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Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton - The Hunting Horn Of Chalemagne
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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, the shrine wherein we stand. 
Not such the sound it gave in days of yore, 
When that rich belt a monarch`s bosom wore,-- 
Not such the sound! Far over hill and dell 
It waked the echoes with triumphant swell; 

Heard midst the rushing of the torrent`s fall, 
From castled crag to roofless ruin`d hall, 
Down the ravine`s precipitous descent, 
Thro` the wild forest`s rustling boughs it went, 
Upon the lake`s blue bosom linger`d fond, 
And faintly answer`d from the hills beyond: 

Pause!--the free winds that joyous blast have borne:-- 
Dead is the hunter!--silent be the horn! 

Sound not the horn! Bethink thee of the day 
When to the chase an Emperor led the way; 
In all the pride of manhood`s noblest prime, 
Untamed by sorrow, and untired by time, 
Life`s pulses throbbing in his eager breast, 
Glad, active, vigorous,--who is now at rest:-- 
How he gazed round him with his eagle eye, 
Leapt the dark rocks that frown against the sky, 
Grasp`d the long spear, and curb`d the panting steed 
(Whose fine nerves quiver with his headlong speed), 
At the wild cry of danger smiled in scorn, 
And firmly sounded that re-echoing horn! 

Ah! let no touch the ivory tube profane 
Which drank the breath of living Charlemagne; 
Let not like blast by meaner lips be blown, 
But by the hunter`s side the horn lay down! 

Or, following to his palace, dream we now 
Not of the hunter`s strength, or forest bough, 
But woman`s love! HER offering this, perchance,-- 
This, granted to each stranger`s casual glance, 
This, gazed upon with coldly curious eyes, 
Was giv`n with blushes, and received with sighs! 
We see her not;--no mournful angel stands 
To guard her love-gift from our careless hands; 
But fancy brings a vision to our view-- 
A woman`s form, the trusted and the true: 
The strong to suffer, tho` so weak to dare 
Patient to watch thro` many a day of care, 
Devoted, anxious, generous, void of guile, 
And with her whole heart`s welcome in her smile; 
Even such I see! Her maidens, too, are there, 
And wake, with chorus sweet, some native air; 
But tho` her proud heart holds her country dear, 
And tho` she loves those happy songs to hear, 

She bids the tale be hush`d, the harp be still, 
For one faint blast that dies along the hill. 
Up, up, she springs; her young head backward thrown; 
"He comes! my hunter comes!--Mine own--mine own!" 

She loves, and she is loved--her gift is worn-- 
`Tis fancy, all!--And yet--lay down the horn! 

Love--life--what are ye?--since to love and live 
No surer record to our times can give! 
Low lies the hero now, whose spoken name 
Could fire with glory, or with love inflame; 
Low lies the arm of might, the form of pride, 
And dim tradition dreameth by his side. 
Desolate stand those painted palace-halls, 
And gradual ruin mines the massy walls, 
Where frank hearts greeted many a welcome guest, 
And loudly rang the beaker and the jest;-- 
While here, within this chapel`s narrow bound, 
Whose frozen silence startles to the sound 
Of stranger voices ringing thro` the air, 
Of faintly echoes many a humble prayer; 

Here, where the window, narrow arch`d, and high, 
With jealous bars shuts out the free blue sky,-- 
Where glimmers down, with various-painted ray, 
A prison`d portion of God`s glorious day,-- 
Where never comes the breezy breath of morn, 
Here, mighty hunter, feebly wakes thy horn!
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