James and Mary Ford, eds. Every Day in the Year. 1902.
August 28Lohengrin
By Andrew E. Watrous (d. 1902)
T
Till the silver scales into golden melt,
And the stately sail of the swan is ended
At the thronging bank of the sparkling Scheldt.
From the sense assured of a portent great,
As the hero moves in his awful glamour,
The gleaming shaft of a heavenly hate.
In the troubled wake of the horns harsh blown,
From the charmed hush of the tumult chastened,
The swan knight sings to the swan—alone.
Who hath clearness taught to the silver bell,
Who may lend the trump when the strain grows vaster—
A deeper volume, a broader swell.
When Fernand’s voice to the pendant flows,
In a mellow whisper, one knows he listens
To mortal miming a mortal’s woes.
The mystic mountain, the shining king,
The awful cup, with its crimson glories,
My faith was full as I heard him sing.
Had the Grail-flame lighted his face upon,
For ’twas the voice of an angel-errant,
Wherewith he spake to the faithful swan.