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George Meredith - The Flower Of The Ruins
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Take thy lute and sing 
By the ruined castle walls, 
Where the torrent-foam falls, 
And long weeds wave: 
Take thy lute and sing, 
O`er the grey ancestral grave! 
Daughter of a King, 
Tune thy string. 

Sing of happy hours, 
In the roar of rushing time; 
Till all the echoes chime 
To the days gone by; 
Sing of passing hours 
To the ever-present sky; - 
Weep—and let the showers 
Wake thy flowers. 

Sing of glories gone:- 
No more the blazoned fold 
From the banner is unrolled; 
The gold sun is set. 
Sing his glory gone, 
For thy voice may charm him yet; 
Daughter of the dawn, 
He is gone! 

Pour forth all thy grief! 
Passionately sweep the chords, 
Wed them quivering to thy words; 
Wild words of wail! 
Shed thy withered grief - 
But hold not Autumn to thy bale; 
The eddy of the leaf 
Must be brief! 

Sing up to the night: 
Hard it is for streaming tears 
To read the calmness of the spheres; 
Coldly they shine; 
Sing up to their light; 
They have views thou may`st divine - 
Gain prophetic sight 
From their light! 

On the windy hills 
Lo, the little harebell leans 
On the spire-grass that it queens, 
With bonnet blue; 
Trusting love instils 
Love and subject reverence true; 
Learn what love instils 
On the hills! 

By the bare wayside 
Placid snowdrops hang their cheeks, 
Softly touch`d with pale green streaks, 
Soon, soon, to die; 
On the clothed hedgeside 
Bands of rosy beauties vie, 
In their prophesied 
Summer pride. 

From the snowdrop learn; 
Not in her pale life lives she, 
But in her blushing prophecy. 
Thus be thy hopes, 
Living but to yearn 
Upwards to the hidden scopes; - 
Even within the urn 
Let them burn! 

Heroes of thy race - 
Warriors with golden crowns, 
Ghostly shapes with marbled frowns 
Stare thee to stone; 
Matrons of thy race 
Pass before thee making moan; 
Full of solemn grace 
Is their pace. 

Piteous their despair! 
Piteous their looks forlorn! 
Terrible their ghostly scorn! 
Still hold thou fast; - 
Heed not their despair! - 
Thou art thy future, not thy past; 
Let them glance and glare 
Thro` the air. 

Thou the ruin`s bud, 
Be not that moist rich-smelling weed 
With its arras-sembled brede, 
And ruin-haunting stalk; 
Thou the ruin`s bud, 
Be still the rose that lights the walk, 
Mix thy fragrant blood 
With the flood!
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