Coronach

From “The Lady of the Lake,” Canto III. HE is gone on the mountain,   He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain   When our need was the sorest. The font, reappearing,   From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering,   To Duncan no morrow: The hand of the reaper   Takes the ears that are hoary; But the voice of the weeper   Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing   Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing   When blighting was nearest. Fleet foot on the correi,   Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray,   How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain,   Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain,   Thou art gone, and forever!