Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

LXXVII.

PROSPICE.

EAR death?-to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face,

When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,

The power of the night, the press of the storm

The post of the foe;

Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
Yet the strong man must go :

For the journey is done and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall,

Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all.

I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more,

The best and the last!

I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, And bade me creep past.

No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers

The heroes of old,

Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold.

For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,
The black minute's at end,

And the elements' rage, the fiend voices that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend,

Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast

O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,

And with God be the rest!

R. Browning.

LXXVIII.

SONG.

(FROM COMUS.')

WEET echo, sweetest, Nymph! that liv'st unseen
Within thy airy shell,

By slow Mæander's margent green,

And in the violet-embroidered vale,

Where the lovelorn* nightingale

:

Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well :

Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair

That likest thy Narcissus are?

Oh, if thou have

Hid them in some flowery cave,

Tell me but where,

Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere !

So mayst thou be translated to the skies,

And give resounding grace to all Heaven's harmonies.

J. Milton.

LXXIX.

LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS,

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

OW Nature hangs her mantle green

On every blooming tree,

And spreads her sheets o' daisies white

Out o'er the grassy lea :

Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams
And glads the azure skies;

But nocht can glad the weary wight

That fast in durance lies.

* Lorn, lost.

144

Lament of Mary Queen of Scots.

Now lavrocks * wake the merry morn,
Aloft on dewy wing :

The merle +, in his noontide bower,
Makes woodland echoes ring.
The mavis ‡ mild, wi' many a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest :
In love and freedom they rejoice,
Wi' care nor thrall oppressed.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae§;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
And milkwhite is the slae.

The meanest hind in fair Scotland

May rove their sweets amang;
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,
Maun lie in prison strang.

I was the Queen o' bonnie France,
Where happy I hae been;

Fu' lightly raise I in the morn,
As blythe lay down at e'en.
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland,
And monie a traitor there :
Yet here I lie in foreign bands,
And never-ending care.

But as for thee, thou false woman!
My sister and my foe!

Grim Vengeance yet shall whet a sword

That through thy soul shall go.

The weeping blood in woman's breast

Was never known to thee;

Nor the balm that drops on wounds of woe
Frae woman's pitying ee.

* Larks.

+ Blackbird.

+ Thrush.

§ Hillock.

My son my son! may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine;

And may those pleasures gild thy reign,
That ne'er wad* blink on mine!

God keep thee frae thy mother's foes,
Or turn their hearts to thee;

And where thou meetst thy mother's friend,
Remember him for me!

Oh soon to me may summer suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair to me the autumn winds
Wave o'er the yellow corn!

And in the narrow house o' death
Let winter round me rave;

And the next flowers that deck the spring
Bloom on my peaceful grave!

R. Burns.

LXXX.

A POET'S EPITAPH.

TOP, Mortal!

Here thy brother lies,

The Poet of the Poor.

His books were rivers, woods, and skies,
The meadow, and the moor;

His teachers were the torn hearts' wail,
The tyrant, and the slave,

The street, the factory, the jail,

The palace and the grave!

The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm,
He feared to scorn or hate;

And honoured in a peasant's form
The equal of the great.

*Wad, would.

L

But if he loved the rich who make
The poor man's little more,

Ill could he praise the rich who take
From plundered labour's store.

A hand to do, a head to plan,

A heart to feel and dare

Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man
Who drew them as they are.

E. Elliott.

LXXXI.

FAITH.

Unto the godly there ariseth up light in the darkness.'

EAD, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,
Lead Thou me on!

The night is dark, and I am far from home-
Lead Thou me on!

Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene,-one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
Shouldst lead me on.

I loved to choose and see my path; but now,
Lead Thou me on!

I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will remember not past years.

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on,

O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone;

And with the morn those Angel faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. 7. H. Newman.

« ZurückWeiter »