ON THE BORDER HILLS.

So the dark shadows deepen in the trees

That crown the border mountains, all the air

Is filled with mist-begotten phantasies

Shaped and transfigured in the sunset glare.

What wildly spurring warrior-wraiths are these?

What tossing headgear, and what red-gold hair?

What lances flashing, what far trumpet’ s blare,

That dies along the desultory breeze?

Slow night comes creeping with her misty wings

Up to the hill’ s crest, where the yew trees grow;

About their shadow-haunted circle clings

The rumour of an unrecorded woe,

Old as the battle of those border kings

Slain in the darkling hollow-lands below.