He is gone on the mountain, <br />He is lost to the forest, <br />Like a summer-dried fountain, <br />When our need was the sorest. <br />The font, reappearing, <br />From the rain-drops shall borrow, <br />But to us comes no cheering, <br />To Duncan no morrow! <br /> <br />The hand of the reaper <br />Takes the ears that are hoary, <br />But the voice of the weeper <br />Wails manhood in glory. <br />The autumn winds rushing <br />Waft the leaves that are searest, <br />But our flower was in flushing, <br />When blighting was nearest. <br /> <br />Fleet foot on the corrie, <br />Sage counsel in cumber, <br />Red hand in the foray, <br />How sound is thy slumber! <br />Like the dew on the mountain, <br />Like the foam on the river, <br />Like the bubble on the fountain, <br />Thou art gone, and for ever!<br /><br />Sir Walter Scott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/coronach/
