The True Northerner

The Last of His Race,
FIFTEENTH CENTURY.

The moon may don her yellow zone,
The autumn winds pipe clearer;
By zephyrs were the rose-leaves strewn,
The storms have harvests searer.
Before the blasts this once-warm life
At last begins to shiver;
Nor long will palsied souls have strife,
Nor withered leaflets quiver.

I've gayly rode through wheaten fields
Of amber stem and tassel;
I've watched the sheen of ordered shields:
I've spent long nights in wassail:
I've felt the joy in herald's calls,
And in the ring of lances;
And harpers, singing in old halls,
Have rapt me into trances.

I've known the joy of swaying man,
And proved the love of woman:
I've stood by friends when red blood ran,
And never shrunk from foeman.
But ah! what matter that I ride
Beside my monarch's bridle,
Or in the council halls decide,
Or move the soldiers' idol?

Nor clash of steel, nor scent of wine
Nor arms' encircling pressure,
Nor song of bard, nor Christ's own shrine,
Has power to grant me pleasure.
I take no joy in deed or dream,
Nor care for night or morrow;
But, like a lily on its stream,
My heart rocks in its sorrow.

—Joseph O'Connor.