His youth was swept away by time’s relentless rage.
Far away fled its dream, dead as a lifeless shade,
Reflections of cities white, that in the waters bathe.
Just as the final thought of men who died before,
Just as their very names, as wars of ancient hordes,
Just as the northern light, whose dead flame shines no more,
Tones of an age-warped harp, sounds of its shattered chords,
Events of by-gone days, the light of a lifeless star,
Feelings of one you loved, a wanderer’s path so far,
A grave long since forgot, eternities’ old scar,
A smold'ring fire’s smoke, sounds of metallic chimes,
These are the echoed dreams of the man’s childhood times.
Within the cool dale’s darkened lap,
Where aged oak trees form a gap,
A grieving chorus sits around;
All wrapped within their cloaks of white.
They are the comrades of the night.
Each gazes ahead at the dark, still ground.
Without words and without motion
As if fear’s relentless ocean
Changed them into lifeless molds.
As an evening song unfolds,
Softly whispering, softly sighing
Thus the circle trembles gravely,
With an endless whisper crying:
“Our mighty chieftain, perished.”
As a wind that howls and bounds,
O'er the rigid circle sounds,
“Our mighty chieftain perished.”
As the whispering of the trees
Beneath the mount, where echoes moan,
Thus resounded on the breeze
In an unchanged monotone:
“Our mighty chieftain perished.”
Distant forests faintly shivered,
And lamenting voices quivered.
“Our beloved Master perished.”
21
