came Between me and the light; The waving of a shadowy hand That faded into night. I felt it was the first who left Our little household band,— The child, with waving locks of gold, Now in the silent land. From Katrine's silvery wave, A form of aspect ominous, With pensive look and grave, Moved from the waters towards the glen Where stands the holly-tree; 'T was the brother who is sleeping low Beneath the stormy sea. And while to-night the curfew bell Rang out with solemn chime, As soundeth o'er the buried year, The organ peal of time, And, near the fragrant jessamine, I mused in garden glade, A phantom form appeared to me Beneath the hawthorn shade. The moon was up on high, And every star was sphered with calm, Like an archangel's eye; And melancholy music swept With cadence low and sweet, Such as ascends when spirit-wings Around a death-bed meet. O was it not a mother's heart That gave that warning sign; The loving heart that used to thrill To every grief of mine? I oft have deemed, in sunny hours, When life with love was fraught, The nearness of the dead to us A fantasy of thought. I used to view with pain, I feel the chains of severed love Are linking close again. Another hand must smooth and bless My father's silver hair; Another voice must read to him At morn and evening prayer. The flowers that I have trained will bloom, But at another's side; And he I love will seek perchance, A gentler, fairer bride. And soon another shade will haunt The echo and the gloom, With pining heart of restless love, And omens of the tomb. And bear the harp away; The coronach must sound instead From solemn kirk-yard gray. |
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