"Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends At first thin wavering: till at last the flakes Fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day With a continual flow."
And deeper grew the drifting snow :
SCENE IN A VERMONT WINTER.
'TIS a fearful night in the winter time, As cold as it ever can be;
The roar of the blast is heard like the chime Of the waves on an angry sea.
The moon is full; but her silver light The storm dashes out with its wings to-night; And over the sky from south to north Not a star is seen, as the wind comes forth In the strength of a mighty glee.
All day had the snow come down, — all day As it never came down before
And over the hills, at sunset, lay
Some two or three feet, or more; The fence was lost, and the wall of stone; The windows blocked and the well-curbs gone ; The haystack had grown to a mountain lift, And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift, As it lay by the farmer's door.
The night sets in on a world of snow,
While the air grows sharp and chill, And the warning roar of a fearful blow Is heard on the distant hill;
And the norther, see! on the mountain peak In his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek! He shouts on the plain, ho-ho! ho-ho! He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, And growls with a savage will.
Such a night as this to be found abroad, In the drifts and the freezing air, Sits a shivering dog, in the field, by the road, With the snow in his shaggy hair.
He shuts his eyes to the wind and growls; He lifts his head, and moans and howls;
Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone. Then crouching low, from the cutting sleet,
"O God!" she cried in accents wild,
"If I must perish, save my child!"
She stripped her mantle from her breast, And bared her bosom to the storm, And round the child she wrapped the vest,
And smiled to think her babe was warm. With one cold kiss, one tear she shed, And sunk upon her snowy bed.
His nose is pressed on his quivering feet, Pray, what does the dog do there?
A farmer came from the village plain, But he lost the traveled way; And for hours he trod with might and main A path for his horse and sleigh; But colder still the cold winds blew, And deeper still the deep drifts grew,
And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown, At last in her struggles floundered down, Where a log in a hollow lay.
In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort, She plunged in the drifting snow, While her master urged, till his breath grew short, With a word and a gentle blow;
But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight; His hands were numb and had lost their might; So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh, And strove to shelter himself till day,
With his coat and the buffalo.
He has given the last faint jerk of the rein, To rouse up his dying steed;
And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain For help in his master's need.
For a while he strives with a wistful cry To catch a glance from his drowsy eye, And wags his tail if the rude winds flap The skirt of the buffalo over his lap,
And whines when he takes no heed.
The wind goes down and the storm is o'er, 'Tis the hour of midnight, past; The old trees writhe and bend no more In the whirl of the rushing blast. The silent moon with her peaceful light Looks down on the hills with snow all white, And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, The blasted pine and the ghostly stump, Afar on the plain are cast.
But cold and dead by the hidden log
Are they who came from the town, The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog, And his beautiful Morgan brown,
In the wide snow-desert, far and grand, With his cap on his head and the reins in his hand,
The dog with his nose on his master's feet, And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet, Where she lay when she floundered down.
O WINTER! WILT THOU NEVER GO?
O WINTER! wilt thou never, never go? O summer! but I weary for thy coming, Longing once more to hear the Luggie flow, And frugal bees, laboriously humming. Now the east-wind diseases the infirm,
And must crouch in corners from rough weather; Sometimes a winter sunset is a charm, When the fired clouds, compacted, blaze together, And the large sun dips red behind the hills.
I, from my window, can behold this pleasure ;
And the eternal moon, what time she fills Her orb with argent, treading a soft measure, With queenly motions of a bridal mood, Through the white spaces of infinitude.
VIEW FROM THE EUGANEAN HILLS,* NORTH ITALY.
MANY a green isle needs must be In the deep wide sea of misery, Or the mariner, worn and wan, Never thus could voyage on Day and night, and night and day, Drifting on his dreary way, With the solid darkness black Closing round his vessel's track; Whilst above, the sunless sky, Big with clouds, hangs heavily, And behind, the tempest fleet Hurries on with lightning feet, Riving sail and cord and plank Till the ship has almost drank
Death from the o'erbrimming deep; And sinks down, down, like that sleep When the dreamer seems to be Weltering through eternity; And the dim low line before Of a dark and distant shore Still recedes, as ever still Longing with divided will, But no power to seek or shun, He is ever drifted on
O'er the unreposing wave To the haven of the grave.
Ay, many flowering islands lie In the waters of wide agony : To such a one this morn was led My bark, by soft winds piloted. Mid the mountains Euganean
I stood listening to the pean With which the legioned rooks did hail The sun's uprise majestical:
Gathering round with wings all hoar, Through the dewy mist they soar
Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, Flecked with fire and azure, lie
In the unfathomable sky, So their plumes of purple grain, Starred with drops of golden rain, Gleam above the sunlight woods, As in silent multitudes
On the morning's fitful gale
Through the broken mist they sail;
* The lonely mountains which surround what was once the retreat, and is now the sepulcher, of Petrarch.
And the vapors cloven and gleaming Follow down the dark steep streaming, Till all is bright and clear and still Round the solitary hill.
Beneath is spread like a green sea The waveless plain of Lombardy, Bounded by the vaporous air, Islanded by cities fair; Underneath day's azure eyes, Ocean's nursling, Venice, lies, A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls, Which her hoary sire now paves With his blue and beaming waves. Lo! the sun upsprings behind, Broad, red, radiant, half reclined On the level quivering line Of the waters crystalline; And before that chasm of light, As within a furnace bright, Column, tower, and dome, and spire Shine like obelisks of fire, Pointing with inconstant motion From the altar of dark ocean To the sapphire-tinted skies ; As the flames of sacrifice
From the marble shrines did rise, As to pierce the dome of gold Where Apollo spoke of old.
Sun-girt city! thou hast been Ocean's child, and then his queen ; Now is come a darker day, And thou soon must be his prey, If the power that raised thee here Hallow so thy watery bier. A less drear ruin then than now, With thy conquest-branded brow Stooping to the slave of slaves From thy throne among the waves, Wilt thou be when the sea-mew Flies, as once before it flew, O'er thine isles depopulate, And all is in its ancient state, Save where many a palace-gate With green sea-flowers overgrown Like a rock of ocean's own, Topples o'er the abandoned sea As the tides change sullenly. The fisher on his watery way Wandering at the close of day Will spread his sail and seize his oar Till he pass the gloomy shore,
Lest thy dead should, from their sleep Bursting o'er the starlight deep, Lead a rapid mask of death
O'er the waters of his path.
Noon descends around me now: 'Tis the noon of autumn's glow, When a soft and purple mist Like a vaporous amethyst, Or an air-dissolvèd star Mingling light and fragrance, far From the curved horizon's bound
To the point of heaven's profound, Fills the overflowing sky; And the plains that silent lie Underneath; the leaves unsodden Where the infant frost has trodden With his morning-winged feet, Whose bright print is gleaming yet; And the red and golden vines Piercing with their trellised lines The rough, dark-skirted wilderness; The dun and bladed grass no less, Pointing from this hoary tower In the windless air; the flower Glimmering at my feet; the line Of the olive-sandaled Apennine In the south dimly islanded;
And the Alps, whose snows are spread High between the clouds and sun; And of living things each one;
And my spirit, which so long Darkened this swift stream of song, Interpenetrated lie
By the glory of the sky;
Be it love, light, harmony, Odor, or the soul of all
Which from heaven like dew doth fall, Or the mind which feeds this verse Peopling the lone universe.
Noon descends, and after noon Autumn's evening meets me soon, Leading the infantine moon And that one star, which to her Almost seems to minister
Half the crimson light she brings From the sunset's radiant springs : And the soft dreams of the morn (Which like winged winds had borne To that silent isle, which lies Mid remembered agonies, The frail bark of this lone being) Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, And its ancient pilot, Pain, Sits beside the helm again.
Other flowering isles must be In the sea of life and agony; Other spirits float and flee O'er that gulf; even now, perhaps, On some rock the wild wave wraps, With folding winds they waiting sit
For my bark, to pilot it To some calm and blooming cove, Where for me, and those I love, May a windless bower be built, Far from passion, pain, and guilt, In a dell mid lawny hills, Which the wild sea-murmur fills, And soft sunshine, and the sound Of old forests echoing round, And the light and smell divine
Of all flowers that breathe and shine.
We may live so happy there,
That the spirits of the air, Envying us, may even entice
To our healing paradise
The polluting multitude ;
But their rage would be subdued
By that clime divine and calm,
And the winds whose wings rain balm On the uplifted soul, and leaves Under which the bright sea heaves; While each breathless interval In their whisperings musical The inspired soul supplies With its own deep melodies ;
And the love which heals all strife Circling, like the breath of life, All things in that sweet abode With its own mild brotherhood. They, not it, would change; and soon Every sprite beneath the moon Would repent its envy vain, And the earth grow young again !
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
[The Vale of the Towy embraces, in its winding course of fifteen miles, some of the loveliest scenery of South Wales. If it be less cultivated than the Vale of Usk, its woodland views are more romantic and frequent. The neighborhood is historic and poetic ground. From Grongar Hill the eye discovers traces of a Roman camp; Golden Grove, the home of Jeremy Taylor, is on the opposite side of the river; Merlin's chair recalls Spenser; and a farmhouse near the foot of Llangumnor Hill brings back the memory of its once genial occupant, Richard Steele. Spenser places the cave of Merlin among the dark woods of Dinevawr.]
SILENT nymph, with curious eye, Who, the purple even, dost lie On the mountain's lonely van, Beyond the noise of busy man, Painting fair, the form of things, While the yellow linnet sings, Or the tuneful nightingale Charms the forest with her tale, Come, with all thy various hues, Come, and aid thy sister Muse. Now, while Phoebus, riding high, Gives luster to the land and sky, Grongar Hill invites my song,
Draw the landscape bright and strong; Grongar, in whose mossy cells Sweetly musing Quiet dwells; Grongar, in whose silent shade, For the modest Muses made, So oft I have, the evening still, At the fountain of a rill, Sat upon a flowery bed,
With my hand beneath my head, While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood, Over mead and over wood,
From house to house, from hill to hill, Till Contemplation had her fill.
About his checkered sides I wind,
And leave his brooks and meads behind, And groves and grottoes where I lay, And vistas shooting beams of day. Wide and wider spreads the vale,
As circles on a smooth canal.
The mountains round, unhappy fate! Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise.
Still the prospect wider spreads, Adds a thousand woods and meads ; Still it widens, widens still, And sinks the newly risen hill.
Now I gain the mountain's brow; What a landscape lies below! No clouds, no vapors intervene ; But the gay, the open scene Does the face of Nature show In all the hues of heaven's bow! And, swelling to embrace the light, Spreads around beneath the sight.
Old castles on the cliffs arise, Proudly towering in the skies; Rushing from the woods, the spires Seem from hence ascending fires; Half his beams Apollo sheds On the yellow mountain-heads, Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, And glitters on the broken rocks.
Below me trees unnumbered rise, Beautiful in various dyes :
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, The yellow beech, the sable yew, The slender fir that taper grows, The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs; And beyond, the purple grove, Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love! Gaudy as the opening dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,
On which a dark hill, steep and high, Holds and charms the wandering eye; Deep are his feet in Towy's flood; His sides are clothed with waving wood; And ancient towers crown his brow,
« ПредыдущаяПродолжить » |