« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower.
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view.
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy winged thieves.
Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine;
Praise of love or wine
Or triumphal chant,
But an empty vaunt—
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What shapes of sky or plain?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Never came near thee:
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream 1
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught: Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear j If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever could come near.
Better than all measures
Of delight and sound, Better than all treasures
That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
And his wild harp slung behind him.—
"Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The Minstrel fell!—but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
For he tore its chords asunder;
Thou soul of love and bravery!
They shall never sound in slavery!"
THE FORSAKEN MERMAN.—Arnold.
Come, dear children, let us away;
Down and away below.
Children dear, let us away.
Call her once before you go,
Call once yet.
Surely she will come again. Call her once and come away.
This way, this way. "Mother dear, we cannot stay." The wild white horses foam and fret.
Come, dear children, come away down,
Call no more.
Then come down,
Come away, come away.
Children dear, was it yesterday
Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,
When did music come this way i
Children dear, was it yesterday ]
Children dear, was it yesterday
(Call yet once) that she went away 1
Once she sate with you and me,
On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,
And the youngest sate on her knee. She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of the far-off bell. She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea, She said; "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little gray church on the shore to-day. 'Twill be Easter-time in the world—ah me! And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee." I said; "Go up, dear heart, through the waves. Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves." She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.
Children dear, was it yesterday 1
Children dear, were we long alone? "The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan. Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say. Come," I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay. We went up the beach, by the sandy down Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town.