Kambalu. 29 The rings had dropped from his withered hands, His teeth were like bones in the desert sands; Still clutching his treasure he had died; A statue of gold with a silver beard, This is the story, strange and true, Told to his brother the Tartar Khan, THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY. SEE, the fire is sinking low, Dusky red the embers glow, While above them still I cower, While a moment more I linger, Though the clock, with lifted finger, Points beyond the midnight hour. Sings the blackened log a tune From a schoolboy at his play, When they both were young together, Heart of youth and summer weather Making all their holiday. The Wind over the Chimney. And the night-wind rising, hark! In the midnight and the snow, All the noisy chimneys blow! Every quivering tongue of flame Into darkness sinks your fire!" Then the flicker of the blaze Gleams on volumes of old days, Written by masters of the art, Loud through whose majestic pages Rolls the melody of ages, Throb the harp-strings of the heart. 31 3322 The Wind over the Chimney. And again the tongues of flame Start exulting and exclaim: "These are prophets, bards, and seers; In the horoscope of nations, Like ascendant constellations, They control the coming years." But the night-wind cries: "Despair! Leave no long-enduring marks; "Dust are all the hands that wrought; The dead laurels of the dead Rustle for a moment only, Like the withered leaves in lonely Churchyards at some passing tread." The Wind over the Chimney. Suddenly the flame sinks down; And alone the night-wind drear Clamours louder, wilder, vaguer,""Tis the brand of Meleager Dying on the hearth-stone here!" And I answer,-"Though it be, Its reward is in the doing, Is the prize the vanquished gain. 33 |