« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come in her crowning hour, — and then
Of sky and stars to prisoned men ;
To the world-seeking Genoese,
Blew o'er the Haytian seas.
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring,
As Eden's garden bird.
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
Heroes in heart and hand.
On old Platæa's day ;
As quick, as far, as they.
That bright dream was his last ;
"Toarms ! they come! the Greek! the Greek !" He woke -- to die midst flame, and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,
And death-shots falling thick and fast
Bozzaris cheer his band :
God, and your native land !"
They piled that ground with Moslem slain : They conquered but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.
And the red field was won ;
Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the mother's, when she feels,
Come when the blessed seals
With banquet song and dance and wine, -
Of agony, are thine.
ilus won the battle for the free,
Bozzaris! with the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee; there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime. She wore no funeral weeds for thee,
Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,
The heartless luxury of the tomb. But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone. For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birthday bells; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells ; For thine her evening prayer is said At palace couch and cottage bed. Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears.
And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys, –
Talk of thy doom without a sigh ;
That were not born to die.
Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave!
O servile offspring of the free,
When man was worthy of thy clime.
Thy sons to deeds sublime,
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid;
MEN AND BOYS.
THE storm is out; the land is roused;
Swing the battle-sword who can.
When, we stand watching, the livelong night,
A graceless, worthless wight, etc.
When hoarse and shrill, the trumpet's blast,
Thou in the theatre lov'st to appear,
"THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY."
WARSAW's last champion from her height sur- When the glare of noonday scorches the brain,
A graceless, worthless wight, etc.
CHARLES T. BROOKS.
When we, as we rush to the strangling fight, | And stop her bloody lips, she takes no heed
Of living sons around her, to succeed
The vanished generations. Can she count A graceless, worthless wight, etc.
These oil-eaters, with large, live, mobile mouths
Agape for macaroni, in the amount When lance and bullet come whistling by, Of consecrated heroes of her south's And death in a thousand shapes draws nigh,
Bright rosary ? The pitcher at the fount, Thou canst sit at thy cards, and kill
The gift of gods, being broken, she much loathes King, queen, and knave with thy spadille.
To let the ground-leaves of the place confer A graceless, worthless wight, etc.
A natural bowl. So henceforth she would seem If on the red field our bell should toll,
No nation, but the poet's pensioner, Then welcome be death to the patriot's soul.
With alıns from every land of song and dream,
While aye her pipers sadly pipe of her, Thy pampered flesh shall quake at its doom,
Until their proper breaths, in that extreme And crawl in silk to a hopeless tomb.
Of sighing, split the reed on which they played ! A pitiful exit thine shall be ;
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. No German maid shall weep for thee, No German song shall they sing for thee, No German goblets shall ring for thee. Forth in the van,
A COURT LADY. Man for man, Swing the battle-sword who can ! Kürner. Translation of Her hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with
purple were dark,
Never was lady of Milan nobler in name and in “Less wretched if less fair.” Perhaps a truth Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the face. Is so far plain in this, — that Italy,
Long trammelled with the purple of her youth Against her age's ripe activity,
Never was lady on earth more true as woman and Sits still upon her tombs, without death's ruth, wife, But also without life's brave energy.
Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder in “Now tell us what is Italy ?” men ask :
manners and life. And others answer, “Virgil, Cicero,
Catullus, Cæsar." What beside ? to task The memory closer, "Why, Boccaccio,
She stood in the early morning, and said to her Dante, Petrarca," and if still the flask
maidens, “ Bring Appears to yield its wine by drops too slow,
That silken robe made ready to wear at the court
of the king. Angelo, Raffael, Pergolese," — all
v. Whose strong hearts beat through stone, or charged again
“Bring me the clasps of diamond, lucid, clear The paints with fire of souls electrical,
of the mote, Or broke up heaven for music. What more then ? Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp me the Why, then, no more. The chaplet's last beads small at the throat. fall
VI. In naming the last saintship within ken,
Diamonds to fasten the hair, and diamonds to And, after that, none prayeth in the land.
fasten the sleeves, Alas, this Italy has too long swept
Laces to drop from their rays, like a powder of Heroic ashes up for hour-glass sand;
snow from the eaves." Of her own past, impassioned nympholept ! Consenting to be nailed here by the hand
VII. To the very bay-tree under which she stepped Gorgeous she entered the sunlight which gathA queen of old, and plucked a leafy branch.
ered her up in a flame, And, licensing the world too long indeed While, straight in her open carriage, she to the To use her broad phylacteries to stanch
In she went at the door, and gazing, from end to end,
"Many and low are the pallets, but each is the place of a friend."
"Art thou a Lombard, my brother? Happy art thou!" she cried,
And smiled like Italy on him he dreamed in her face and died.
Up she passed through the wards, and stood at a young man's bed:
"Each of the heroes around us has fought for his land and line,
Bloody the band on his brow, and livid the droop But thou hast fought for a stranger, in hate of a
of his head.
wrong not thine.
Pale with his passing soul, she went on still to a second:
He was a grave, hard man, whose years by dungeons were reckoned.
On she passed to a Frenchman, his arm carried off by a ball:
Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in his life were sorer.
"Art thou a Romagnole ?" Her eyes drove light- But two great crystal tears were all that faltered nings before her.
Kneeling, . . "O more than my brother! how shall I thank thee for all?
Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at
"Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life overcast
To ripen our wine of the present (too new) in glooms of the past."
Young, and pathetic with dying, - a deep black
hole in the curls.
"Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and seest
list of the slain?"
Kind as a mother herself, she touched his cheeks
Down she stepped to a pallet where lay a face Holding his hands in hers :—
like a girl's,
Faint with that strain of heart, she moved on then to another,
Stern and strong in his death. "And dost thou suffer, my brother?"
"Out of the Pied
mont lion Cometh the sweetness of freedom! sweetest to live or to die on."
Holding his cold rough hands, — “Well, O, well
Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to her feet with a spring,
"That was a Piedmontese ! and this is the Court of the King."
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING