« PredošláPokračovať »
“That night is near,—and the cheerless tomb
Shall keep thy body in store,
The sweet season that bud and bloom forth brings,
hath clad the hill, and eke the vale ; The nightingale with feathers new she sings ;
The turtle to her mate hath told her tale. Summer is come, for every spray now springs,
The hart has hung his old head on the pale, The buck in brake his winter coat he flings,
The fishes fleet with new-repaired scale; The adder all her slough away she flings,
The swift swallow pursues the fliës small, The busy bee her honey now she mings;
Winter is worn that was the flower's bale. And thus I see, among those pleasant things, Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.
EARL OF SURREY.
He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
When our need was the sorest.
From the rain-drops shall borrow; But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow.
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory ; The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing,
When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correi,
Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever.
SCOTT. RETURNING SPRING.
Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone,
And the green lizard and the golden snake,
Through wood and stream and field and hill and ocean,
Diffuse themselves; and spend in love's delight
THE BELEAGUERED CITY.
I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguer'd the walls of Prague.
Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.
White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
The river flow'd between.
No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
As clouds with clouds embrace.
But, when the old cathedral bell
Proclaim’d the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmèd air.
THE BELEAGUERED CITY.
Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled ; Uprose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.
I have read, in the marvellous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,
Beleaguer the human soul.
Encamp'd beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,
Portentous through the night.
Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen, ,
Flows the River of Life between.
of the grave ;
No other voice nor sound is there,
But the rushing of Life's wave.
And, when the solemn and deep church-bell
Entreats the soul to pray,
The shadows sweep away.