The Pageant of English Poetry

And, like a horse unbroken

When first he feels the rein, The furious river struggled hard, And tossed his tawny mane, And burst the curb, and bounded, Rejoicing to be free, And whirling down, in fierce

career,

Battlement, and plank, and pier, Rushed headlong to the sea. Alone stood brave Horatius,

But constant still in mind, Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. 'Down with him!' cried false Sextus,

With a smile on his pale face. 'Now yield thee,' cried Lars Por

sena,

'Now yield thee to our grace.'

Round turned he, as not deigning

Those craven ranks to see; Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus naught spake he; But he saw on Palatinus

The white porch of his home; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome.

'O Tiber! father Tiber!

To whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, Take thou in charge this day!' So he spake, and speaking sheathed

The good sword by his side. And with his harness on his back, Plunged headlong in the tide. No sound of joy or sorrow

Was heard from either bank; But friends and foes in dumb surprise,

With parted lips and straining

eyes,

Stood gazing where he sank;

And when above the surges

They saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer.

'Curse on him!'.quoth false Sextus; 'Will not the villain drown? But for this stay, ere close of day We should have sacked the town.'

'Heaven help him,' quoth Lars Porsena,

'And bring him safe to shore; For such a gallant feat of arms Was never seen before.'

And now he feels the bottom;

Now on dry earth he stands; Now round him throng the Fathers To press his gory hands; And now, with shouts and clapping,

And noise of weeping loud, He enters through the River-Gate, Borne by the joyous crowd.

629. A JACOBITE'S EPITAPH

To my true king I offered, free from stain,
Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain.
For him I threw lands, honours, wealth, away,

And one dear hope, that was more prized than they.
For him I languished in a foreign clime,

Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime ;
Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees,
And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees;
Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep,
Each morning started from the dream to weep;
Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave
The resting-place I asked, an early grave.

O thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone,
From that proud country which was once mine own,
By those white cliffs I never more must see,
By that dear language which I spake like thee,
Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear
O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here.

LORD MACAULAY.

630. BABY

WHERE did you come from, baby dear?
Out of the everywhere into here.

Where did you get those eyes so blue?
Out of the sky as I came through.

What makes the light in them sparkle and spin?
Some of the starry spikes left in.
Where did you get that little tear?
I found it waiting when I got here.

What makes your forehead so smooth and high?
A soft hand stroked it as I went by.

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose?
I saw something better than any one knows.
Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss ?
Three angels gave me at once a kiss.
Where did you get this pearly ear?
God spoke, and it came out to hear.

Where did you get those arms and hands?
Love made itself into bonds and bands.

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things?

From the same box as the cherubs' wings.

How did they all just come to be you?

God thought about me, and so I grew.

But how did you come to us, you dear?

God thought about you, and so I am here. G. MACDONALD.

631.

LOVE NEW AND OLD

AND were they not the happy days

When Love and I were young,
When earth was robed in heavenly light,
And all creation sung?

When gazing in my true love's face,
Through green wood alleys lone,
I guessed the secrets of her heart,
By whispers of mine own.

And are they not the happy days
When Love and I are old,
And silver evening has replaced
A morn and noon of gold?
Love stood alone mid youthful joy,
But now by sorrow tried,

It sits and calmly looks to heaven
With angels at its side.

632. TUBAL CAIN

C. MACKAY.

OLD Tubal Cain was a man of might
In the days when Earth was young;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright
The strokes of his hammer rung;

And he lifted high his brawny hand
On the iron glowing clear,

Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers,
As he fashioned the sword and spear.

And he sang : Hurra for my handiwork!

Hurra for the spear and sword!

Hurra for the hand that shall wield them well,
For he shall be king and lord !'

To Tubal Cain came many a one,

As he wrought by his roaring fire,

And each one prayed for a strong steel blade

As the crown of his desire :

And he made them weapons sharp and strong,
Till they shouted loud for glee,

And gave him gifts of pearl and gold,
And spoils of the forest free.

And they sang: Hurra for Tubal Cain,
Who has given us strength anew!
Hurra for the smith, hurra for the fire,
And hurra for the metal true!'

But a sudden change came o'er his heart
Ere the setting of the sun,

And Tubal Cain was filled with pain
For the evil he had done;

He saw that men, with rage and hate,

Made war upon their kind,

That the land was red with the blood they shed,
In their lust for carnage blind.

And he said: 'Alas! that ever I made,

Or that skill of mine should plan,

The spear and the sword for men whose joy

Is to slay their fellow-man!'

And for many a day old Tubal Cain

Sat brooding o'er his woe;

And his hand forbore to smite the ore,
And his furnace smouldered low.

But he rose at last with a cheerful face,
And a bright courageous eye,

And bared his strong right arm for work,
While the quick flames mounted high.
And he sang : 'Hurra for my handiwork!'

And the red sparks lit the air;

'Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made;' And he fashioned the first ploughshare.

And men, taught wisdom from the past,

In friendship joined their hands,

Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,
And ploughed the willing lands;

And sang:

Hurra for Tubal Cain!

Our stanch good friend is he;

And for the ploughshare and the plough

To him our praise shall be.

But while oppression lifts its head,

Or a tyrant would be lord,

Though we may thank him for the plough,

We'll not forget the sword!'

633. THE SHANDON BELLS

WITH deep affection,

And recollection,

I often think of

Those Shandon bells,

Whose sounds so wild would,
In the days of childhood,
Fling around my cradle
Their magic spells.

On this I ponder
Where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder,

Sweet Cork, of thee;

C. MACKAY.

With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the River Lee.

I've heard bells chiming
Full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in

Cathedral shrine,

While at a glib rate

Brass tongues would vibrate-
But all the music

Spoke naught like thine;

For memory, dwelling
On each proud swelling
Of the belfry knelling

Its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the River Lee.
I've heard bells tolling
Old Adrian's Mole in,
Their thunder rolling

From the Vatican,
And cymbals glorious
Swinging uproarious
In the glorious turrets

Of Notre Dame ;

But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber,

Pealing solemnly ;—

O, the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the River Lee.

There's a bell in Moscow,
While in tower and kiosk O
In Saint Sophia

The Turkman gets;

And loud in air
Calls men to prayer
From the tapering summits
Of tall minarets.
Such empty phantom
I freely grant them;
But there's an anthem

More dear to me,

'Tis the bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters

Of the River Lee.

F. MAHONY (FATHER PROUT).

634. THE BIRKS OF ENDERMAY

THE smiling morn, the breathing | For soon the winter of the year,

And age, life's winter, will appear; At this thy living bloom must

fade,

As that will strip the verdant shade.

Our taste of pleasure then is o'er, The feathered songsters love no

more;

And when they droop and we decay, Adieu the shades of Endermay! D. MALLET.

635. DARK ROSALEEN

O MY Dark Rosaleen,

Do not sigh, do not weep!

The priests are on the ocean green,
They march along the deep.

There's wine from the royal Pope

Upon the ocean green;

And Spanish ale shall give you hope,

My Dark Rosaleen!

My own Rosaleen!

Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,

Shall give you health, and help, and hope,

My Dark Rosaleen!

« Предишна Напред »

Книги