O Melleff! had the pictured scroll
Of Time's strange tale ere met thine eye,
The anguish of thy fainting soul
Thou wouldst forget, where thou dost lie,
Gazing on Zowan's towering crest
Now in its sunset glory dressed.
Hark ! from yon frowning heights dost thou not hear
Voices unearthly through the gathering gloom,
So low and mournful, that the listening ear
Knows them but echoes from the hollow tomb ?
Alas, we cannot catch the words they speak !
From lips of such ethereal essence light,
Our heavy, cloddish senses are too weak
To guess the mystic meaning half aright.
Oh, for the gift divine, late dreamers claim,
With souls departed converse free to hold !
Then would we bid the dead of olden fame
Come nearer, and the mighty past unfold.