Page:Poetical Remains.pdf/43



upon the threshold stone Of mine ancestral hall; I hear my native river moan; I see the night o'er my old forests fall.

I look round on the darkening vale, That saw my childhood's plays: The low wind in its rising wail Hath a strange tone, a sound of other days.

But I must rule my swelling breast: A sign is in the sky; Bright o'er yon grey rock's eagle nest Shines forth a warning star—it bids me fly.