 
  


          (1833-1870).         .           .





 

 



  

(  )












          (1833-1870).         .           .



  

(   )







   

  ,

    ,

   .

    

   ,

   

  .



    

    ,

    

  .

   ,

      

  

   .



    

  ,

     

     ,

    

   

    ,

   ?



   

   ,

   

  !

  

   ,

    

  .



 !   

   ,

       -

    ,

,    

  ,

  ,

  .



    -

   -

    ,

    ,

  ,  ,

   

   

   .



  ,

 ,  

   

   .

  

  ,  ,

    ,

   .



,   

,   

,  !

     !

  ,

   ,

 ,    ,

   .



  ,  

   ,

   

   ,

    ,

    ,

 , -

  .



    

  ,

  ,

     , -

     ,

    ,

    -

   .



  ,

   ,

  ,

   .

   ,

   -

   ,  ,-

  ! !







   !

   

,  ,

  .

  ,

    -

   ,

    .



A Basket of Flowers

(from Dawn to Dusk)



Dawn



On skies still and starlit

White lustres take hold,

And grey flushes scarlet,

And red flashes gold.

And sun-glories cover

The rose shed above her,

Like lover and lover

They flame and unfold.



Still bloom in the garden

Green grass-plot, fresh lawn,

Though pasture lands harden

And drought fissures yawn.

While leaves not a few fall,

Let rose leaves for you fall,

Leaves pearl-strung with dew-fall,

And gold shot with dawn.



Does the grass-plot remember

The fall of your feet

In autumn's red ember,

When drought leagues with heat,

When the last of the roses

Despairingly closes

In the lull that reposes

Ere storm winds wax fleet?



Love's melodies languish

In "Chastelard's" strain,

And "Abelard's" anguish

Is love's pleasant pain!

And "Sappho" rehearses

Love's blessings and curses

In passionate verses

Again and again.



And I!I have heard of

All these long ago,

Yet never one word of

Their song-lore I know;

Not under my finger

In songs of the singer

Love's litanies linger,

Love's rhapsodies flow.



Fresh flowers in a basket

An offering to you

Though you did not ask it,

Unbidden I strew;

With heat and drought striving,

Some blossoms still living

May render thanksgiving

For dawn and for dew.



The garlands I gather,

The rhymes I string fast,

Are hurriedly rather

Than heedlessly cast.

Yon tree's shady awning

Is short'ning, and warning

Far spent is the morning,

And I must ride fast.



Songs empty, yet airy,

I've striven to write,

For failure, dear Mary!

Forgive meGood-night!

Songs and flowers may beset you,

I can only regret you,

While the soil where I met you

Recedes from my sight.



For the sake of past hours,

For the love of old times,

Take "A Basket of Flowers",

And a bundle of rhymes;

Though all the bloom perish

E'en YOUR hand can cherish,

While churlish and bearish

The verse-jingle chimes.



And Eastward by Nor'ward

Looms sadly MY track,

And I must ride forward,

And still I look back,

Look backah, how vainly!

For while I see plainly,

My hands on the reins lie

Uncertain and slack.



The warm wind breathes strong breath,

The dust dims mine eye,

And I draw one long breath,

And stifle one sigh.

Green slopes, softly shaded,

Have flitted and faded

My dreams flit as they did

Good-night!andGood-bye!



Dusk



Lost rose! end my story!

Dead core and dry husk

Departed thy glory

And tainted thy musk.

Night spreads her dark limbs on

The face of the dim sun,

So flame fades to crimson

And crimson to dusk.







,   

 ,

  ,  

    .



,   

  

  ,  

 ,    .



,    ,

    ,

,   

   .



  ,   

    

,   ,

       .



A Fragment



They say that poison-sprinkled flowers

Are sweeter in perfume

Than when, untouched by deadly dew,

They glowed in early bloom.



They say that men condemned to die

Have quaffed the sweetened wine

With higher relish than the juice

Of the untampered vine.



They say that in the witch's song,

Though rude and harsh it be,

There blends a wild, mysterious strain

Of weirdest melody.



And I believe the devil's voice

Sinks deeper in our ear

Than any whisper sent from Heaven,

However sweet and clear.



 



    ,     ,

   ,    ,     ,

         ,

    ,    .



       ,

,    ,     .

   ,    ,

        .



      , !

    ,      ,

      

,     .



  ,  ,       

 ,  ,    ,

  ,       ,

         .



A Hunting Song



Here's a health to every sportsman, be he stableman or lord,

If his heart be true, I care not what his pocket may afford;

And may he ever pleasantly each gallant sport pursue,

If he takes his liquor fairly, and his fences fairly, too.



He cares not for the bubbles of Fortune's fickle tide,

Who like Bendigo can battle, and like Olliver can ride.

He laughs at those who caution, at those who chide he'll frown,

As he clears a five-foot paling, or he knocks a peeler down.



The dull, cold world may blame us, boys! but what care we the while,

If coral lips will cheer us, and bright eyes on us smile?

For beauty's fond caresses can most tenderly repay

The weariness and trouble of many an anxious day.



Then fill your glass, and drain it, too, with all your heart and soul,

To the best of sportsThe Fox-hunt, The Fair Ones, and The Bowl,

To a stout heart in adversity through every ill to steer,

And when Fortune smiles a score of friends like those around us here.



 



     

      ,

    ,

    ?

   ,

    ?

   ,  

  , ?



!      ,

    ?

   ,

   ?

 !  

    ,

      

  , .



ASongofAutumn



WHERE shall we go for our garlands glad

At the falling of the year,

When the burnt-up banks are yellow and sad,

When the boughs are yellow and sere?

Where are the old ones that once we had,

And when are the new ones near?

What shall we do for our garlands glad

At the falling of the year?



Child! can I tell where the garlands go?

Can I say where the lost leaves veer

On the brown-burnt banks, when the wild winds blow,

When they drift through the dead-wood drear?

Girl! when the garlands of next year glow,

You may gather again, my dear

But I go where the last years lost leaves go

At the falling of the year.



 



   

    ,

    ,

   .

    

    ,

 ,    ,

     ,  .



    

 ,  ,  

     -

     .

     ,

    ,

   ,

 ,    .



    

  !

    

,   !

 ,   ,

,  

 ,     

     !



 , ,    ,

        ?

    ,

    ?

   

   ?

   

     ?



  

     !

    

    ,

     ,

,     ,

    ,

  ?



    ,

     ,

    ,

      ,

    

    ,

     -

     !



     ,

    ,

   

  ,    !

    ,

    ,

   ,  ,

   ,   !



An Exile's Farewell



The ocean heaves around us still

With long and measured swell,

The autumn gales our canvas fill,

Our ship rides smooth and well.

The broad Atlantic's bed of foam

Still breaks against our prow;

I shed no tears at quitting home,

Nor will I shed them now!



Against the bulwarks on the poop

I lean, and watch the sun

Behind the red horizon stoop

His race is nearly run.

Those waves will never quench his light,

O'er which they seem to close,

To-morrow he will rise as bright

As he this morning rose.



How brightly gleams the orb of day

Across the trackless sea!

How lightly dance the waves that play

Like dolphins in our lee!

The restless waters seem to say,

In smothered tones to me,

How many thousand miles away

My native land must be!



Speak, Ocean! is my Home the same

Now all is new to me?

The tropic sky's resplendent flame,

The vast expanse of sea?

Does all around her, yet unchanged,

The well-known aspect wear?

Oh! can the leagues that I have ranged

Have made no difference there?



How vivid Recollection's hand

Recalls the scene once more!

I see the same tall poplars stand

Beside the garden door;

I see the bird-cage hanging still;

And where my sister set

The flowers in the window-sill

Can they be living yet?



Let woman's nature cherish grief,

I rarely heave a sigh

Before emotion takes relief

In listless apathy;

While from my pipe the vapours curl

Towards the evening sky,

And 'neath my feet the billows whirl

In dull monotony!



The sky still wears the crimson streak

Of Sol's departing ray,

Some briny drops are on my cheek,

'Tis but the salt sea spray!

Then let our barque the ocean roam,

Our keel the billows plough;

I shed no tears at quitting home,

Nor will I shed them now!



 

(  )



    ,

  ,

     ,

    ,

    -

   ,

   ,

Ars longa, vita brevis.



    

  ,

   

   ,

   -

  -,

   ,

Ars longa, vita brevis.



   

   ,

    :

    ,

   

,  ,

    ,

Ars longa, vita brevis.



 ,   -

   ,

    , ,

    ,

, ,  ,

    , -

   ,

Ars longa, vita brevis.



    

  , , ,

,    ,

,   ,

     

 ,  

,    :

Ars longa, vita brevis.



    

 ,  ,

 -    

 ,    ,

    ,

     ,

    ,

Ars longa, vita brevis.



   ,

  ,

   ,  

     ,

   ,

 ,  ,

     ,

Ars longa, vita brevis.



, ,    !

, ,  !

,     !

,   !

     ,

   ,

   ,

Ars longa, vita brevis.



,   

   ,

    ,

  ,   ,

, ,   ,

     ,

   -,

Mors gratum, vita brevis.



Ars Longa

[A Song of Pilgrimage]



Our hopes are wild imaginings,

Our schemes are airy castles,

Yet these, on earth, are lords and kings,

And we their slaves and vassals;

Your dream, forsooth, of buoyant youth,

Most ready to deceive is;

But age will own the bitter truth,

"Ars longa, vita brevis."



The hill of life with eager feet

We climbed in merry morning,

But on the downward track we meet

The shades of twilight warning;

The shadows gaunt they fall aslant,

And those who scaled Ben Nevis,

Against the mole-hills toil and pant,

"Ars longa, vita brevis."



The obstacles that barr'd our path

We seldom quail'd to dash on

In youth, for youth one motto hath,

"The will, the way must fashion."

Those words, I wot, blood thick and hot,

Too ready to believe is,

But thin and cold our blood hath got,

"Ars longa, vita brevis."



And "art is long", and "life is short",

And man is slow at learning;

And yet by divers dealings taught,

For divers follies yearning,

He owns at last, with grief downcast

(For man disposed to grieve is)

One adage old stands true and fast,

"Ars longa, vita brevis."



We journey, manhood, youth, and age,

The matron, and the maiden,

Like pilgrims on a pilgrimage,

Loins girded, heavy laden:

Each pilgrim strong, who joins our throng,

Most eager to achieve is,

Foredoom'd ere long to swell the song,

"Ars longa, vita brevis."



At morn, with staff and sandal-shoon,

We travel brisk and cheery,

But some have laid them down ere noon,

And all at eve are weary;

The noontide glows with no repose,

And bitter chill the eve is,

The grasshopper a burden grows,

"Ars longa, vita brevis."



The staff is snapp'd, the sandal fray'd,

The flint-stone galls and blisters,

Our brother's steps we cannot aid,

Ah me! nor aid our sister's:

The pit prepares its hidden snares,

The rock prepared to cleave is,

We cry, in falling unawares,

"Ars longa, vita brevis."



Oh! Wisdom, which we sought to win!

Oh! Strength, in which we trusted!

Oh! Glory, which we gloried in!

Oh! puppets we adjusted!

On barren land our seed is sand,

And torn the web we weave is,

The bruised reed hath pierced the hand,

"Ars longa, vita brevis."



We, too, "Job's comforters" have met,

With steps, like ours, unsteady,

They could not help themselves, and yet

To judge us they were ready;

Life's path is trod at last, and God

More ready to reprieve is,

They know who rest beneath the sod,

"Mors gratum, vita brevis."







     

  ,   ,

       ,

     .

 ,    ,

    ,

       ,

      ,

     .



      ,

     ,

  ,  ,   ,

     ,

 ,  ,  ,

  ,  , 

     

    -

     .



     ,

 ,    

 ,   ,

      .

     

  ,   

     ,   ,

     ,

      .



      ,

      ,

     ,     ,

       ,

, ,   

     ,

, ,    ,

      ,

     .



  ,    ,

  ,    

  ,     

 ,      .

      

 ,    

  .  , , ,

      ,

     .



   ,   ,

     ,

 ,    

      ,

      ,

     ,

       

 !  ,  ,

  ,    ?



       ,

  ,    ,

     

 ,    -

      ,

 ,    ,

      ,

      ,

    ,    -



 ,     

  ,    ,

       -

        ?

  ,    

 ,      ,

      ,

    ,  ?

        .



Bellona



Thou art moulded in marble impassive,

False goddess, fair statue of strife,

Yet standest on pedestal massive,

A symbol and token of life.

Thou art still, not with stillness of languor,

And calm, not with calm boding rest;

For thine is all wrath and all anger

That throbs far and near in the breast

Of man, by thy presence possess'd.



With the brow of a fallen archangel,

The lips of a beautiful fiend,

And locks that are snake-like to strangle,

And eyes from whose depths may be glean'd

The presence of passions, that tremble

Unbidden, yet shine as they may

Through features too proud to dissemble,

Too cold and too calm to betray

Their secrets to creatures of clay.



Thy breath stirreth faction and party,

Men rise, and no voice can avail

To stay themrose-tinted Astarte

Herself at thy presence turns pale.

For deeper and richer the crimson

That gathers behind thee throws forth

A halo thy raiment and limbs on,

And leaves a red track in the path

That flows from thy wine-press of wrath.



For behind thee red rivulets trickle,

Men fall by thy hands swift and lithe,

As corn falleth down to the sickle,

As grass falleth down to the scythe,

Thine arm, strong and cruel, and shapely,

Lifts high the sharp, pitiless lance,

And rapine and ruin and rape lie

Around thee. The Furies advance,

And Ares awakes from his trance.



We, too, with our bodies thus weakly,

With hearts hard and dangerous, thus

We owe theethe saints suffered meekly

Their wrongsit is not so with us.

Some share of thy strength thou hast given

To mortals refusing in vain

Thine aid. We have suffered and striven

Till we have grown reckless of pain,

Though feeble of heart and of brain.



Fair spirit, alluring if wicked,

False deity, terribly real,

Our senses are trapp'd, our souls tricked

By thee and thy hollow ideal.

The soldier who falls in his harness,

And strikes his last stroke with slack hand,

On his dead face thy wrath and thy scorn is

Imprinted. Oh! seeks he a land

Where he shall escape thy command?



When the blood of thy victims lies red on

That stricken field, fiercest and last,

In the sunset that gilds Armageddon

With battle-drift still overcast

When the smoke of thy hot conflagrations

O'ershadows the earth as with wings,

Where nations have fought against nations,

And kings have encounter'd with kings,

When cometh the end of all things



Then those who have patiently waited,

And borne, unresisting, the pain

Of thy vengeance unglutted, unsated,

Shall they be rewarded again?

Then those who, enticed by thy laurels,

Or urged by thy promptings unblest,

Have striven and stricken in quarrels,

Shall they, too, find pardon and rest?

We know not, yet hope for the best.



 

(  )







   ,

   

    ,

    .



    ,

   ,

 ,   ,

    .



       

    ,    

 ,      ,

 ,    

 ,   ,    .

   ,   , ,

   ,   ,   

 -   ,  ,

    , ,  .







     ,

    

     , 

     .



! ,   ,

     :

, ,    ,

      .



Borrow'd Plumes

[A Preface and a Piracy]



Prologue



Of borrow'd plumes I take the sin,

My extracts will apply

To some few silly songs which in

These pages scatter'd lie.



The words are Edgar Allan Poe's,

As any man may see,

But what a POE-t wrote in prose,

Shall make blank verse for me.



These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a

view to their redemption from the many improvements to which

they have been subjected while going at random the rounds of

the Press. I am naturally anxious that what I have written

should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate at all.

In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is

incumbent upon me to say that I think nothing in this volume

of much value to the public, or very creditable to myself.



Epilogue



And now that my theft stands detected,

The first of my extracts may call

To some of the rhymes here collected

Your notice, the second to all.



Ah! friend, you may shake your head sadly,

Yet this much you'll say for my verse,

I've written of old something badly,

But written anew something worse.



 

(  )



 ,  ,   

     ,

      

 ,     ,  .

      ,

      ,

  ,    ,

       .

!      

   ,    

 ,     

  , ,    .

 ,    

 ,    

     ,

       ,

    ,

,       -

  ,  ,   .

!    (   ),

  ,    ,

      ,

   ,  

   ,  ,

    ,  ,

 ,    ,

    ,   

     ,

,   ,   

      

, ,    ,

     .

      ,

      ,

     ,

   .



PastorCum

[Translation from Horace]



When he, that shepherd false, 'neath Phrygian sails,

Carried his hostess Helen o'er the seas,

In fitful slumber Nereus hush'd the gales,

That he might sing their future destinies.

A curse to your ancestral home you take

With her, whom Greece, with many a soldier bold

Shall seek again, in concert sworn to break

Your nuptial ties and Priam's kingdom old.

Alas! what sweat from man and horse must flow,

What devastation to the Trojan realm

You carry, even now doth Pallas show

Her wrath, preparing buckler, car, and helm.

In vain, secure in Aphrodite's care,

You comb your locks, and on the girlish lyre

Select the strains most pleasant to the fair;

In vain, on couch reclining, you desire

To shun the darts that threaten, and the thrust

Of Cretan lance, the battle's wild turmoil,

And Ajax swift to followin the dust

Condemned, though late, your wanton curls to soil.

Ah! see you not where (fatal to your race)

Laertes' son comes with the Pylean sage;

Fearless alike, with Teucer joins the chase

Stenelaus, skill'd the fistic strife to wage,

Nor less expert the fiery steeds to quell;

And Meriones, you must know. Behold

A warrior, than his sire more fierce and fell,

To find you rages,Diomed the bold,

Whom like the stag that, far across the vale,

The wolf being seen, no herbage can allure,

So fly you, panting sorely, dastard pale!

Not thus you boasted to your paramour.

Achilles' anger for a space defers

The day of wrath to Troy and Trojan dame;

Inevitable glide the allotted years,

And Dardan roofs must waste in Argive flame.





(  )



      ,

     ,

      ,

      ,

       ,

   ,    

       .



 ,      ,

 ,     ,

 ,     

 ,       ,

 ,       ,

    ,    ,

,  ,     .



 ,      ,

  ,  ,  ,   ,

     ,

  , ,  ,  

   ,  ,

        ,

  ,   ,  .



    ,  ,  ?

,   ,  ?

      ,

       ,

 ,    ?

       ,

        .



      ,

        ?

  ,  ?

      ?

   -    ?

   -  ,

     ?



, ,   ,

  ,    ?

   -  ?

        ,

     ?

     ?

       ?



 , ! , ,   ,

     ,

   ,      -

 ,    ,

   ,

        ,

       .



? , ,  ,

     

   ,  ,  ,

     ,

        -

     ,

     .



 ,       ,

        ,

  ,   

(       ),

       ,

      !

 ,     !



   ,  ,

     ,

    ,   ,

    

,       ,

      ,

  ,     .



, !     ,

       ?

     ,

       ,

     ,

    ,   ,

        .



   ,   ,

  ,    ,

,     ,

,   ,   

(     ),

 ,  ,   !

  ,  ,   !



 !     

     ?

        ,

    ,     ,

      ,

     ,

      .



 ,  ,   ,

      ,

   ,     ,

    ,     -

    ,  ,

  !     ,

       !



Confiteor



The shore-boat lies in the morning light,

By the good ship ready for sailing;

The skies are clear, and the dawn is bright,

Tho' the bar of the bay is fleck'd with white,

And the wind is fitfully wailing;

Near the tiller stands the prit, and the knight

Leans over the quarter-railing.



'There is time while the vessel tarries still,

There is time while her shrouds are slack,

There is time ere her sails to the west-wind fill,

Ere her tall masts vanish from town and from hill,

Ere cleaves to her keel the track;

There is time for confession to those who will,

To those who may never come back.'



'Sir priest, you can shrive these men of mine,

And, I pray you, shrive them fast,

And shrive those hardy sons of the brine,

Captain and mates of the Eglantine,

And sailors before the mast;

Then pledge me a cup of the Cyprus wine,

For I fain would bury the past.'



'And hast thou naught to repent, my son?

Dost thou scorn confession and shrift?

Ere thy sands from the glass of time shall run

Is there naught undone that thou should'st have done,

Naught done that thou should'st have left?

The guiltiest soul may from guilt be won,

And the stoniest heart may be cleft.'



'Have my ears been closed to the prayer of the poor,

Or deaf to the cry of distress?

Have I given little, and taken more?

Have I brought a curse to the widow's door?

Have I wrong'd the fatherless?

Have I steep'd my fingers in guiltless gore,

That I must perforce confess?'



'Have thy steps been guided by purity

Through the paths with wickedness rife?

Hast thou never smitten thine enemy?

Hast thou yielded naught to the lust of the eye,

And naught to the pride of life?

Hast thou pass'd all snares of pleasure by?

Hast thou shunn'd all wrath and strife?'



'Nay, certes ! asinful life I've led,

Yet I've suffer'd, and lived in hope;

I may suffer still, but my hope has fled,

I've nothing now to hope or to dread,

And with fate I can fairly cope;

Were the waters closing over my head,

I should scarcely catch at a rope.'



'Dost suffer? thy pain may be fraught with grace,

Since never by works alone

We are saved;the penitent thief may trace

The wealth of love in the Saviour's face

To the Pharisee rarely shown;

And the Magdalene's arms may yet embrace

The foot of the jasper throne.'



'Sir priest, a heavier doom I dree,

For I feel no quickening pain,

But a dull dumb weight, when I bow my knee,

And (not with the words of the Pharisee)

My hard eyes heavenward strain,

Where my dead darling prayeth for me!

Now, I wot, she prayeth in vain!



'Still I hear it over the battle's din,

And over the festive cheer,

So she pray'd with clasp'd hands, white and thin,

The prayer of a soul absolved from sin,

For a soul that is dark and drear,

For the light of repentance bursting in,

And the flood of the blinding tear.



'Say, priest! when the saint must vainly plead,

Oh! how shall the sinner fare?

I hold your comfort a broken reed;

Let the wither'd branch for itself take heed,

While the green shoots wait your care;

I've striven, though feebly, to grasp your creed,

And I've grappled my own despair.'



'By the little within thee, good and brave,

Not wholly shattered, though shaken;

By the soul that crieth beyond the grave,

The love that He once in His mercy gave,

In His mercy since retaken,

I conjure thee, oh sinner! pardon crave!

I implore thee, oh sleeper, waken!'



'Go to! shall I lay my black soul bare

To a vain, self-righteous man?

In my sin, in my sorrow, you may not share,

And yet, could I meet with one who must bear

The load of an equal ban,

With him I might strive to blend one prayer,

The wail of the Publican.'



'My son, I too am a withered bough,

My place is to others given;

Thou hast sinn'd, thou sayest; I ask not how,

For I too have sinn'd, even as thou,

And I too have feebly striven,

And with thee I must bow, crying, 'Shrive us now!

Our Father which art in heaven !''



 



     ,

  ,   ,

    ,    ,

       ?

       ,

        ,

       ,

       ,

       ,

    , ,

     , ,    -

  ?     !



   ,     ,

      ,

,  , ,    ,

      ?

 ,  ,       

     ,

  ,     ,

   ,    ,

, ,      ,

    ,   ,

   ,      -

  ?  ,  !



        -

  ,  ,  ,

 ,    ,    

       .

          ,

  ,    ,

         

    ,  ,

    ,    ,

     ,

       -

  ?    !



 ,  ,     ,

  ,     ,

       ,

 ? ,   

  ,     

    ,

    ,    -

 ,     ,

 , ,   ,      ,

          ? -

    ,      -

  ?      !



Cui Bono



Oh! wind that whistles o'er thorns and thistles,

Of this fruitful earth like a goblin elf;

Why should he labour to help his neighbour

Who feels too reckless to help himself?

The wail of the breeze in the bending trees

Is something between a laugh and a groan;

And the hollow roar of the surf on the shore

Is a dull, discordant monotone;

I wish I could guess what sense they express,

There's a meaning, doubtless, in every sound,

Yet no one can tell, and it may be as well

Whom would it profit?The world goes round!



On this earth so rough we know quite enough,

And, I sometimes fancy, a little too much;

The sage may be wiser than clown or than kaiser,

Is he more to be envied for being such?

Neither more nor less, in his idleness

The sage is doom'd to vexation sure;

The kaiser may rule, but the slippery stool,

That he calls his throne, is no sinecure;

And as for the clown, you may give him a crown,

Maybe he'll thank you, and maybe not,

And before you can wink he may spend it in drink

To whom does it profit?We ripe and rot!



Yet under the sun much work is done

By clown and kaiser, by serf and sage;

All sow and some reap, and few gather the heap

Of the garner'd grain of a by-gone age.

By sea or by soil man is bound to toil,

And the dreamer, waiting for time and tide,

For awhile may shirk his share of the work,

But he grows with his dream dissatisfied;

He may climb to the edge of the beetling ledge,

Where the loose crag topples and well-nigh reels

'Neath the lashing gale, but the tonic will fail

What does it profit?Wheels within wheels!



Aye! work we must, or with idlers rust,

And eat we must our bodies to nurse;

Some folk grow fatterwhat does it matter?

I'm blest if I doquite the reverse;

'Tis a weary round to which we are bound,

The same thing over and over again;

Much toil and trouble, and a glittering bubble,

That rises and bursts, is the best we gain;

And we murmur, and yet 'tis certain we get

What good we deservecan we hope for more?

They are roaring, those waves, in their echoing caves

To whom do they profit?Let them roar!



 



   ,

    ,

 -  

   .

 - ,

   

    

,  - ,

   .



    ,

    -

    ,

   ,

    

   -,

  ,  ,

     ,

 .



    -

  

  ,

 

,    ,

 ,  ,

    -

      

  컠 .



  ,  ,

     -

   ,

  ?

     

   ,

     ?

   ,

    .



      

   ( ),

 (  ),

    ,

   (  ),

     

   ,

  ,  

     ?



     

  ,  ,

     -

 ,   ,

  ,

    ,

    ,

   

   .



!     ,

  ,   

 ,    -

    

 ,    .

 ,    -

,   , ,

    

    .



, ,  , 

    -

   ( ) -

    . .

  ,  

   ,

    ,

      ,

   .



    

(   ,   ),

  ,  ,

, ,  ,

   ,  ,

     :

    ,

    ?

       .



  

, ,  

  , ,

  - .

 ,  , 

  . 

 .   :

   -,

   .



DeTe



A burning glass of burnished brass,

The calm sea caught the noontide rays,

And sunny slopes of golden grass

And wastes of weed-flower seem to blaze.

Beyond the shining silver-greys,

Beyond the shades of denser bloom,

The sky-line girt with glowing haze

The farthest, faintest forest gloom,

And the everlasting hills that loom.



We heard the hound beneath the mound,

We scared the swamp hawk hovering nigh

We had not sought for that we found

He lay as dead men only lie,

With wan cheek whitening in the sky,

Through the wild heath flowers, white and red,

The dumb brute that had seen him die,

Close crouching, howl'd beside the head,

Brute burial service o'er the dead.



The brow was rife with seams of strife

A lawless death made doubly plain

The ravage of a reckless life;

The havoc of a hurricane

Of passions through that breadth of brain,

Like headlong horses that had run

Riot, regardless of the rein

"Madman, he might have lived and done

Better than most men," whispered one.



The beams and blots that Heaven allots

To every life with life begin.

Fool! would you change the leopard's spots,

Or blanch the Ethiopian's skin?

What more could he have hoped to win,

What better things have thought to gain,

So shapenso conceived in sin?

No life is wholly void and vain,

Just and unjust share sun and rain.



Were new life sent, and life misspent,

Wiped out (if such to God seemed good),

Would he (being as he was) repent,

Or could he, even if he would,

Who heeded not things understood

(Though dimly) even in savage lands

By some who worship stone or wood,

Or bird or beast, or who stretch hands

Sunward on shining Eastern sands?



And crime has cause. Nay, never pause

Idly to feel a pulseless wrist;

Brace up the massive, square-shaped jaws,

Unclench the stubborn, stiff'ning fist,

And close those eyes through film and mist

That kept the old defiant glare;

And answer, wise Psychologist,

Whose science claims some little share

Of truth, what better things lay there?



Aye! thought and mind were there,some kind

Of faculty that men mistake

For talent when their wits are blind,

An aptitude to mar and break

What others diligently make.

This was the worst and best of him

Wise with the cunning of the snake,

Brave with the she wolf's courage grim,

Dying hard and dumb, torn limb from limb.



And you, Brown, you're a doctor; cure

You can't, but you can kill, and he

"WITNESS HIS MARK"he signed last year,

And now he signs John Smith, J.P.

We'll hold our inquest NOW, we three;

I'll be your coroner for once;

I think old Oswald ought to be

Our foremanJones is such a dunce,

There's more brain in the bloodhound's sconce.



No man may shirk the allotted work,

The deed to do, the death to die;

At least I think so,neither Turk,

Nor Jew, nor infidel am I,

And yet I wonder when I try

To solve one question, may or must,

And shall I solve it by-and-by,

Beyond the dark, beneath the dust?

I trust so, and I only trust.



Aye, what they will, such trifles kill.

Comrade, for one good deed of yours,

Your history shall not help to fill

The mouths of many brainless boors.

It may be death absolves or cures

The sin of life. 'Twere hazardous

To assert so. If the sin endures,

Say only, "God, who has judged him thus,

Be merciful to him and us."





( )



 ,     

      ,

    ,

     .

  ,    ,

 ,  , ,

,    ,

     ?



 ,     ,

     ,

      

     .

,  , ,  ,

     ,

 ,    ,

       .



       ,

,     ,

      ,

 ,   ,

  ,   ,

     ,

     

     .



, ,   

     -

    ,

      ?

   ,  ,

  ,    

 ? , ,  ,

   ,   .



!    , ,  ,  

  ,  ,  ,

         ,

     .

       ,

,     ,

 ,    ,

  ,   .



    

  ! ,  !

,     !

,     !

,    !

,  !   !

,  ,  ,

       !



    ,

    !

      

 ,  ,   !

     

    -,

    ,

  , ,   .



      ,

,      ,

     ,  

      .

 !    ,

     

 ? , ,

,    , .



Delilah

[From a Picture]



The sun has gone down, spreading wide on

The sky-line one ray of red fire;

Prepare the soft cushions of Sidon,

Make ready the rich loom of Tyre.

The day, with its toil and its sorrow,

Its shade, and its sunshine, at length

Has ended; dost fear for the morrow,

Strong man, in the pride of thy strength?



Like fire-flies, heavenward clinging,

They multiply, star upon star;

And the breeze a low murmur is bringing

From the tents of my people afar.

Nay, frown not, I am but a Pagan,

Yet little for these things I care;

'Tis the hymn to our deity Dagon

That comes with the pleasant night air.



It shall not disturb thee, nor can it;

See, closed are the curtains, the lights

Gleam down on the cloven pomegranate,

Whose thirst-slaking nectar invites;

The red wine of Hebron glows brightly

In yon gobletthe draught of a king;

And through the silk awning steals lightly

The sweet song my handmaidens sing.



Dost think that thy God, in His anger,

Will trifle with nature's great laws,

And slacken those sinews in languor

That battled so well in His cause?

Will He take back that strength He has given,

Because to the pleasures of youth

Thou yieldest? Nay, Godlike, in heaven,

He laughs at such follies, forsooth.



Oh! were I, for good or for evil,

As great and as gifted as thou,

Neither God should restrain me, nor devil,

To none like a slave would I bow.

If fate must indeed overtake thee,

And feebleness come to thy clay,

Pause not till thy strength shall forsake thee,

Enjoy it the more in thy day.



Oh, fork'd-tongue of adder, by her pent

In smooth lips!oh, Sybarite blind!

Oh, woman allied to the serpent!

Oh, beauty with venom combined!

Oh, might overcoming the mighty!

Oh, glory departing! oh, shame!

Oh, altar of false Aphrodite,

What strength is consumed in thy flame!



Strong chest, where her drapery rustles,

Strong limbs by her black tresses hid!

Not alone by the might of your muscles

Yon lion was rent like a kid!

The valour from virtue that sunders,

Is 'reft of its nobler part;

And Lancelot's arm may work wonders,

But braver is Galahad's heart.



Sleep sound on that breast fair and ample;

Dull brain, and dim eyes, and deaf ears,

Feel not the cold touch on your temple,

Heed not the faint clash of the shears.

It comes!with the gleam of the lamps on

The curtainsthat voicedoes it jar

On thy soul in the night-watch? Ho! Samson,

Upon thee the Philistines are.



 



,    ,

   ,

   

  

  ,

  ,

    ,

    ?



    ,

     -

   ,

   ,

   

   ,

     ,

   .



   

    ,

  

    ,

  

    -

  

  .



  ,  ,

     , -

 ,    ,

    ,

   ,

   ,

  ,  ,

     !



  ,

    ,

  ,

     ,

  , ,

       

  

  .



  :  

   ,

   ,  ,

   ,

,   ,

     ,

     ,

   .



   

   ?

    ,

   

,    ,

,  ,

,   

     .



  !

. !  ,

   ?

    ?

   

    ,

    ,

    .



!   

     ,

   ,  ,

   ,

   ?

  ?

 !   ,

 ,     .



  ,  

  ,

    ,

    .

    

  ,

     ,

    .



 !  

    -

    

,    ?

   ,

   ,

,  !

    .



    -

   

 ?  ?

   ,

  

  ,

   ,

  ?



    ,

  ?

   ,

   ,

   ,

    ,

    -

,   ?



!   .  

      ,

 ,  ,

  .

    ,

  ,

 ,   ,

   .



  ,

     ,

    ,

   ,

     ,

    ,

,   ,

    .



     

   ,

   ,

  ,

   

  ?

    ,

    .



  ,   

    ,

    ,

   .

  

  ,

    

    .



  !   -

      -

    

    .

   ,

   ,

    ,

    .



    ,

    ,

   ,

    -

    

    -

     ,

    ?



Doubtful Dreams



Aye, snows are rife in December,

And sheaves are in August yet,

And you would have me remember,

And I would rather forget;

In the bloom of the May-day weather,

In the blight of October chill,

We were dreamers of old together,

As of old, are you dreaming still?



For nothing on earth is sadder

Than the dream that cheated the grasp,

The flower that turned to the adder,

The fruit that changed to the asp;

When the day-spring in darkness closes,

As the sunset fades from the hills,

With the fragrance of perish'd roses,

With the music of parch'd-up rills.



When the sands on the sea-shore nourish

Red clover and yellow corn;

When figs on the thistle flourish,

And grapes grow thick on the thorn;

When the dead branch, blighted and blasted,

Puts forth green leaves in the spring,

Then the dream that life has outlasted

Dead comfort to life may bring.



I have changed the soil and the season,

But whether skies freeze or flame,

The soil they flame on or freeze on

Is changed in little save name;

The loadstone points to the nor'ward,

The river runs to the sea;

And you would have me look forward,

And backward I fain would flee.



I remember the bright spring garlands,

The gold that spangled the green,

And the purple on fairy far lands,

And the white and the red bloom, seen

From the spot where we last lay dreaming

Togetheryourself and I

The soft grass beneath us gleaming,

Above us the great grave sky.



And we spoke thus: "Though we have trodden

Rough paths in our boyish years;

And some with our sweat are sodden,

And some are salt with our tears;

Though we stumble still, walking blindly,

Our paths shall be made all straight;

We are weak, but the heavens are kindly,

The skies are compassionate."



Is the clime of the old land younger,

Where the young dreams longer are nursed?

With the old insatiable hunger,

With the old unquenchable thirst,

Are you longing, as in the old years

We have longed so often in vain;

Fellow-toilers still, fellow-soldiers,

Though the seas have sundered us twain?



But the young dreams surely have faded!

Young dreams!old dreams of young days

Shall the new dream vex us as they did?

Or as things worth censure or praise?

Real toil is ours, real trouble,

Dim dreams of pleasure and pride;

Let the dreams disperse like a bubble,

So the toil like a dream subside.



Vain toil! men better and braver

Rose early and rested late,

Whose burdens than ours were graver,

And sterner than ours their hate.

What fair reward had Achilles?

What rest could Alcides win?

Vain toil!"Consider the lilies,

They toil not neither do spin."



Nor for mortal toiling nor spinning

Will the matters of mortals mend;

As it was so in the beginning,

It shall be so in the end.

The web that the weavers weave ill

Shall not be woven aright

Till the good is brought forth from evil,

As day is brought forth from night.



Vain dreams! for our fathers cherish'd

High hopes in the days that were;

And these men wonder'd and perish'd,

Nor better than these we fare;

And our due at last is their due,

They fought against odds and fell;

"En avant, les enfants perdus!"

We fight against odds as well.



The skies! Will the great skies care for

Our footsteps, straighten our path,

Or strengthen our weakness? Wherefore?

We have rather incurr'd their wrath;

When against the Captain of Hazor

The stars in their courses fought,

Did the skies shed merciful rays, or

With love was the sunshine fraught?



Can they favour man? Can they wrong man?

The unapproachable skies?

Though these gave strength to the strong man,

And wisdom gave to the wise;

When strength is turn'd to derision,

And wisdom brought to dismay,

Shall we wake from a troubled vision,

Or rest from a toilsome day?



Nay! I cannot tell. Peradventure

Our very toil is a dream,

And the works that we praise or censure,

It may be, they only seem.

If so, I would fain awaken,

Or sleep more soundly than so,

Or by dreamless sleep overtaken,

The dream I would fain forego.



For the great things of earth are small things,

The longest life is a span,

And there is an end to all things,

A season to every man,

Whose glory is dust and ashes,

Whose spirit is but a spark,

That out from the darkness flashes,

And flickers out in the dark.



We remember the pangs that wrung us

When some went down to the pit,

Who faded as leaves among us,

Who flitted as shadows flit;

What visions under the stone lie?

What dreams in the shroud sleep dwell?

For we saw the earth pit only,

And we heard only the knell.



We know not whether they slumber

Who waken on earth no more,

As the stars of the heights in number,

As sands on the deep sea-shore.

Shall stiffness bind them, and starkness

Enthral them, by field and flood,

Till "the sun shall be turn'd to darkness,

And the moon shall be turn'd to blood."



We know not!worse may enthral men

"The wages of sin are death";

And so death passed upon all men,

For sin was born with man's breath.

Then the labourer spent with sinning,

His hire with his life shall spend;

For it was so in the beginning,

And shall be so in the end.



There is life in the blacken'd ember

While a spark is smouldering yet;

In a dream e'en now I remember

That dream I had lief forget

I had lief forget, I had e'en lief

That dream with THIS doubt should die

"IF WE DID THESE THINGS IN THE GREEN LEAF,

WHAT SHALL BE DONE IN THE DRY?"





()



       ,

    -

       

      ,

   ,    ,

      .



 ,  ,    

       ,

       

 ,    :

   , ,  - ?

 ?  .



,      -

 ,   ,   -

    ,  ,

      ?

 ,  ,   , -

    ,  .



      

    ,    

 ,      -

 ,     ,

      ,

  ,   .



   ,  ,  

      , -

  ,   ,  

 ,    .

  :   

      .



      ,

         ,

   ,    -

   , 

      -

  ,    .



  ,  ,  

      :

   ,    ,

    ,    ,

       ,

      .



       

 :     ,

   ,   

 ,     -

,       ,  ,

      



      ,

      , 

   ,   ,

      ,

      

  ,    .



    ,

,       :

       ,

  ,    ,

      ,

       .



      ,

       ,

          ,

      ,

       -

!     .



          

     ,

    ,   

   ,   ,

  ,   

     .



     

     ,

       ,

      ,

      ,

    .



 ,      

      ,

   ,   

  ,     ,

     ,   ,

      .







  ,   

      ,

 ,    -

   ,   ,

     ,

 ,    .



 ,    ,

    ,

   ,    ,

        ?

      ,

        .



 ,      ,

, ,    

       ,

      ,

      ,

       :



 ,        

  ,    ,

        ,

      ,

     ,   ,

    ,    .



!       ,

        -

         -

 , ,  ,     ,

       !

   , ,   .



       ,

    ,    

      ,

Ÿ       ,

  -   ,

  ,       .



       -

   ?     

 ,    

      ?

  !       ,

    .



       ,

,      !

  ,    ,

 -    ,

      

      .



  :   

 ,      ,

  ,      -

       -

!    - 

       !







      

      ,  

  ,    ,

       ,

    ,  ,

    ,  .



      ,

     ,

     ,

      -

         ,

     .



 ,  ,  ,  

- ,     ,

       ,

      ,

  ,   ,

       , .



 !     ,

  ,     

    ,  , ,

      ,

     ,

      .



  ,    , , ,

      ,

      

 ,    ?

   ,   

       .



!       

      ,

 ,   , ,

     ,

   ,    ,

      .



  ,   ,

  ,   ,

     :

    ,   ,

   ,   ,  

     .



       ,

        -

        

   ,   - ,

      

 ,      .



Fauconshawe

[A Ballad]



To fetch clear water out of the spring

The little maid Margaret ran;

From the stream to the castle's western wing

It was but a bowshot span;

On the sedgy brink where the osiers cling

Lay a dead man, pallid and wan.



The lady Mabel rose from her bed,

And walked in the castle hall,

Where the porch through the western turret led

She met with her handmaid small.

"What aileth thee, Margaret?" the lady said,

"Hast let thy pitcher fall?



"Say, what hast thou seen by the streamlet side

A nymph or a water sprite

That thou comest with eyes so wild and wide,

And with cheeks so ghostly white?"

"Nor nymph nor sprite," the maiden cried,

"But the corpse of a slaughtered knight."



The lady Mabel summon'd straight

To her presence Sir Hugh de Vere,

Of the guests who tarried within the gate

Of Fauconshawe most dear

Was he to that lady; betrothed in state

They had been since many a year.



"Little Margaret sayeth a dead man lies

By the western spring, Sir Hugh;

I can scarce believe that the maiden lies

Yet scarce can believe her true."

And the knight replies, "Till we test her eyes

Let her words gain credence due."



Down the rocky path knight and lady led,

While guests and retainers bold

Followed in haste, for like wildfire spread

The news by the maiden told.

They found 'twas even as she had said

The corpse had some while been cold.



How the spirit had pass'd in the moments last

There was little trace to reveal:

On the still calm face lay no imprint ghast,

Save the angel's solemn seal,

Yet the hands were clench'd in a death-grip fast,

And the sods stamp'd down by the heel.



Sir Hugh by the side of the dead man knelt,

Said, "Full well these features I know,

We have faced each other where blows were dealt,

And he was a stalwart foe;

I had rather have met him hilt to hilt

Than have found him lying low."



He turn'd the body up on its face,

And never a word was spoken,

While he ripp'd the doublet, and tore the lace,

And tugg'dby the self-same token,

And strain'd, till he wrench'd it out of its place,

The dagger-blade that was broken.



Then he turned the body over again,

And said, while he rose upright,

"May the brand of Cain, with its withering stain,

On the murderer's forehead light,

For he never was slain on the open plain,

Nor yet in the open fight."



Solemn and stern were the words he spoke,

And he look'd at his lady's men,

But his speech no answering echoes woke,

All were silent there and then,

Till a clear, cold voice the silence broke:

Lady Mabel cried, "Amen."



His glance met hers, the twain stood hush'd,

With the dead between them there;

But the blood to her snowy temples rush'd

Till it tinged the roots of her hair,

Then paled, but a thin red streak still flush'd

In the midst of her forehead fair.



Four yeomen raised the corpse from the ground,

At a sign from Sir Hugh de Vere;

It was borne to the western turret round,

And laid on a knightly bier,

With never a sob nor a mourning sound,

No friend to the dead was near.



Yet that night was neither revel nor dance

In the halls of Fauconshawe;

Men looked askance with a doubtful glance

At Sir Hugh, for they stood in awe

Of his prowess, but he, like one in a trance,

Regarded naught that he saw.







Night black and chill, wind gathering still,

With its wail in the turret tall,

And its headlong blast like a catapult cast

On the crest of the outer wall,

And its hail and rain on the crashing pane,

Till the glassy splinters fall.



A moody knight by the fitful light

Of the great hall fire below;

A corpse upstairs, and a woman at prayers,

Will they profit her, aye or no?

By'r lady fain, an' she comfort gain,

There is comfort for us also.



The guests were gone, save Sir Hugh alone,

And he watched the gleams that broke

On the pale hearth-stone, and flickered and shone

On the panels of polish'd oak;

He was 'ware of no presence except his own

Till the voice of young Margaret spoke:



"I've risen, Sir Hugh, at the mirk midnight,

I cannot sleep in my bed,

Now, unless my tale can be told aright,

I wot it were best unsaid;

It lies, the blood of yon northern knight,

On my lady's hand and head."



"Oh! the wild wind raves and rushes along,

But thy ravings seem more wild

She never could do so foul a wrong

Yet I blame thee not, my child,

For the fever'd dreams on thy rest that throng!"

He frown'd though his speech was mild.



"Let storm winds eddy, and scream, and hurl

Their wrath, they disturb me naught;

The daughter she of a high-born earl,

No secret of hers I've sought;

I am but the child of a peasant churl,

Yet look to the proofs I've brought;



"This dagger snapp'd so close to the hilt

Dost remember thy token well?

Will it match with the broken blade that spilt

His life in the western dell?

Nay! read her handwriting an' thou wilt,

From her paramour's breast it fell."



The knight in silence the letter read,

Oh! the characters well he knew!

And his face might have match'd the face of the dead,

So ashen white was its hue!

Then he tore the parchment shred by shred,

And the strips in the flames he threw.



And he muttered, "Densely those shadows fall

In the copse where the alders thicken;

There she bade him come to her, once for all

Now, I well may shudder and sicken;

Gramercy! that hand so white and small,

How strongly it must have stricken."







At midnight hour, in the western tower,

Alone with the dead man there,

Lady Mabel kneels, nor heeds nor feels

The shock of the rushing air,

Though the gusts that pass through the riven glass

Have scattered her raven hair.



Across the floor, through the opening door,

Where standeth a stately knight,

The lamplight streams, and flickers, and gleams,

On his features stern and white

'Tis Sir Hugh de Vere, and he cometh more near,

And the lady standeth upright.



"'Tis little," he said, "that I know or care

Of the guilt (if guilt there be)

That lies 'twixt thee and yon dead man there,

Nor matters it now to me;

I thought thee pure, thou art only fair,

And to-morrow I cross the sea.



"He perish'd! I ask not why or how?

I come to recall my troth;

Take back, my lady, thy broken vow,

Give back my allegiance oath;

Let the past be buried between us now

For ever'tis best for both.



"Yet, Mabel, I could ask, dost thou dare

Lay hand on that corpse's heart,

And call on thy Maker, and boldly swear,

That thou hadst in his death no part?

I ask not, while threescore proofs I share

With one doubtuncondemn'd thou art."



Oh! cold and bleak upon Mabel's cheek

Came the blast of the storm-wind keen,

And her tresses black, as the glossy back

Of the raven, glanced between

Her fingers slight, like the ivory white,

As she parted their sable sheen.



Yet with steady lip, and with fearless eye,

And with cheek like the flush of dawn,

Unflinchingly she spoke in reply

"Go hence with the break of morn,

I will neither confess, nor yet deny,

I will return thee scorn for scorn."



The knight bow'd low as he turn'd to go;

He travell'd by land and sea,

But naught of his future fate I know,

And naught of his fair ladye;

My story is told as, long ago,

My story was told to me.



   



        ,

   ,     ,

    ,   ,

         

 :   ,

      ,

         -

,   ,     ,

  ,      .



    ,    ,

    ,     ,

  ,   ,

  ,   ,   ,

 : !  , ,

 ,      ,

  ,    ,

  ,     ,

        .



From Lightning and Tempest



The spring-wind pass'd through the forest, and whispered low in the leaves,

And the cedar toss'd her head, and the oak stood firm in his pride;

The spring-wind pass'd through the town, through the housetops, casements, and eaves,

And whisper'd low in the hearts of the men, and the men replied,

Singing'Let us rejoice in the light

Of our glory, and beauty, and might;

Let us follow our own devices, and foster our own desires.

As firm as our oaks in our pride, as our cedars fair in our sight,

We stand like the trees of the forest that brave the frosts and the fires.'



The storm went forth to the forest, the plague went forth to the town,

And the men fell down to the plague, as the trees fell down to the gale;

And their bloom was a ghastly pallor, and their smile was a ghastly frown,

And the song of their hearts was changed to a wild, disconsolate wail,

Crying'God ! we have sinn'd, we have sinn'd,

We are bruised, we are shorn, we are thinn'd,

Our strength is turn'd to derision, our pride laid low in the dust,

Our cedars are cleft by Thy lightnings, our oaks are strew'd by Thy wind,

And we fall on our faces seeking Thine aid, though Thy wrath is just.'



 



  , !       ?

  ,     ,  ,  ,

 ,       .

 ,       ,

 ,     ,

    ,        .

       ,  

 , ,    ,  .

    , ,  -,

   ,   ,  

  ,   ,    

 ,     ,    .

        ,

         ,

    ,  , ,   .

 ,   ,     .



 ,     ,




  .


   .

   ,     (https://www.litres.ru/pages/biblio_book/?art=72576403)  .

      Visa, MasterCard, Maestro,    ,   ,     ,  PayPal, WebMoney, ., QIWI ,       .


