Gunnar's Howe Above The House At Lithend.

Ye who have come o'er the sea     to behold this grey minster of lands,     Whose floor is the tomb of time past,     and whose walls by the toil of dead hands     Show pictures amidst of the ruin     of deeds that have overpast death,     Stay by this tomb in a tomb     to ask of who lieth beneath.     Ah! the world changeth too soon,     that ye stand there with unbated breath,     As I name him that Gunnar of old,     who erst in the haymaking tide     Felt all the land fragrant and fresh,     as amidst of the edges he died.     Too swiftly fame fadeth away,     if ye tremble not lest once again     The grey mound should open and show him     glad-eyed without grudging or pain.     Little labour methinks to behold him     but the tale-teller laboured in vain.     Little labour for ears that may hearken     to hear his death-conquering song,     Till the heart swells to think of the gladness     undying that overcame wrong.     O young is the world yet meseemeth     and the hope of it flourishing green,     When the words of a man unremembered     so bridge all the days that have been,     As we look round about on the land     that these nine hundred years he hath seen.     Dusk is abroad on the grass     of this valley amidst of the hill:     Dusk that shall never be dark     till the dawn hard on midnight shall fill     The trench under Eyiafell's snow,     and the grey plain the sea meeteth grey.     White, high aloft hangs the moon     that no dark night shall brighten ere day,     For here day and night toileth the summer     lest deedless his time pass away.