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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354014" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Hunting Horn Of Chalemagne</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">SOUND not the Horn!--the guarded relic keep: <br>A faithful sharer of its master's sleep: <br>His life it gladden'd--to his life belong'd,-- <br>Pause--ere thy lip the royal dead hath wrong'd. <br>Its weary weight but mocks thy feeble hand; <br>Its desolate note, the shrine wherein we stand. <br>Not such the sound it gave in days of yore, <br>When that rich belt a monarch's bosom wore,-- <br>Not such the sound! Far over hill and dell <br>It waked the echoes with triumphant swell; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Heard midst the rushing of the torrent's fall, <br>From castled crag to roofless ruin'd hall, <br>Down the ravine's precipitous descent, <br>Thro' the wild forest's rustling boughs it went, <br>Upon the lake's blue bosom linger'd fond, <br>And faintly answer'd from the hills beyond: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Pause!--the free winds that joyous blast have borne:-- <br>Dead is the hunter!--silent be the horn! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sound not the horn! Bethink thee of the day <br>When to the chase an Emperor led the way; <br>In all the pride of manhood's noblest prime, <br>Untamed by sorrow, and untired by time, <br>Life's pulses throbbing in his eager breast, <br>Glad, active, vigorous,--who is now at rest:-- <br>How he gazed round him with his eagle eye, <br>Leapt the dark rocks that frown against the sky, <br>Grasp'd the long spear, and curb'd the panting steed <br>(Whose fine nerves quiver with his headlong speed), <br>At the wild cry of danger smiled in scorn, <br>And firmly sounded that re-echoing horn! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah! let no touch the ivory tube profane <br>Which drank the breath of living Charlemagne; <br>Let not like blast by meaner lips be blown, <br>But by the hunter's side the horn lay down! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or, following to his palace, dream we now <br>Not of the hunter's strength, or forest bough, <br>But woman's love! HER offering this, perchance,-- <br>This, granted to each stranger's casual glance, <br>This, gazed upon with coldly curious eyes, <br>Was giv'n with blushes, and received with sighs! <br>We see her not;--no mournful angel stands <br>To guard her love-gift from our careless hands; <br>But fancy brings a vision to our view-- <br>A woman's form, the trusted and the true: <br>The strong to suffer, tho' so weak to dare <br>Patient to watch thro' many a day of care, <br>Devoted, anxious, generous, void of guile, <br>And with her whole heart's welcome in her smile; <br>Even such I see! Her maidens, too, are there, <br>And wake, with chorus sweet, some native air; <br>But tho' her proud heart holds her country dear, <br>And tho' she loves those happy songs to hear, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">She bids the tale be hush'd, the harp be still, <br>For one faint blast that dies along the hill. <br>Up, up, she springs; her young head backward thrown; <br>'He comes! my hunter comes!--Mine own--mine own!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">She loves, and she is loved--her gift is worn-- <br>'Tis fancy, all!--And yet--lay down the horn! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Love--life--what are ye?--since to love and live <br>No surer record to our times can give! <br>Low lies the hero now, whose spoken name <br>Could fire with glory, or with love inflame; <br>Low lies the arm of might, the form of pride, <br>And dim tradition dreameth by his side. <br>Desolate stand those painted palace-halls, <br>And gradual ruin mines the massy walls, <br>Where frank hearts greeted many a welcome guest, <br>And loudly rang the beaker and the jest;-- <br>While here, within this chapel's narrow bound, <br>Whose frozen silence startles to the sound <br>Of stranger voices ringing thro' the air, <br>Of faintly echoes many a humble prayer; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here, where the window, narrow arch'd, and high, <br>With jealous bars shuts out the free blue sky,-- <br>Where glimmers down, with various-painted ray, <br>A prison'd portion of God's glorious day,-- <br>Where never comes the breezy breath of morn, <br>Here, mighty hunter, feebly wakes thy horn!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Caroline+Elizabeth+Sarah+Norton">Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354014" data-title="The Hunting Horn Of Chalemagne de Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton" data-description="SOUND not the Horn!--the guarded relic keep: 
A faithful sharer of its master's sleep: 
His life it gladden'd--to his life belong'd,-- 
Pause--ere thy lip the royal dead hath wrong'd. 
Its weary weight but mocks thy feeble hand; 
Its desolate note..."></div>
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