~Vale!~

(George Macdonald.)

Death rides apace for Time the Conqueror;
And spurring to the merry Court of Life,
Winds with thin lips the summons of his King:
And straight the candle flickers in the sconce;
The flame falls back upon the hearth in the sconce;
The poured wine stales unpledged within the bowl;
The minstrel's fingers stiffen on the strings.
High Priest of Celtic Fantasy — Ferewell!
Harper who harped the Celtic world awake!
Grief is the keenness of the northern wind;
Grief is a mist greyness of a raining sky.
The alter of the Stare-five is acold;
The hall is hushed where once the legend ran,
And dark where once the chords rang swept with power.