There are marks of age, There are thumb-marks on thy margin, Made by hands that clasped thee rudely, At the alehouse. Soiled and dull thou art; Yellow are thy time-worn pages, As the russet, rain-molested Leaves of autumn. Thou art stained with wine As these leaves with the libations Yet dost thou recall Days departed, half-forgotten, G When I paused to hear The old ballad of King Christian Thou recallest bards, Who, in solitary chambers, And with hearts by passion wasted, Thou recallest homes Where thy songs of love and friendship Made the gloomy Northern winter Bright as summer. Once some ancient Scald, In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, Chanted staves of these old ballads Once in Elsinore, At the court of old King Hamlet, Yorick and his boon companions Once Prince Frederick's Guard Joined the chorus ! Peasants in the field, Sailors on the roaring ocean, Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, All have sung them. Thou hast been their friend; They, alas! have left thee friendless! |