« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
And, bright little Barbs, ye make worthy pre
tences To go with the going of Solomon's sires ; But you stride not the stride, and you fly not the
fences ! And all the wide Hejaz is naught to the shires.
O gay gondolier! from thy night-fitting shal
lop I've heard the soft pulses of oar and guitar; But sweeter the rhythmical rush of the gallop,
The fire in the saddle, the flight of the star. Old mare, my beloved, no stouter or faster
Hath ever strode under a man at his need; But glad in the hand and embrace of thy mas
ter, And pant to the passionate music of speed: Can there e'er be a thought to an elderly person
So keen, so inspiring, so hard to forget, So fully adapted to break into burgeon
As this — that the steel is n't out of him yet ; That flying speed tickles one's brain with a feather; That one's horse can restore one the years that
are gone; That, spite of gray winter and weariful weather, The blood and the pace carry on, carry on ?
RICHARD ST. JOHN TYRWHITT.
Now in memory comes my mother,
As she used long years agone, To regard the darling dreamers
Ere she left them till the dawn.
As I list to this refrain
By the patter of the rain.
With her wings and waving hair,
A serene, angelic pair-
With their praise or mild reproof,
• Of the soft rain on the roof. And another comes, to thrill me
With her eyes' delicious blue; And I mind not, musing on her,
That her heart was all untrue!
With a passion kin to pain,
To the patter of the rain.
That can work with such a spell
Whence the tears of rapture well, As that melody of Nature,
That subdued, subduing strain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain.
Rain on the Roof. When the humid shadows hover
Over all the starry spheres, And the melancholy darkness
Gently weeps in rainy tears, What a bliss to press the pillow
Of a cottage-chamber bed, And to listen to the patter
Of the soft rain overhead !
Every tinkle on the shingles
Has an echo in the heart;
Into busy being start,
Weave their air-threads into woof, As I listen to the patter
of the rain upon the roof.
Invocation to Rain in Summer. O GENTLE, gentle summer rain,
Let not the silver lily pine, The drooping lily pine in vain
To feel that dewy touch of thine,
O gentle, gentle summer rain!
The cattle pant beneath the tree; Through parching air and purple skies
The earth looks up, in vain, for thee;
For thee, for thee, it looks in vain,
O gentle, gentle summer rain!
And soften all the hills with mist,
By these shall herb and flower be kissed;
WILLIAM C. BENNETT.
As, on the jag of a mountain crag
Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle, alit, one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings; And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea
Its ardors of rest and of love,
From the depth of heaven above,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbed maiden with white fs laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
Which only the angels hear,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
Like a swarm of golden bees,
Till the calm river, lakes, and seas,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
From the seas and the streams;
In their noon-day dreams.
The sweet birds every one,
As she dances about the sun.
And whiten the green plains under;
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
And their great pines groan aghast;
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Lightning, my pilot, sits;
It struggles and howls at fits.
This pilot is guiding me,
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the lakes and the plains,
The spirit he loves, remains;
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
And his burning plumes outspread,
When the morning star shines dead.
I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
Over a torrent sea,
The mountains its columns be.
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
Is the million-colored bow;
While the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain, when, with never a stain,
The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex
Build up the blue dome of air,
And out of the caverns of rain,
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
Beneath the golden gloamin' sky
The mavis mends her lay; The red-breast pours his sweetest strains,
To charm the ling’ring day;
Their little nestlings torn,
Gaes jinking through the thorn.
The roses fauld their silken leaves,
The foxglove shuts its bell; The honeysuckle and the birk
Spread fragrance through the dell.
Of mirth and revelry,
ANACREON. (Greek.) Translation of ABRAHAM COWLEY.
Che Wandering Wind. The Wind, the wandering Wind
Of the golden summer eves Whence is the thrilling magic
Of its tones amongst the leaves Oh! is it from the waters,
Or from the long tall grass 1 Or is it from the hollow rocks
Through which its breathings passt
Or is it from the voices
Of all in one combined, That it wins the tone of mastery!
The Wind, the wandering Wind ! No, no! the strange, sweet accents
That with it come and go, They are not from the osiers,
Nor the fir-trees whispering low,
The Midges Wance aboon the Burn.
The midges dance aboon the burn;
The dews begin to fa';
Set up their e’ening ca'.
Rings through the briery shaw,
Around the castle wa'.
They are not of the waters,
Nor of the caverned hill; 'Tis the human love within us
That gives them power to thrill: They touch the links of memory
Around our spirits twined, And we start, and weep, and tremble, To the Wind, the wandering Wind 1
FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.
ODE TO THE WEST WIND.
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below, being,
The sea-blooms, and the oozy woods which wear Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear! Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou, Who chariotest to their dark, wintry bed
IV. The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; Each like a corpse within its grave, until
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow A wave to pant beneath thy power and share Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill The impulse of thy strength - only less free (Driving sweet buds, like flocks, to feed in air) Than thou, 0 uncontrollable! If even With living hues and odors, plain and hill: I were as in my boyhood, and could be Wild spirit, which art moving everywhere; The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven Destroyer and preserver; hear, 0 hear !
As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed
Scarce seemed a vision, I would ne'er have striven II. Thou, on whose stream, ʼmid the steep sky's com- As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. motion,
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed ! Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread One too like thee — tameless, and swift, and proud. On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
v. Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is. Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
What if my leaves are falling like its own! The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will take from both a deep autumnal tone Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, Vaulted with all thy congregated might
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! Lalled by the coil of his crystalline streams, Be through my lips to unawakened earth Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ’s bay,
The trumpet of a prophecy! O wind, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers,
If winter comes, can spring be far behind 1 Quivering within the waves' intenser day,
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse,
And belly and tug at the groaning cleats ; The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps ;
And thunders the order, “ Tacks and sheets !"
Tacking Ship off Shore. The weather-leech of the topsail shivers,
The bowlines strain, and the lee-shrouds slacken, The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, And the waves with the coming squall-cloud
'Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew,
Hisses the rain of the rushing squall: The sails are aback from clew to clew,
And now is the moment for, “ Mainsail, haul !”
Open one point on the weather-bow,
Is the light-house tall on Fire Island Head ? There's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow,
And the pilot watches the heaving lead.
I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye
To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze, Till the muttered order of "Full and by!"
Is suddenly changed for "Full for stays !”
And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy,
By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung: She holds her way, and I look with joy
For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks flung. “Let go, and haul!” 'Tis the last command,
And the head-sails fill to the blast once more: Astern and to leeward lies the land,
With its breakers white on the shingly shore. What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall ?
I steady the helm for the open sea;
And the captain's breath once more comes free.
The ship bends lower before the breeze,
As her broadside fair to the blast she lays; And she swifter springs to the rising seas,
As the pilot calls, “Stand by for stays!” It is silence all, as each in his place,
With the gathered coil in his hardened hands, By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace,
Waiting the watchword impatient stands.
And so off shore let the good ship fly;
Little care I how the gusts may blow, In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry, Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below.
And the light on Fire Island Head draws
near, As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout From his post on the bowsprit's heel I hear,
With the welcome call of “Ready! About!”
No time to spare! It is touch and go;
down!” As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw, While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's
frown. High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray,
As we meet the shock of the plunging sea; And my shoulder stiff to the wheel 1 lay,
As I answer, " Ay, ay, sir! Ha-a-rd a-lee !”
The Sea. The sea! the sea! the open sea ! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions round; It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; Or like a cradled creature lies.
I'm on the sea ! I'm on the sea!
With the swerving leap of a startled steed
The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind, The dangerous shoals on the lee recede,
And the headland white we have left behind.
I love, oh how I love to ride