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William Wordsworth
|
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part II. - XXXVIII - Elizabeth
|
Hail, Virgin Queen! o'er many an envious bar
Triumphant, snatched from many a treacherous wile!
All hail, sage Lady, whom a grateful Isle
Hath blest, respiring from that dismal war
Stilled by thy voice! But quickly from afar
Defiance breathes with more malignant aim;
And alien storms with home-bred ferments claim
Portentous fellowship. Her silver car,
By sleepless prudence ruled, glides slowly on;
Unhurt by violence, from menaced taint
Emerging pure, and seemingly more bright:
Ah! wherefore yields it to a foul constraint
Black as the clouds its beams dispersed, while shone,
By men and angels blest, the glorious light?
|
Hail, Virgin Queen! o'er many an envious bar
Triumphant, snatched from many a treacherous wile!
All hail, sage Lady, whom a grateful Isle
Hath blest, respiring from that dismal war
|
Stilled by thy voice! But quickly from afar
Defiance breathes with more malignant aim;
And alien storms with home-bred ferments claim
Portentous fellowship. Her silver car,
By sleepless prudence ruled, glides slowly on;
Unhurt by violence, from menaced taint
Emerging pure, and seemingly more bright:
Ah! wherefore yields it to a foul constraint
Black as the clouds its beams dispersed, while shone,
By men and angels blest, the glorious light?
|
sonnet
|
Alfred Lord Tennyson
|
A Medley: As Thro' The Land (The Princess)
|
As thro' the land at eve we went,
And pluck'd the ripen'd ears,
We fell out, my wife and I,
O we fell out I know not why,
And kiss'd again with tears.
And blessings on the falling out
That all the more endears,
When we fall out with those we love
And kiss again with tears!
For when we came where lies the child
We lost in other years,
There above the little grave,
O there above the little grave,
We kiss'd again with tears.
|
As thro' the land at eve we went,
And pluck'd the ripen'd ears,
We fell out, my wife and I,
O we fell out I know not why,
|
And kiss'd again with tears.
And blessings on the falling out
That all the more endears,
When we fall out with those we love
And kiss again with tears!
For when we came where lies the child
We lost in other years,
There above the little grave,
O there above the little grave,
We kiss'd again with tears.
|
sonnet
|
Algernon Charles Swinburne
|
Envoi
|
Fly, white butterflies, out to sea,
Frail pale wings for the winds to try,
Small white wings that we scarce can see
Fly.
Here and there may a chance-caught eye
Note in a score of you twain or three
Brighter or darker of tinge or dye.
Some fly light as a laugh of glee,
Some fly soft as a low long sigh:
All to the haven where each would be
Fly.
|
Fly, white butterflies, out to sea,
Frail pale wings for the winds to try,
Small white wings that we scarce can see
|
Fly.
Here and there may a chance-caught eye
Note in a score of you twain or three
Brighter or darker of tinge or dye.
Some fly light as a laugh of glee,
Some fly soft as a low long sigh:
All to the haven where each would be
Fly.
|
free_verse
|
William Shakespeare
|
The Sonnets XCII - But do thy worst to steal thyself away
|
But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For term of life thou art assured mine;
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end.
I see a better state to me belongs
Than that which on thy humour doth depend:
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.
O! what a happy title do I find,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die!
But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot?
Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
|
But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For term of life thou art assured mine;
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
|
Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end.
I see a better state to me belongs
Than that which on thy humour doth depend:
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.
O! what a happy title do I find,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die!
But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot?
Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
|
sonnet
|
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
|
Lost Faith.
|
To lose one's faith surpasses
The loss of an estate,
Because estates can be
Replenished, -- faith cannot.
Inherited with life,
Belief but once can be;
Annihilate a single clause,
And Being's beggary.
|
To lose one's faith surpasses
The loss of an estate,
|
Because estates can be
Replenished, -- faith cannot.
Inherited with life,
Belief but once can be;
Annihilate a single clause,
And Being's beggary.
|
octave
|
Rupert Brooke
|
The Hill
|
Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,
Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
You said, "Through glory and ecstasy we pass;
Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,
When we are old, are old. . . ." "And when we die
All's over that is ours; and life burns on
Through other lovers, other lips," said I,
"Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!"
"We are Earth's best, that learnt her lesson here.
Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!" we said;
"We shall go down with unreluctant tread
Rose-crowned into the darkness!" . . . Proud we were,
And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.
And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.
|
Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,
Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
You said, "Through glory and ecstasy we pass;
Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,
|
When we are old, are old. . . ." "And when we die
All's over that is ours; and life burns on
Through other lovers, other lips," said I,
"Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!"
"We are Earth's best, that learnt her lesson here.
Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!" we said;
"We shall go down with unreluctant tread
Rose-crowned into the darkness!" . . . Proud we were,
And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.
And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.
|
sonnet
|
Aurelius Clemens Prudentius
|
Hymn Before Meat (Hymnus Ante Cibum)
|
Newly Translated Into English Verse By R. Martin Pope is below this original.
Hymnus Ante Cibum
O crucifer bone, lucisator,
omniparens, pie, verbigena,
edite corpore virgineo,
sed prius in genitore potens,
astra, solum, mare quam fierent:
Huc nitido precor intuitu
flecte salutiferam faciem,
fronte serenus et inradia,
nominis ut sub honore tui
has epulas liceat capere.
Te sine dulce nihil, Domine,
nec iuvat ore quid adpetere,
pocula ni prius atque cibos,
Christe, tuus favor inbuerit
omnia sanctificante fide.
Fercula nostra Deum sapiant,
Christus et influat in pateras:
seria, ludicra, verba, iocos,
denique quod sumus aut agimus,
trina superne regat pietas.
Hic mihi nulla rosae spolia,
nullus aromate fragrat odor,
sed liquor influit ambrosius
nectareamque fidem redolet
fusus ab usque Patris gremio.
Sperne camena leves hederas,
cingere tempora quis solita es,
sertaque mystica dactylico
texere docta liga strophio,
laude Dei redimita comas.
Quod generosa potest anima,
lucis et aetheris indigena,
solvere dignius obsequium,
quam data munera si recinat
artificem modulata suum?
Ipse homini quia cuncta dedit,
quae capimus dominante manu,
quae polus aut humus aut pelagus
aere, gurgite, rure creant,
haec mihi subdidit et sibi me.
Callidus inlaqueat volucres
aut pedicis dolus aut maculis,
inlita glutine corticeo
vimina plumigeram seriem
inpediunt et abire vetant.
Ecce per aequora fluctivagos
texta greges sinuosa trahunt:
piscis item sequitur calamum
raptus acumine vulnifico
credula saucius ora cibo.
Fundit opes ager ingenuas
dives aristiferae segetis:
his ubi vitea pampineo
brachia palmite luxuriant,
pacis alumna ubi baca viret.
Haec opulentia Christicolis
servit et omnia suppeditat:
absit enim procul ilia fames,
caedibus ut pecudum libeat
sanguineas lacerare dapes.
Sint fera gentibus indomitis
prandia de nece quadrupedum:
nos oleris coma, nos siliqua
feta legumine multimodo
paverit innocuis epulis.
Spumea mulctra gerunt niveos
ubere de gemino latices,
perque coagula densa liquor
in solidum coit et fragili
lac tenerum premitur calatho.
Mella recens mihi Cecropia
nectare sudat olente favus:
haec opifex apis aerio
rore liquat tenuique thymo,
nexilis inscia connubii.
Hinc quoque pomiferi nemoris
munera mitia proveniunt,
arbor onus tremefacta suum
deciduo gravis imbre pluit
puniceosque iacit cumulos.
Quae veterum tuba, quaeve lyra
flatibus inclita vel fidibus
divitis omnipotentis opus,
quaeque fruenda patent homini
laudibus aequiparare queat?
Te Pater optime mane novo,
solis et orbita cum media est,
te quoque luce sub occidua
sumere cum monet hora cibum,
nostra Deus canet harmonia.
Quod calet halitus interior,
corde quod abdita vena tremit,
pulsat et incita quod resonam
lingua sub ore latens caveam,
laus superi Patris esto mihi.
Nos igitur tua sancte manus
caespite conposuit madido
effigiem meditata suam,
utque foret rata materies
flavit et indidit ore animam.
Tunc per amoena vireta iubet
frondicomis habitare locis,
ver ubi perpetuum redolet
prataque multicolora latex
quadrifluo celer amne rigat.
Haec tibi nunc famulentur, ait,
usibus omnia dedo tuis:
sed tamen aspera mortifero
stipite carpere poma veto,
qui medio viret in nemore.
Hic draco perfidus indocile
virginis inlicit ingenium,
ut socium malesuada virum
mandere cogeret ex vetitis
ipsa pari peritura modo.
Corpora mutua--nosse nefas--
post epulas inoperta vident,
lubricus error et erubuit:
tegmina suta parant foliis,
dedecus ut pudor occuleret.
Conscia culpa Deum pavitans
sede pia procul exigitur.
innuba fernina quae fuerat,
coniugis excipit inperium,
foedera tristia iussa pati.
Auctor et ipse doli coluber
plectitur inprobus, ut mulier
colla trilinguia calce terat:
sic coluber muliebre solum
suspicit atque virum mulier.
His ducibus vitiosa dehinc
posteritas ruit in facinus,
dumque rudes imitatur avos,
fasque nefasque simul glomerans
inpia crimina morte luit.
Ecce venit nova progenies,
aethere proditus alter homo,
non luteus, velut ille prior:
sed Deus ipse gerens hominem,
corporeisque carens vitiis.
Fit caro vivida sermo Patris,
numine quam rutilante gravis
non thalamo, neque iure tori,
nec genialibus inlecebris
intemerata puella parit.
Hoc odium vetus illud erat,
hoc erat aspidis atque hominis
digladiabile discidium,
quod modo cernua femineis
vipera proteritur pedibus.
Edere namque Deum merita
omnia virgo venena domat:
tractibus anguis inexplicitis
virus inerme piger revomit,
gramine concolor in viridi.
Quae feritas modo non trepidat,
territa de grege candidulo?
inpavidas lupus inter oves
tristis obambulat et rabidum
sanguinis inmemor os cohibet.
Agnus enim vice mirifica
ecce leonibus inperitat:
exagitansque truces aquilas
per vaga nubila, perque notos
sidere lapsa columba fugat.
Tu mihi Christe columba potens,
sanguine pasta cui cedit avis,
tu niveus per ovile tuum
agnus hiare lupum prohibes,
sub iuga tigridis ora premens.
Da locuples Deus hoc famulis
rite precantibus, ut tenui
membra cibo recreata levent,
neu piger inmodicis dapibus
viscera tenta gravet stomachus.
Haustus amarus abesto procul,
ne libeat tetigisse manu
exitiale quid aut vetitum:
gustus et ipse modum teneat,
sospitet ut iecur incolume.
Sit satis anguibus horrificis,
liba quod inpia corporibus
ah miseram peperere necem,
sufficiat semel ob facinus
plasma Dei potuisse mori.
Oris opus, vigor igneolus
non moritur, quia flante Deo
conpositus superoque fluens
de solio Patris artificis
vim liquidae rationis habet.
Viscera mortua quin etiam
post obitum reparare datur,
eque suis iterum tumulis
prisca renascitur effigies
pulvereo coeunte situ.
Credo equidem, neque vana fides,
corpora vivere more animae:
nam modo corporeum memini
de Phlegethonte gradu facili
ad superos remeasse Deum.
Spes eadem mea membra manet,
quae redolentia funereo
iussa quiescere sarcophago
dux parili redivivus humo
ignea Christus ad astra vocat.
Hymn Before Meat
Blest Cross-bearer, Source of good,
Light-creating, Word-begot,
Gracious child of maidenhood,
Bosomed in the Fatherhood,
When earth, sea and stars were not.
With Thy cloudless, healing gaze
Shine upon me from above:
Let Thine all-enlightening rays
Bless this meal and quicken praise,
Praise unto Thy name of Love.
Lord, without Thee nought is sweet,
Nought my life can satisfy,
If Thy favour make not meet
What I drink and what I eat;
Let faith all things sanctify!
O'er this bread God's grace be poured,
Christ's sweet fragrance fill the bowl!
Rule my converse, Triune Lord,
Sober thought and sportive word,
All my acts and all my soul.
Spoils of rose-trees are not spent,
Nor rich unguents on my board:
But ambrosial sweets are sent,
Of faith's nectar redolent,
From the bosom of my Lord.
Scorn, my Muse, light ivy-leaves
Wherewith custom wreathed thy brow:
Love a mystic crown conceives
And a rhythmic garland weaves:
Bind on thee God's praises now.
What more worthy gift can I,
Child of light and aether, bring
Than for boons the Maker high
From His bounty doth supply
Lovingly my thanks to sing?
He hath set 'neath our command
All that ever rose to be,
All that sky and sea and land
Breed in air, in glebe and sand,
Made my slaves, His own made me.
Fowler's craft with gin and net
Feathered tribes of heaven ensnares:
Osier twigs with lime o'erset
That their airy flight may let
His relentless guile prepares.
Lo! with woven mesh the seine
Swimming shoals draws from the wave:
Nor do fish the bait disdain
Till they feel the barb's swift pain,
Captives of the food they crave.
Native wealth that knows no fail,
Golden wheat springs from the field:
Tendrils lush o'er vineyards trail,
Nursed of Peace the olives pale
Berries green unbidden yield.
Christ's grace fills His people's need
With these mercies ever fresh:
Far from us be that foul greed,
Gluttony that loves to feed
On slain oxen's bloodstained flesh.
Leave to the barbarian brood
Banquet of the slaughtered beast:
Ours the homely, garden food,
Greenstuff manifold and good
And the lentils' harmless feast.
Foaming milkpails bubble o'er
With the udders' snowy stream,
Which in thickening churns we pour
Or in wicker baskets store,
As the cheese is pressed from cream.
Honey's nectar for our use
From the new-made comb is shed:
Which the skilful bee imbues
With thyme's scent and airy dews,
Plying lonely toils unwed.
Orchard-groves now mellowed o'er
Bounteously their fruitage shed:
See! like rain on forest floor
Shaken trees their riches pour,
High-heaped apples, ripe and red.
What great trumpet voice or lyre
Famed of yore could fitly praise
Gifts of the Almighty Sire,
Blessings that His own require,
Richly lavished through their days?
When morn breaks upon our sight,
Hymns, O Lord, to Thee shall ring:
Thee, when streams the midday light,
Thee, when shadows of the night
Bid us sup, our voices sing.
For my body's vital heat,
For my heart-blood's pulsing vein,
For my tongue and speech complete
Unto Thee, Most High, 'tis meet
That I raise my grateful strain.
'Twas, O Holy One, Thy care
Wrought us from the plastic clay,
Made us Thine own image bear,
And for our perfection fair
Did Thy Breath to man convey.
On the twain Thou didst bestow
Leafy bowers in pleasaunce fair:
Where spring's scents for aye did blow,
And four stately streams did flow
O'er meads pied with blossoms rare.
"All this realm ye now shall sway:"
(Saidst Thou) "use it at your will,
Yet 'tis death your hands to lay
On the Tree, whose verdant sway
Doth the midmost garden fill."
Then the Serpent's guileful hate
Would not innocency spare:
Bade the maiden urge her mate
With the fruit his lips to sate,
Nor 'scaped she the self-same snare.
Each their nakedness perceives
When the feast they once partook:
Smit with shame their conscience grieves:
Wove they coverings of leaves
Shielding from lascivious look.
Far they both in terror fled
Thrust from dwelling of the pure:
She who erst had dwelt unwed
Subject to her spouse was led,
Bidden Hymen's bonds endure.
On the Serpent, too, His seal
God hath set, Who guile abhorred,
Doomed in triple neck to feel
Impress of the woman's heel,
Fearing her, who feared her lord.
Thus sin in our parents sown
Brought forth ruin for the race;
Good and evil having grown
From that primal root alone,
Nought but death could guilt efface.
But the Second Man behold
Come to re-create our kin:
Not formed after common mould
But our God (O Love untold!)
Made in flesh that knows not sin.
Word of God incarnated,
By His awful power conceived,
Whom a maiden yet unwed,
Innocent of marriage-bed,
In her virgin womb received.
Now we see the Serpent lewd
'Neath the woman's heel downtrod:
Whence there sprang the deadly feud,
Strife for ages unsubdued,
'Twixt mankind and foe of God.
Yet God's mother, Maid adored,
Robbed sin's poison of its bane,
And the Snake, his green coils lowered,
Writhing on the sod, outpoured
Harmless now his venom's stain.
What fierce brute that doth not flee
Lambs of Christ, white-robed and clean?
'Midst the flock from fear set free,
Slinks the drear wolf sullenly,
Checked his maw and tamed his mien.
Wondrous change! restrained by love
Lions the mild lamb obey:
Eagles wild, before the dove
Fluttering from the stars above,
Speed o'er cloudy winds away.
Thou, O Christ, my Dove dost reign
Where the vulture gnaws no more:
Thou dost, snow-white Lamb, enchain
Tigers fierce, and wolves restrain
Gaping at the sheepfold's door.
God of Love, Thy servants we
Pray Thee now to grant our prayer
That our feast may frugal be,
Nor that we dishonour Thee
By coarse surfeit of rich fare.
May we taste no bitter gall
In our cup, nor handle we
Aught of death or harm at all,
Nor intemperately fall
Into gross debauchery.
Be the powers of Hell content
With their primal fraud, whereby
Death into this world was sent,
And that, for sin's chastisement,
God's own creatures once should die.
But in us God's Breath of fire
Cannot lose its vital force:
Never can its might expire,
Flowing from the Eternal Sire,
Who of Reason's strength is source.
Nay, from out death's chilling tomb
Mortal atoms shall arise:
Man from earth's vast, hidden womb
Other, yet the same, shall bloom,
Dust re-made in glorious guise.
'Tis my faith--and faith not vain--
Bodies live e'en as the soul:
Since I hold in memory plain
God as man uprose again,
Loosed from Hell, to His true goal.
Whence from Him the hope I reap
That these limbs the same shall rise,
Which enwrapped in balmy sleep
Christ the Risen safe shall keep
Till He call me to the skies.
|
Newly Translated Into English Verse By R. Martin Pope is below this original.
Hymnus Ante Cibum
O crucifer bone, lucisator,
omniparens, pie, verbigena,
edite corpore virgineo,
sed prius in genitore potens,
astra, solum, mare quam fierent:
Huc nitido precor intuitu
flecte salutiferam faciem,
fronte serenus et inradia,
nominis ut sub honore tui
has epulas liceat capere.
Te sine dulce nihil, Domine,
nec iuvat ore quid adpetere,
pocula ni prius atque cibos,
Christe, tuus favor inbuerit
omnia sanctificante fide.
Fercula nostra Deum sapiant,
Christus et influat in pateras:
seria, ludicra, verba, iocos,
denique quod sumus aut agimus,
trina superne regat pietas.
Hic mihi nulla rosae spolia,
nullus aromate fragrat odor,
sed liquor influit ambrosius
nectareamque fidem redolet
fusus ab usque Patris gremio.
Sperne camena leves hederas,
cingere tempora quis solita es,
sertaque mystica dactylico
texere docta liga strophio,
laude Dei redimita comas.
Quod generosa potest anima,
lucis et aetheris indigena,
solvere dignius obsequium,
quam data munera si recinat
artificem modulata suum?
Ipse homini quia cuncta dedit,
quae capimus dominante manu,
quae polus aut humus aut pelagus
aere, gurgite, rure creant,
haec mihi subdidit et sibi me.
Callidus inlaqueat volucres
aut pedicis dolus aut maculis,
inlita glutine corticeo
vimina plumigeram seriem
inpediunt et abire vetant.
Ecce per aequora fluctivagos
texta greges sinuosa trahunt:
piscis item sequitur calamum
raptus acumine vulnifico
credula saucius ora cibo.
Fundit opes ager ingenuas
dives aristiferae segetis:
his ubi vitea pampineo
brachia palmite luxuriant,
pacis alumna ubi baca viret.
Haec opulentia Christicolis
servit et omnia suppeditat:
absit enim procul ilia fames,
caedibus ut pecudum libeat
sanguineas lacerare dapes.
Sint fera gentibus indomitis
prandia de nece quadrupedum:
nos oleris coma, nos siliqua
feta legumine multimodo
paverit innocuis epulis.
Spumea mulctra gerunt niveos
ubere de gemino latices,
perque coagula densa liquor
in solidum coit et fragili
lac tenerum premitur calatho.
Mella recens mihi Cecropia
nectare sudat olente favus:
haec opifex apis aerio
rore liquat tenuique thymo,
nexilis inscia connubii.
Hinc quoque pomiferi nemoris
munera mitia proveniunt,
arbor onus tremefacta suum
deciduo gravis imbre pluit
puniceosque iacit cumulos.
Quae veterum tuba, quaeve lyra
flatibus inclita vel fidibus
divitis omnipotentis opus,
quaeque fruenda patent homini
laudibus aequiparare queat?
Te Pater optime mane novo,
solis et orbita cum media est,
te quoque luce sub occidua
sumere cum monet hora cibum,
nostra Deus canet harmonia.
Quod calet halitus interior,
corde quod abdita vena tremit,
pulsat et incita quod resonam
lingua sub ore latens caveam,
laus superi Patris esto mihi.
Nos igitur tua sancte manus
caespite conposuit madido
effigiem meditata suam,
utque foret rata materies
flavit et indidit ore animam.
Tunc per amoena vireta iubet
frondicomis habitare locis,
ver ubi perpetuum redolet
prataque multicolora latex
quadrifluo celer amne rigat.
Haec tibi nunc famulentur, ait,
usibus omnia dedo tuis:
sed tamen aspera mortifero
stipite carpere poma veto,
qui medio viret in nemore.
Hic draco perfidus indocile
virginis inlicit ingenium,
ut socium malesuada virum
mandere cogeret ex vetitis
ipsa pari peritura modo.
Corpora mutua--nosse nefas--
post epulas inoperta vident,
lubricus error et erubuit:
tegmina suta parant foliis,
dedecus ut pudor occuleret.
Conscia culpa Deum pavitans
sede pia procul exigitur.
innuba fernina quae fuerat,
coniugis excipit inperium,
foedera tristia iussa pati.
Auctor et ipse doli coluber
plectitur inprobus, ut mulier
colla trilinguia calce terat:
sic coluber muliebre solum
suspicit atque virum mulier.
His ducibus vitiosa dehinc
posteritas ruit in facinus,
dumque rudes imitatur avos,
fasque nefasque simul glomerans
inpia crimina morte luit.
|
Ecce venit nova progenies,
aethere proditus alter homo,
non luteus, velut ille prior:
sed Deus ipse gerens hominem,
corporeisque carens vitiis.
Fit caro vivida sermo Patris,
numine quam rutilante gravis
non thalamo, neque iure tori,
nec genialibus inlecebris
intemerata puella parit.
Hoc odium vetus illud erat,
hoc erat aspidis atque hominis
digladiabile discidium,
quod modo cernua femineis
vipera proteritur pedibus.
Edere namque Deum merita
omnia virgo venena domat:
tractibus anguis inexplicitis
virus inerme piger revomit,
gramine concolor in viridi.
Quae feritas modo non trepidat,
territa de grege candidulo?
inpavidas lupus inter oves
tristis obambulat et rabidum
sanguinis inmemor os cohibet.
Agnus enim vice mirifica
ecce leonibus inperitat:
exagitansque truces aquilas
per vaga nubila, perque notos
sidere lapsa columba fugat.
Tu mihi Christe columba potens,
sanguine pasta cui cedit avis,
tu niveus per ovile tuum
agnus hiare lupum prohibes,
sub iuga tigridis ora premens.
Da locuples Deus hoc famulis
rite precantibus, ut tenui
membra cibo recreata levent,
neu piger inmodicis dapibus
viscera tenta gravet stomachus.
Haustus amarus abesto procul,
ne libeat tetigisse manu
exitiale quid aut vetitum:
gustus et ipse modum teneat,
sospitet ut iecur incolume.
Sit satis anguibus horrificis,
liba quod inpia corporibus
ah miseram peperere necem,
sufficiat semel ob facinus
plasma Dei potuisse mori.
Oris opus, vigor igneolus
non moritur, quia flante Deo
conpositus superoque fluens
de solio Patris artificis
vim liquidae rationis habet.
Viscera mortua quin etiam
post obitum reparare datur,
eque suis iterum tumulis
prisca renascitur effigies
pulvereo coeunte situ.
Credo equidem, neque vana fides,
corpora vivere more animae:
nam modo corporeum memini
de Phlegethonte gradu facili
ad superos remeasse Deum.
Spes eadem mea membra manet,
quae redolentia funereo
iussa quiescere sarcophago
dux parili redivivus humo
ignea Christus ad astra vocat.
Hymn Before Meat
Blest Cross-bearer, Source of good,
Light-creating, Word-begot,
Gracious child of maidenhood,
Bosomed in the Fatherhood,
When earth, sea and stars were not.
With Thy cloudless, healing gaze
Shine upon me from above:
Let Thine all-enlightening rays
Bless this meal and quicken praise,
Praise unto Thy name of Love.
Lord, without Thee nought is sweet,
Nought my life can satisfy,
If Thy favour make not meet
What I drink and what I eat;
Let faith all things sanctify!
O'er this bread God's grace be poured,
Christ's sweet fragrance fill the bowl!
Rule my converse, Triune Lord,
Sober thought and sportive word,
All my acts and all my soul.
Spoils of rose-trees are not spent,
Nor rich unguents on my board:
But ambrosial sweets are sent,
Of faith's nectar redolent,
From the bosom of my Lord.
Scorn, my Muse, light ivy-leaves
Wherewith custom wreathed thy brow:
Love a mystic crown conceives
And a rhythmic garland weaves:
Bind on thee God's praises now.
What more worthy gift can I,
Child of light and aether, bring
Than for boons the Maker high
From His bounty doth supply
Lovingly my thanks to sing?
He hath set 'neath our command
All that ever rose to be,
All that sky and sea and land
Breed in air, in glebe and sand,
Made my slaves, His own made me.
Fowler's craft with gin and net
Feathered tribes of heaven ensnares:
Osier twigs with lime o'erset
That their airy flight may let
His relentless guile prepares.
Lo! with woven mesh the seine
Swimming shoals draws from the wave:
Nor do fish the bait disdain
Till they feel the barb's swift pain,
Captives of the food they crave.
Native wealth that knows no fail,
Golden wheat springs from the field:
Tendrils lush o'er vineyards trail,
Nursed of Peace the olives pale
Berries green unbidden yield.
Christ's grace fills His people's need
With these mercies ever fresh:
Far from us be that foul greed,
Gluttony that loves to feed
On slain oxen's bloodstained flesh.
Leave to the barbarian brood
Banquet of the slaughtered beast:
Ours the homely, garden food,
Greenstuff manifold and good
And the lentils' harmless feast.
Foaming milkpails bubble o'er
With the udders' snowy stream,
Which in thickening churns we pour
Or in wicker baskets store,
As the cheese is pressed from cream.
Honey's nectar for our use
From the new-made comb is shed:
Which the skilful bee imbues
With thyme's scent and airy dews,
Plying lonely toils unwed.
Orchard-groves now mellowed o'er
Bounteously their fruitage shed:
See! like rain on forest floor
Shaken trees their riches pour,
High-heaped apples, ripe and red.
What great trumpet voice or lyre
Famed of yore could fitly praise
Gifts of the Almighty Sire,
Blessings that His own require,
Richly lavished through their days?
When morn breaks upon our sight,
Hymns, O Lord, to Thee shall ring:
Thee, when streams the midday light,
Thee, when shadows of the night
Bid us sup, our voices sing.
For my body's vital heat,
For my heart-blood's pulsing vein,
For my tongue and speech complete
Unto Thee, Most High, 'tis meet
That I raise my grateful strain.
'Twas, O Holy One, Thy care
Wrought us from the plastic clay,
Made us Thine own image bear,
And for our perfection fair
Did Thy Breath to man convey.
On the twain Thou didst bestow
Leafy bowers in pleasaunce fair:
Where spring's scents for aye did blow,
And four stately streams did flow
O'er meads pied with blossoms rare.
"All this realm ye now shall sway:"
(Saidst Thou) "use it at your will,
Yet 'tis death your hands to lay
On the Tree, whose verdant sway
Doth the midmost garden fill."
Then the Serpent's guileful hate
Would not innocency spare:
Bade the maiden urge her mate
With the fruit his lips to sate,
Nor 'scaped she the self-same snare.
Each their nakedness perceives
When the feast they once partook:
Smit with shame their conscience grieves:
Wove they coverings of leaves
Shielding from lascivious look.
Far they both in terror fled
Thrust from dwelling of the pure:
She who erst had dwelt unwed
Subject to her spouse was led,
Bidden Hymen's bonds endure.
On the Serpent, too, His seal
God hath set, Who guile abhorred,
Doomed in triple neck to feel
Impress of the woman's heel,
Fearing her, who feared her lord.
Thus sin in our parents sown
Brought forth ruin for the race;
Good and evil having grown
From that primal root alone,
Nought but death could guilt efface.
But the Second Man behold
Come to re-create our kin:
Not formed after common mould
But our God (O Love untold!)
Made in flesh that knows not sin.
Word of God incarnated,
By His awful power conceived,
Whom a maiden yet unwed,
Innocent of marriage-bed,
In her virgin womb received.
Now we see the Serpent lewd
'Neath the woman's heel downtrod:
Whence there sprang the deadly feud,
Strife for ages unsubdued,
'Twixt mankind and foe of God.
Yet God's mother, Maid adored,
Robbed sin's poison of its bane,
And the Snake, his green coils lowered,
Writhing on the sod, outpoured
Harmless now his venom's stain.
What fierce brute that doth not flee
Lambs of Christ, white-robed and clean?
'Midst the flock from fear set free,
Slinks the drear wolf sullenly,
Checked his maw and tamed his mien.
Wondrous change! restrained by love
Lions the mild lamb obey:
Eagles wild, before the dove
Fluttering from the stars above,
Speed o'er cloudy winds away.
Thou, O Christ, my Dove dost reign
Where the vulture gnaws no more:
Thou dost, snow-white Lamb, enchain
Tigers fierce, and wolves restrain
Gaping at the sheepfold's door.
God of Love, Thy servants we
Pray Thee now to grant our prayer
That our feast may frugal be,
Nor that we dishonour Thee
By coarse surfeit of rich fare.
May we taste no bitter gall
In our cup, nor handle we
Aught of death or harm at all,
Nor intemperately fall
Into gross debauchery.
Be the powers of Hell content
With their primal fraud, whereby
Death into this world was sent,
And that, for sin's chastisement,
God's own creatures once should die.
But in us God's Breath of fire
Cannot lose its vital force:
Never can its might expire,
Flowing from the Eternal Sire,
Who of Reason's strength is source.
Nay, from out death's chilling tomb
Mortal atoms shall arise:
Man from earth's vast, hidden womb
Other, yet the same, shall bloom,
Dust re-made in glorious guise.
'Tis my faith--and faith not vain--
Bodies live e'en as the soul:
Since I hold in memory plain
God as man uprose again,
Loosed from Hell, to His true goal.
Whence from Him the hope I reap
That these limbs the same shall rise,
Which enwrapped in balmy sleep
Christ the Risen safe shall keep
Till He call me to the skies.
|
free_verse
|
Robert Herrick
|
Upon Ralph.
|
Ralph pares his nails, his warts, his corns, and Ralph
In sev'rall tills and boxes, keeps 'em safe;
Instead of hartshorn, if he speaks the troth,
To make a lusty-jelly for his broth.
|
Ralph pares his nails, his warts, his corns, and Ralph
|
In sev'rall tills and boxes, keeps 'em safe;
Instead of hartshorn, if he speaks the troth,
To make a lusty-jelly for his broth.
|
quatrain
|
William Shakespeare
|
The Sonnets XXXVII - As a decrepit father takes delight
|
As a decrepit father takes delight
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by Fortune's dearest spite,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth;
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Entitled in thy parts, do crowned sit,
I make my love engrafted, to this store:
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despis'd,
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
That I in thy abundance am suffic'd,
And by a part of all thy glory live.
Look what is best, that best I wish in thee:
This wish I have; then ten times happy me!
|
As a decrepit father takes delight
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by Fortune's dearest spite,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth;
|
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Entitled in thy parts, do crowned sit,
I make my love engrafted, to this store:
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despis'd,
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
That I in thy abundance am suffic'd,
And by a part of all thy glory live.
Look what is best, that best I wish in thee:
This wish I have; then ten times happy me!
|
sonnet
|
Rudyard Kipling
|
Red Dog
|
For our white and our excellent nights, for the nights of swift running,
Fair ranging, far seeing, good hunting, sure cunning!
For the smells of the dawning, untainted, ere dew has departed!
For the rush through the mist, and the quarry blind-started!
For the cry of our mates when the sambhur has wheeled and is standing at bay!
For the risk and the riot of night!
For the sleep at the lair-mouth by day!
It is met, and we go to the fight.
Bay! O bay!
|
For our white and our excellent nights, for the nights of swift running,
Fair ranging, far seeing, good hunting, sure cunning!
For the smells of the dawning, untainted, ere dew has departed!
|
For the rush through the mist, and the quarry blind-started!
For the cry of our mates when the sambhur has wheeled and is standing at bay!
For the risk and the riot of night!
For the sleep at the lair-mouth by day!
It is met, and we go to the fight.
Bay! O bay!
|
free_verse
|
Thomas Moore
|
A Reflection At Sea.
|
See how, beneath the moonbeam's smile,
Yon little billow heaves its breast,
And foams and sparkles for awhile,--
Then murmuring subsides to rest.
Thus man, the sport of bliss and care,
Rises on time's eventful sea:
And, having swelled a moment there,
Thus melts into eternity!
|
See how, beneath the moonbeam's smile,
Yon little billow heaves its breast,
|
And foams and sparkles for awhile,--
Then murmuring subsides to rest.
Thus man, the sport of bliss and care,
Rises on time's eventful sea:
And, having swelled a moment there,
Thus melts into eternity!
|
octave
|
Matthew Prior
|
The Lady Who Offers Her Looking-Glass To Venus
|
Venus, take my votive glass:
Since I am not what I was,
What from this day I shall be,
Venus, let me never see.
|
Venus, take my votive glass:
|
Since I am not what I was,
What from this day I shall be,
Venus, let me never see.
|
quatrain
|
George William Russell
|
To One Consecrated
|
Your paths were all unknown to us:
We were so far away from you,
We mixed in thought your spirit thus--
With whiteness, stars of gold, and dew.
The mighty mother nourished you:
Her breath blew from her mystic bowers:
Their elfin glimmer floated through
The pureness of your shadowy hours.
The mighty mother made you wise;
Gave love that clears the hidden ways:
Her glooms were glory to your eyes;
Her darkness but the Fount of Days.
She made all gentleness in you,
And beauty radiant as the morn's:
She made our joy in yours, then threw
Upon your head a crown of thorns.
Your eyes are filled with tender light,
For those whose eyes are dim with tears;
They see your brow is crowned and bright,
But not its ring of wounding spears.
|
Your paths were all unknown to us:
We were so far away from you,
We mixed in thought your spirit thus--
With whiteness, stars of gold, and dew.
The mighty mother nourished you:
Her breath blew from her mystic bowers:
|
Their elfin glimmer floated through
The pureness of your shadowy hours.
The mighty mother made you wise;
Gave love that clears the hidden ways:
Her glooms were glory to your eyes;
Her darkness but the Fount of Days.
She made all gentleness in you,
And beauty radiant as the morn's:
She made our joy in yours, then threw
Upon your head a crown of thorns.
Your eyes are filled with tender light,
For those whose eyes are dim with tears;
They see your brow is crowned and bright,
But not its ring of wounding spears.
|
free_verse
|
Michael Drayton
|
Sonet 30 To The Vestalls
|
Those Priests, which first the Vestall fire begun,
Which might be borrowed from no earthly flame,
Deuisd a vessell to receiue the sunne,
Beeing stedfastly opposed to the same;
Where with sweet wood laid curiously by Art,
Whereon the sunne might by reflection beate,
Receiuing strength from euery secret part,
The fuell kindled with celestiall heate.
Thy blessed eyes, the sunne which lights this fire,
My holy thoughts, they be the Vestall flame,
The precious odors be my chast desire,
My breast the fuell which includes the same;
Thou art my Vesta, thou my Goddesse art,
Thy hollowed Temple, onely is my hart.
|
Those Priests, which first the Vestall fire begun,
Which might be borrowed from no earthly flame,
Deuisd a vessell to receiue the sunne,
Beeing stedfastly opposed to the same;
|
Where with sweet wood laid curiously by Art,
Whereon the sunne might by reflection beate,
Receiuing strength from euery secret part,
The fuell kindled with celestiall heate.
Thy blessed eyes, the sunne which lights this fire,
My holy thoughts, they be the Vestall flame,
The precious odors be my chast desire,
My breast the fuell which includes the same;
Thou art my Vesta, thou my Goddesse art,
Thy hollowed Temple, onely is my hart.
|
sonnet
|
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
|
Certitude
|
There was a time when I was confident
That God's stupendous mystery of birth
Was mine to know. The wonder of it lent
New ecstasy and glory to the earth.
I heard no voice that uttered it aloud,
Nor was it written for me on a scroll;
Yet, if alone or in the common crowd,
I felt myself a consecrated soul.
My child leaped in its dark and silent room
And cried, 'I am,' though all unheard by men.
So leaps my spirit in the body's gloom
And cries, 'I live! I shall be born again.'
Elate with certitude towards death I go,
Nor doubt, nor argue, since I know, I know!
|
There was a time when I was confident
That God's stupendous mystery of birth
Was mine to know. The wonder of it lent
New ecstasy and glory to the earth.
|
I heard no voice that uttered it aloud,
Nor was it written for me on a scroll;
Yet, if alone or in the common crowd,
I felt myself a consecrated soul.
My child leaped in its dark and silent room
And cried, 'I am,' though all unheard by men.
So leaps my spirit in the body's gloom
And cries, 'I live! I shall be born again.'
Elate with certitude towards death I go,
Nor doubt, nor argue, since I know, I know!
|
sonnet
|
Edna St. Vincent Millay
|
Sonnets III
|
Not with libations, but with shouts and laughter
We drenched the altars of Love's sacred grove,
Shaking to earth green fruits, impatient after
The launching of the colored moths of Love.
Love's proper myrtle and his mother's zone
We bound about our irreligious brows,
And fettered him with garlands of our own,
And spread a banquet in his frugal house.
Not yet the god has spoken; but I fear
Though we should break our bodies in his flame,
And pour our blood upon his altar, here
Henceforward is a grove without a name,
A pasture to the shaggy goats of Pan,
Whence flee forever a woman and a man.
|
Not with libations, but with shouts and laughter
We drenched the altars of Love's sacred grove,
Shaking to earth green fruits, impatient after
The launching of the colored moths of Love.
|
Love's proper myrtle and his mother's zone
We bound about our irreligious brows,
And fettered him with garlands of our own,
And spread a banquet in his frugal house.
Not yet the god has spoken; but I fear
Though we should break our bodies in his flame,
And pour our blood upon his altar, here
Henceforward is a grove without a name,
A pasture to the shaggy goats of Pan,
Whence flee forever a woman and a man.
|
sonnet
|
William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)
|
Paul
|
Bond-slave to Christ, and in my bonds rejoicing,
Earmarked to Him I counted less than nought;
His man henceforward, eager to be voicing
That wondrous Love which Saul the Roman sought.
Sought him and found him, working bitter sorrow;
Found him and claimed him, chose him for his own;
Bound him in darkness, till the glorious morrow
Unsealed his eyes to that he had not known.
|
Bond-slave to Christ, and in my bonds rejoicing,
Earmarked to Him I counted less than nought;
|
His man henceforward, eager to be voicing
That wondrous Love which Saul the Roman sought.
Sought him and found him, working bitter sorrow;
Found him and claimed him, chose him for his own;
Bound him in darkness, till the glorious morrow
Unsealed his eyes to that he had not known.
|
octave
|
William Ernest Henley
|
Friends. . . Old Friends
|
Friends . . . old friends . . .
One sees how it ends.
A woman looks
Or a man tells lies,
And the pleasant brooks
And the quiet skies,
Ruined with brawling
And caterwauling,
Enchant no more
As they did before.
And so it ends
With friends.
Friends . . . old friends . . .
And what if it ends?
Shall we dare to shirk
What we live to learn?
It has done its work,
It has served its turn;
And, forgive and forget
Or hanker and fret,
We can be no more
As we were before.
When it ends, it ends
With friends.
Friends . . . old friends . . .
So it breaks, so it ends.
There let it rest!
It has fought and won,
And is still the best
That either has done.
Each as he stands
The work of its hands,
Which shall be more
As he was before? . . .
What is it ends
With friends?
|
Friends . . . old friends . . .
One sees how it ends.
A woman looks
Or a man tells lies,
And the pleasant brooks
And the quiet skies,
Ruined with brawling
And caterwauling,
Enchant no more
As they did before.
And so it ends
With friends.
|
Friends . . . old friends . . .
And what if it ends?
Shall we dare to shirk
What we live to learn?
It has done its work,
It has served its turn;
And, forgive and forget
Or hanker and fret,
We can be no more
As we were before.
When it ends, it ends
With friends.
Friends . . . old friends . . .
So it breaks, so it ends.
There let it rest!
It has fought and won,
And is still the best
That either has done.
Each as he stands
The work of its hands,
Which shall be more
As he was before? . . .
What is it ends
With friends?
|
free_verse
|
Jonathan Swift
|
To Thomas Sheridan
|
Dear Tom, I'm surprised that your verse did not jingle;
But your rhyme was not double, 'cause your sight was but single.
For, as Helsham observes, there's nothing can chime,
Or fit more exact than one eye and one rhyme.
If you had not took physic, I'd pay off your bacon,
But now I'll write short, for fear you're short-taken.
Besides, Dick[1] forbid me, and call'd me a fool;
For he says, short as 'tis, it will give you a stool.
In libris bellis, tu parum parcis ocellis;
Dum nimium scribis, vel talp' caecior ibis,
Aut ad vina redis, nam sic tua lumina laedis:
Sed tibi coenanti sunt collyria tanti?
Nunquid eges visu, dum comples omnia risu?
Heu Sheridan caecus, heu eris nunc cercopithecus.
Nunc ben' nasutus mittet tibi carmina tutus:
Nunc ope Burgundi, malus Helsham ridet abund',
Nec Phoebe fili versum qu's[2] mittere Ryly.
Quid tibi cum libris? relavet tua lumina Tybris[3]
Mixtus Saturno;[4] penso sed parc' diurno
Observes hoc tu, nec scriptis utere noctu.
Nonnulli mingunt et palpebras sibi tingunt.
Quidam purgantes, libros in stercore nantes
Lingunt; sic vinces videndo, m' bone, lynces.
Culum oculum tergis, dum scripta hoc flumine mergis;
Tunc oculi et nates, ni fallor, agent tibi grates.
Vim fuge Decani, nec sit tibi cura Delani:
Heu tibi si scribant, aut si tibi fercula libant,
Pone loco mortis, rapis fera pocula fortis
Haec tibi pauca dedi, sed consule Betty my Lady,
Huic te des solae, nec egebis pharmacopolae.
Haec somnians cecini,
JON. SWIFT.
Oct. 23, 1718.
[Footnote 1: Dr. Richard Helsham.]
[Footnote 2: Pro potes. - Horat.]
[Footnote 3: Pro quovis fluvio. - Virg.]
[Footnote 4: Saccharo Saturni.]
SWIFT TO SHERIDAN, IN REPLY
Tom, for a goose you keep but base quills,
They're fit for nothing else but pasquils.
I've often heard it from the wise,
That inflammations in the eyes
Will quickly fall upon the tongue,
And thence, as famed John Bunyan sung,
From out the pen will presently
On paper dribble daintily.
Suppose I call'd you goose, it is hard
One word should stick thus in your gizzard.
You're my goose, and no other man's;
And you know, all my geese are swans:
Only one scurvy thing I find,
Swans sing when dying, geese when blind.
But now I smoke where lies the slander, -
I call'd you goose instead of gander;
For that, dear Tom, ne'er fret and vex,
I'm sure you cackle like the sex.
I know the gander always goes
With a quill stuck across his nose:
So your eternal pen is still
Or in your claw, or in your bill.
But whether you can tread or hatch,
I've something else to do than watch.
As for your writing I am dead,
I leave it for the second head.
Deanery-House, Oct. 27, 1718.
AN ANSWER BY SHERIDAN
Perlegi versus versos, Jonathan bone, tersos;
Perlepidos quid'm; scribendo semper es idem.
Laudibus extollo te, tu mihi magnus Apollo;
Tu frater Phoebus, oculis collyria praebes,
Ne minus insanae reparas quoque damna Dianae,
Quae me percussit radiis (nec dixeris ussit)
Frigore collecto; medicus moderamine tecto
Lodicem binum premit, atque negat mihi vinum.
O terra et coelum! qu'm redit pectus anhelum.
Os mihi jam siccum, liceat mihi bibere dic cum?
Ex vestro grato poculo, tam saepe prolato,
Vina crepant: sales ostendet quis mihi tales?
Lumina, vos sperno, dum cuppae gaudia cerno:
Perdere etenim pellem nostram, quoque crura mavellem.
Amphora, qu'm dulces risus queis pectora mulces,
Pangitur a Flacco, cum pectus turget Iaccho:
Clarius evohe ingeminans geminatur et ohe;
Nempe jocosa propago, haesit sic vocis imago.
|
Dear Tom, I'm surprised that your verse did not jingle;
But your rhyme was not double, 'cause your sight was but single.
For, as Helsham observes, there's nothing can chime,
Or fit more exact than one eye and one rhyme.
If you had not took physic, I'd pay off your bacon,
But now I'll write short, for fear you're short-taken.
Besides, Dick[1] forbid me, and call'd me a fool;
For he says, short as 'tis, it will give you a stool.
In libris bellis, tu parum parcis ocellis;
Dum nimium scribis, vel talp' caecior ibis,
Aut ad vina redis, nam sic tua lumina laedis:
Sed tibi coenanti sunt collyria tanti?
Nunquid eges visu, dum comples omnia risu?
Heu Sheridan caecus, heu eris nunc cercopithecus.
Nunc ben' nasutus mittet tibi carmina tutus:
Nunc ope Burgundi, malus Helsham ridet abund',
Nec Phoebe fili versum qu's[2] mittere Ryly.
Quid tibi cum libris? relavet tua lumina Tybris[3]
Mixtus Saturno;[4] penso sed parc' diurno
Observes hoc tu, nec scriptis utere noctu.
Nonnulli mingunt et palpebras sibi tingunt.
Quidam purgantes, libros in stercore nantes
Lingunt; sic vinces videndo, m' bone, lynces.
Culum oculum tergis, dum scripta hoc flumine mergis;
Tunc oculi et nates, ni fallor, agent tibi grates.
Vim fuge Decani, nec sit tibi cura Delani:
Heu tibi si scribant, aut si tibi fercula libant,
Pone loco mortis, rapis fera pocula fortis
|
Haec tibi pauca dedi, sed consule Betty my Lady,
Huic te des solae, nec egebis pharmacopolae.
Haec somnians cecini,
JON. SWIFT.
Oct. 23, 1718.
[Footnote 1: Dr. Richard Helsham.]
[Footnote 2: Pro potes. - Horat.]
[Footnote 3: Pro quovis fluvio. - Virg.]
[Footnote 4: Saccharo Saturni.]
SWIFT TO SHERIDAN, IN REPLY
Tom, for a goose you keep but base quills,
They're fit for nothing else but pasquils.
I've often heard it from the wise,
That inflammations in the eyes
Will quickly fall upon the tongue,
And thence, as famed John Bunyan sung,
From out the pen will presently
On paper dribble daintily.
Suppose I call'd you goose, it is hard
One word should stick thus in your gizzard.
You're my goose, and no other man's;
And you know, all my geese are swans:
Only one scurvy thing I find,
Swans sing when dying, geese when blind.
But now I smoke where lies the slander, -
I call'd you goose instead of gander;
For that, dear Tom, ne'er fret and vex,
I'm sure you cackle like the sex.
I know the gander always goes
With a quill stuck across his nose:
So your eternal pen is still
Or in your claw, or in your bill.
But whether you can tread or hatch,
I've something else to do than watch.
As for your writing I am dead,
I leave it for the second head.
Deanery-House, Oct. 27, 1718.
AN ANSWER BY SHERIDAN
Perlegi versus versos, Jonathan bone, tersos;
Perlepidos quid'm; scribendo semper es idem.
Laudibus extollo te, tu mihi magnus Apollo;
Tu frater Phoebus, oculis collyria praebes,
Ne minus insanae reparas quoque damna Dianae,
Quae me percussit radiis (nec dixeris ussit)
Frigore collecto; medicus moderamine tecto
Lodicem binum premit, atque negat mihi vinum.
O terra et coelum! qu'm redit pectus anhelum.
Os mihi jam siccum, liceat mihi bibere dic cum?
Ex vestro grato poculo, tam saepe prolato,
Vina crepant: sales ostendet quis mihi tales?
Lumina, vos sperno, dum cuppae gaudia cerno:
Perdere etenim pellem nostram, quoque crura mavellem.
Amphora, qu'm dulces risus queis pectora mulces,
Pangitur a Flacco, cum pectus turget Iaccho:
Clarius evohe ingeminans geminatur et ohe;
Nempe jocosa propago, haesit sic vocis imago.
|
free_verse
|
Oliver Goldsmith
|
To G. C. And R. L.
|
'Twas you, or I, or he, or all together,
'Twas one, both, three of them, they know not whether;
This, I believe, between us great or small,
You, I, he, wrote it not 'twas Churchill's all.
|
'Twas you, or I, or he, or all together,
|
'Twas one, both, three of them, they know not whether;
This, I believe, between us great or small,
You, I, he, wrote it not 'twas Churchill's all.
|
quatrain
|
Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley
|
Futurity.
|
What of our life when this frail flesh lies low
A withered clod, and the free soul has burst
Through the world-fetters? Not of souls accursed
With cherished lusts that mar them, those who sow
Evil and reap the harvest, and who bow
At Mammon's golden shrine, but those who thirst
For Truth, and see not, - spirits deep immersed
In doubt and trouble, - hearts that fain would know?
The soul is satisfied. The spirit trained
For the divine, because the beautiful,
Now with the body gone, free and unstained,
Doubts swept away like clouds of scattering wool
Before a blast, - e'er Heaven's pure paths are trod
Is perfected to understand its God.
|
What of our life when this frail flesh lies low
A withered clod, and the free soul has burst
Through the world-fetters? Not of souls accursed
With cherished lusts that mar them, those who sow
|
Evil and reap the harvest, and who bow
At Mammon's golden shrine, but those who thirst
For Truth, and see not, - spirits deep immersed
In doubt and trouble, - hearts that fain would know?
The soul is satisfied. The spirit trained
For the divine, because the beautiful,
Now with the body gone, free and unstained,
Doubts swept away like clouds of scattering wool
Before a blast, - e'er Heaven's pure paths are trod
Is perfected to understand its God.
|
sonnet
|
Richard Le Gallienne
|
To A Simple Housewife
|
Who dough shall knead as for God's sake
Shall fill it with celestial leaven,
And every loaf that she shall bake
Be eaten of the Blest in heaven.
|
Who dough shall knead as for God's sake
|
Shall fill it with celestial leaven,
And every loaf that she shall bake
Be eaten of the Blest in heaven.
|
quatrain
|
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
|
Waiting.
|
I sing to use the waiting,
My bonnet but to tie,
And shut the door unto my house;
No more to do have I,
Till, his best step approaching,
We journey to the day,
And tell each other how we sang
To keep the dark away.
|
I sing to use the waiting,
My bonnet but to tie,
|
And shut the door unto my house;
No more to do have I,
Till, his best step approaching,
We journey to the day,
And tell each other how we sang
To keep the dark away.
|
octave
|
Alexander Pope
|
On Seeing The Ladies Crux-Easton Walk In The Woods By The Grotto.
|
Authors the world and their dull brains have traced
To fix the ground where Paradise was placed;
Mind not their learned whims and idle talk;
Here, here's the place where these bright angels walk.
|
Authors the world and their dull brains have traced
|
To fix the ground where Paradise was placed;
Mind not their learned whims and idle talk;
Here, here's the place where these bright angels walk.
|
quatrain
|
Robert Herrick
|
Tears Are Tongues.
|
When Julia chid I stood as mute the while
As is the fish or tongueless crocodile.
Air coin'd to words my Julia could not hear,
But she could see each eye to stamp a tear;
By which mine angry mistress might descry
Tears are the noble language of the eye.
And when true love of words is destitute
The eyes by tears speak, while the tongue is mute.
|
When Julia chid I stood as mute the while
As is the fish or tongueless crocodile.
|
Air coin'd to words my Julia could not hear,
But she could see each eye to stamp a tear;
By which mine angry mistress might descry
Tears are the noble language of the eye.
And when true love of words is destitute
The eyes by tears speak, while the tongue is mute.
|
octave
|
Arthur Macy
|
Bon Voyage
|
[TO O. R.]
Out from the Land of the Future, into the Land of the Past
A comrade sails to the East, the sport of the wave and the blast.
Oh, billow and breeze, be kind, and temper your strength to your guest,
Kind for the sake of the friend, - for the sake of the hands he pressed.
Oh, tenderest billow and breeze, welcome him even as we
Would welcome if you were the friend and we were the wind and the sea!
Welcome, protect him, and waft him westward and homeward at last
Into the Land of the Future, out from the Land of the Past!
|
[TO O. R.]
Out from the Land of the Future, into the Land of the Past
A comrade sails to the East, the sport of the wave and the blast.
|
Oh, billow and breeze, be kind, and temper your strength to your guest,
Kind for the sake of the friend, - for the sake of the hands he pressed.
Oh, tenderest billow and breeze, welcome him even as we
Would welcome if you were the friend and we were the wind and the sea!
Welcome, protect him, and waft him westward and homeward at last
Into the Land of the Future, out from the Land of the Past!
|
free_verse
|
Charles Baudelaire
|
The Happy Corpse
|
In a rich land, fertile, replete with snails
I'd like to dig myself a spacious pit
Where I might spread at leisure myoid bones
And sleep unnoticed, like a shark at sea.
I hate both testaments and epitaphs;
Sooner than beg remembrance from the world
I would, alive, invite the hungry crows
To bleed my tainted carcass inch by inch.
O worms! dark playmates minus ear or eye,
Prepare to meet a free and happy corpse;
Droll philosophies, children of rottenness,
Go then along my ruin guiltlessly,
And say if any torture still exists
For this old soulless corpse, dead with the dead!
|
In a rich land, fertile, replete with snails
I'd like to dig myself a spacious pit
Where I might spread at leisure myoid bones
And sleep unnoticed, like a shark at sea.
|
I hate both testaments and epitaphs;
Sooner than beg remembrance from the world
I would, alive, invite the hungry crows
To bleed my tainted carcass inch by inch.
O worms! dark playmates minus ear or eye,
Prepare to meet a free and happy corpse;
Droll philosophies, children of rottenness,
Go then along my ruin guiltlessly,
And say if any torture still exists
For this old soulless corpse, dead with the dead!
|
sonnet
|
Robert Fuller Murray
|
A Birthday Gift
|
No gift I bring but worship, and the love
Which all must bear to lovely souls and pure,
Those lights, that, when all else is dark, endure;
Stars in the night, to lift our eyes above;
To lift our eyes and hearts, and make us move
Less doubtful, though our journey be obscure,
Less fearful of its ending, being sure
That they watch over us, where'er we rove.
And though my gift itself have little worth,
Yet worth it gains from her to whom 'tis given,
As a weak flower gets colour from the sun.
Or rather, as when angels walk the earth,
All things they look on take the look of heaven--
For of those blessed angels thou art one.
|
No gift I bring but worship, and the love
Which all must bear to lovely souls and pure,
Those lights, that, when all else is dark, endure;
Stars in the night, to lift our eyes above;
|
To lift our eyes and hearts, and make us move
Less doubtful, though our journey be obscure,
Less fearful of its ending, being sure
That they watch over us, where'er we rove.
And though my gift itself have little worth,
Yet worth it gains from her to whom 'tis given,
As a weak flower gets colour from the sun.
Or rather, as when angels walk the earth,
All things they look on take the look of heaven--
For of those blessed angels thou art one.
|
sonnet
|
Madison Julius Cawein
|
Hoar-Frost
|
The frail eidolons of all blossoms Spring,
Year after year, about the forest tossed,
The magic touch of the enchanter, Frost,
Back from the Heaven of the Flow'rs doth bring;
Each branch and bush in silence visiting
With phantom beauty of its blooms long lost:
Each dead weed bends, white-haunted of its ghost,
Each dead flower stands ghostly with blossoming.
This is the wonder-legend Nature tells
To the gray moon and mist a winter's night;
The fairy-tale, which her weird fancy 'spells
With all the glamour of her soul's delight:
Before the summoning sorcery of her eyes
Making her spirit's dream materialize.
|
The frail eidolons of all blossoms Spring,
Year after year, about the forest tossed,
The magic touch of the enchanter, Frost,
Back from the Heaven of the Flow'rs doth bring;
|
Each branch and bush in silence visiting
With phantom beauty of its blooms long lost:
Each dead weed bends, white-haunted of its ghost,
Each dead flower stands ghostly with blossoming.
This is the wonder-legend Nature tells
To the gray moon and mist a winter's night;
The fairy-tale, which her weird fancy 'spells
With all the glamour of her soul's delight:
Before the summoning sorcery of her eyes
Making her spirit's dream materialize.
|
sonnet
|
Madison Julius Cawein
|
High On A Hill
|
There is a place among the Cape Ann hills
That looks from fir-dark summits on the sea,
Whose surging sapphire changes constantly
Beneath deep heavens, Morning windowsills,
With golden calm, or sunset citadels
With storm, whose towers the winds' confederacy
And bandit thunder hold in rebel fee,
Swooping upon the ilsher's sail that swells.
A place, where Sorrow ceases to complain,
And life's old Cares put all their burdens by,
And Weariness forgets itself in rest.
Would that all life were like it; might obtain
Its pure repose, its outlook, strong and high,
That sees, beyond, far Islands of the Blest.
|
There is a place among the Cape Ann hills
That looks from fir-dark summits on the sea,
Whose surging sapphire changes constantly
Beneath deep heavens, Morning windowsills,
|
With golden calm, or sunset citadels
With storm, whose towers the winds' confederacy
And bandit thunder hold in rebel fee,
Swooping upon the ilsher's sail that swells.
A place, where Sorrow ceases to complain,
And life's old Cares put all their burdens by,
And Weariness forgets itself in rest.
Would that all life were like it; might obtain
Its pure repose, its outlook, strong and high,
That sees, beyond, far Islands of the Blest.
|
sonnet
|
Clark Ashton Smith
|
A Live-Oak Leaf
|
How marvellous this bit of green
I hold, and soon shall throw away!
Its subtile veins, its vivid sheen,
Seem fragment of a god's array.
In all the hidden toil of earth,
Which is the more laborious part -
To rear the oak's enormous girth,
Or shape its leaves with poignant art?
|
How marvellous this bit of green
I hold, and soon shall throw away!
|
Its subtile veins, its vivid sheen,
Seem fragment of a god's array.
In all the hidden toil of earth,
Which is the more laborious part -
To rear the oak's enormous girth,
Or shape its leaves with poignant art?
|
octave
|
Katharine Lee Bates
|
Above The Battle
|
Honor and pity for the smitten field,
The valorous ranks mown down like precious corn,
Whose want must famish love morn after morn,
Till Death, the good physician, shall have healed
The craving and the tearspent eyelids sealed.
Proud be the homes that for each cannon-torn,
Encrimsoned rampart have been left forlorn;
Holy the knells o'er fallen patriots pealed.
But they, above the battle, throng a space
Of starry silences and silver rest.
Commingled ghosts, they press like brothers through
White, dove-winged portals, where one Father's face
Atones their passion, as the ethereal blue
Serenes the fiery glows of east and west.
|
Honor and pity for the smitten field,
The valorous ranks mown down like precious corn,
Whose want must famish love morn after morn,
Till Death, the good physician, shall have healed
|
The craving and the tearspent eyelids sealed.
Proud be the homes that for each cannon-torn,
Encrimsoned rampart have been left forlorn;
Holy the knells o'er fallen patriots pealed.
But they, above the battle, throng a space
Of starry silences and silver rest.
Commingled ghosts, they press like brothers through
White, dove-winged portals, where one Father's face
Atones their passion, as the ethereal blue
Serenes the fiery glows of east and west.
|
sonnet
|
Rudyard Kipling
|
The Braggart
|
Petrolio, vaunting his Mercedes' power,
Vows she can cover eighty miles an hour.
I tried the car of old and know she can.
But dare he ever make her? Ask his man!
|
Petrolio, vaunting his Mercedes' power,
|
Vows she can cover eighty miles an hour.
I tried the car of old and know she can.
But dare he ever make her? Ask his man!
|
quatrain
|
John Clare
|
The Ants
|
What wonder strikes the curious, while he views
The black ant's city, by a rotten tree,
Or woodland bank! In ignorance we muse:
Pausing, annoyed,--we know not what we see,
Such government and thought there seem to be;
Some looking on, and urging some to toil,
Dragging their loads of bent-stalks slavishly:
And what's more wonderful, when big loads foil
One ant or two to carry, quickly then
A swarm flock round to help their fellow-men.
Surely they speak a language whisperingly,
Too fine for us to hear; and sure their ways
Prove they have kings and laws, and that they be
Deformed remnants of the Fairy-days.
|
What wonder strikes the curious, while he views
The black ant's city, by a rotten tree,
Or woodland bank! In ignorance we muse:
Pausing, annoyed,--we know not what we see,
|
Such government and thought there seem to be;
Some looking on, and urging some to toil,
Dragging their loads of bent-stalks slavishly:
And what's more wonderful, when big loads foil
One ant or two to carry, quickly then
A swarm flock round to help their fellow-men.
Surely they speak a language whisperingly,
Too fine for us to hear; and sure their ways
Prove they have kings and laws, and that they be
Deformed remnants of the Fairy-days.
|
sonnet
|
Unknown
|
Nursery Rhyme. LXVIII. Tales.
|
Old Abram Brown is dead and gone,
You'll never see him more;
He used to wear a long brown coat,
That button'd down before.
|
Old Abram Brown is dead and gone,
|
You'll never see him more;
He used to wear a long brown coat,
That button'd down before.
|
quatrain
|
Richard Le Gallienne
|
All The Words In All The World
|
All the flowers cannot weave
A garland worthy of your hair,
Not a bird in the four winds
Can sing of you that is so fair.
Only the spheres can sing of you;
Some planet in celestial space,
Hallowed and lonely in the dawn,
Shall sing the poem of your face.
|
All the flowers cannot weave
A garland worthy of your hair,
|
Not a bird in the four winds
Can sing of you that is so fair.
Only the spheres can sing of you;
Some planet in celestial space,
Hallowed and lonely in the dawn,
Shall sing the poem of your face.
|
octave
|
William Butler Yeats
|
Upon A House Shaken By The Land Agitation
|
How should the world be luckier if this house,
Where passion and precision have been one
Time out of mind, became too ruinous
To breed the lidless eye that loves the sun?
And the sweet laughing eagle thoughts that grow
Where wings have memory of wings, and all
That comes of the best knit to the best? Although
Mean roof-trees were the sturdier for its fall,
How should their luck run high enough to reach
The gifts that govern men, and after these
To gradual Time's last gift, a written speech
Wrought of high laughter, loveliness and ease?
|
How should the world be luckier if this house,
Where passion and precision have been one
Time out of mind, became too ruinous
To breed the lidless eye that loves the sun?
|
And the sweet laughing eagle thoughts that grow
Where wings have memory of wings, and all
That comes of the best knit to the best? Although
Mean roof-trees were the sturdier for its fall,
How should their luck run high enough to reach
The gifts that govern men, and after these
To gradual Time's last gift, a written speech
Wrought of high laughter, loveliness and ease?
|
free_verse
|
Thomas Moore
|
No--Leave My Heart To Rest.
|
No--leave my heart to rest, if rest it may,
When youth, and love, and hope, have past away.
Couldst thou, when summer hours are fled,
To some poor leaf that's fallen and dead,
Bring back the hue it wore, the scent it shed?
No--leave this heart to rest, if rest it may,
When youth, and love, and hope, have past away.
Oh, had I met thee then, when life was bright,
Thy smile might still have fed its tranquil light;
But now thou comest like sunny skies,
Too late to cheer the seaman's eyes,
When wrecked and lost his bark before him lies!
No--leave this heart to rest, if rest it may,
Since youth, and love, and hope have past away.
|
No--leave my heart to rest, if rest it may,
When youth, and love, and hope, have past away.
Couldst thou, when summer hours are fled,
To some poor leaf that's fallen and dead,
|
Bring back the hue it wore, the scent it shed?
No--leave this heart to rest, if rest it may,
When youth, and love, and hope, have past away.
Oh, had I met thee then, when life was bright,
Thy smile might still have fed its tranquil light;
But now thou comest like sunny skies,
Too late to cheer the seaman's eyes,
When wrecked and lost his bark before him lies!
No--leave this heart to rest, if rest it may,
Since youth, and love, and hope have past away.
|
sonnet
|
George MacDonald
|
To One Unsatisfied
|
When, with all the loved around thee,
Still thy heart says, "I am lonely,"
It is well; the truth hath found thee:
Rest is with the Father only.
|
When, with all the loved around thee,
|
Still thy heart says, "I am lonely,"
It is well; the truth hath found thee:
Rest is with the Father only.
|
quatrain
|
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
|
Sonnets From The Portuguese XXIII
|
Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead,
Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine?
And would the sun for thee more coldly shine
Because of grave-damps falling round my head?
I marvelled, my Belov'd, when I read
Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine,
But . . . so much to thee? Can I pour thy wine
While my hands tremble? Then my soul, instead
Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range.
Then, love me, Love! look on me, breathe on me!
As brighter ladies do not count it strange,
For love, to give up acres and degree,
I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange
My near sweet view of heaven, for earth with thee!
|
Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead,
Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine?
And would the sun for thee more coldly shine
Because of grave-damps falling round my head?
|
I marvelled, my Belov'd, when I read
Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine,
But . . . so much to thee? Can I pour thy wine
While my hands tremble? Then my soul, instead
Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range.
Then, love me, Love! look on me, breathe on me!
As brighter ladies do not count it strange,
For love, to give up acres and degree,
I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange
My near sweet view of heaven, for earth with thee!
|
sonnet
|
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
|
The Way To Behave.
|
Though tempers are bad and peevish folks swear,
Remember to ruffle thy brows, friend, ne'er;
And let not the fancies of women so fair
E'er serve thy pleasure in life to impair.
|
Though tempers are bad and peevish folks swear,
|
Remember to ruffle thy brows, friend, ne'er;
And let not the fancies of women so fair
E'er serve thy pleasure in life to impair.
|
quatrain
|
Philip Sidney (Sir)
|
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet LXXXVIII
|
Out, traytor Absence, dar'st thou counsell me
From my deare captainesse to run away,
Because in braue array heere marcheth she,
That, to win mee, oft shewes a present pay?
Is faith so weake? or is such force in thee?
When sun is hid, can starres such beames display?
Cannot heau'ns food, once felt, keepe stomakes free
From base desire on earthly cates to pray?
Tush, Absence; while thy mistes eclipse that light,
My orphan sense flies to the inward sight,
Where memory sets forth the beames of loue;
That, where before hart lou'd and eyes did see,
In hart both sight and loue now coupled be:
Vnited pow'rs make each the stronger proue.
|
Out, traytor Absence, dar'st thou counsell me
From my deare captainesse to run away,
Because in braue array heere marcheth she,
That, to win mee, oft shewes a present pay?
|
Is faith so weake? or is such force in thee?
When sun is hid, can starres such beames display?
Cannot heau'ns food, once felt, keepe stomakes free
From base desire on earthly cates to pray?
Tush, Absence; while thy mistes eclipse that light,
My orphan sense flies to the inward sight,
Where memory sets forth the beames of loue;
That, where before hart lou'd and eyes did see,
In hart both sight and loue now coupled be:
Vnited pow'rs make each the stronger proue.
|
sonnet
|
Washington Irving
|
The Adelantado Of The Seven Cities - A Legend Of St. Brandan - Prose
|
In the early part of the fifteenth century, when Prince Henry of Portugal, of worthy memory, was pushing the career of discovery along the western coast of Africa, and the world was resounding with reports of golden regions on the main land, and new-found islands in the ocean, there arrived at Lisbon an old bewildered pilot of the seas, who had been driven by tempests, he knew not whither, and who raved about an island far in the deep, on which he had landed, and which he had found peopled with Christians, and adorned with noble cities.
The inhabitants, he said, gathered round, and regarded him with surprise, having never before been visited by a ship. They told him they were descendants of a band of Christians, who fled from Spain when that country was conquered by the Moslems. They were curious about the state of their fatherland, and grieved to hear that the Moslems still held possession of the kingdom of Granada. They would have taken the old navigator to church, to convince him of their orthodoxy; but, either through lack of devotion, or lack of faith in their words, he declined their invitation, and preferred to return on board of his ship. He was properly punished. A furious storm arose, drove him from his anchorage, hurried him out to sea, and he saw no more of the unknown island.
This strange story caused great marvel in Lisbon and elsewhere. Those versed in history, remembered to have read, in an ancient chronicle, that, at the time of the conquest of Spain, in the eighth century, when the blessed cross was cast down, and the crescent erected in its place, and when Christian churches were turned into Moslem mosques, seven bishops, at the head of seven bands of pious exiles, had fled from the peninsula, and embarked in quest of some ocean island, or distant land, where they might found seven Christian cities, and enjoy their faith unmolested.
The fate of these pious saints errant had hitherto remained a mystery, and their story had faded from memory; the report of the old tempest-tossed pilot, however, revived this long-forgotten theme; and it was determined by the pious and enthusiastic, that the island thus accidentally discovered, was the identical place of refuge, whither the wandering bishops had been guided by a protecting Providence, and where they had folded their flocks.
This most excitable of worlds has always some darling object of chimerical enterprise: the 'Island of the Seven Cities' now awakened as much interest and longing among zealous Christians, as has the renowned city of Timbuctoo among adventurous travellers, or the North-east Passage among hardy navigators; and it was a frequent prayer of the devout, that these scattered and lost portions of the Christian family might be discovered, and reunited to the great body of Christendom.
No one, however, entered into the matter with half the zeal of Don Fernando de Ulmo, a young cavalier of high standing in the Portuguese court, and of most sanguine and romantic temperament. He had recently come to his estate, and had run the round of all kinds of pleasures and excitements, when this new theme of popular talk and wonder presented itself. The Island of the Seven Cities became now the constant subject of his thoughts by day and his dreams by night; it even rivalled his passion for a beautiful girl, one of the greatest belles of Lisbon, to whom he was betrothed. At length his imagination became so inflamed on the subject, that he determined to fit out an expedition, at his own expense, and set sail in quest of this sainted island. It could not be a cruise of any great extent; for according to the calculations of the tempest-tossed pilot, it must be somewhere in the latitude of the Canaries; which at that time, when the new world was as yet undiscovered, formed the frontier of ocean enterprise. Don Fernando applied to the crown for countenance and protection. As he was a favorite at court, the usual patronage was readily extended to him; that is to say, he received a commission from the king, Don Ioam II., constituting him Adelantado, or military governor, of any country he might discover, with the single proviso, that he should bear all the expenses of the discovery and pay a tenth of the profits to the crown.
Don Fernando now set to work in the true spirit of a projector. He sold acre after acre of solid land, and invested the proceeds in ships, guns, ammunition, and sea-stores. Even his old family mansion in Lisbon was mortgaged without scruple, for 'he looked forward to a palace in one of the Seven Cities of which he was to be Adelantado.' This was the age of nautical romance, when the thoughts of all speculative dreamers were turned to the ocean. The scheme of Don Fernando, therefore, drew adventurers of every kind. The merchant promised himself new marts of opulent traffic; the soldier hoped to sack and plunder some one or other of those Seven Cities; even the fat monk shook off the sleep and sloth of the cloister, to join in a crusade which promised such increase to the possessions of the church.
One person alone regarded the whole project with sovereign contempt and growling hostility. This was Don Ramiro Alvarez, the father of the beautiful Serafina, to whom Don Fernando was betrothed. He was one of those perverse, matter-of-fact old men who are prone to oppose every thing speculative and romantic. He had no faith in the Island of the Seven Cities; regarded the projected cruise as a crack-brained freak; looked with angry eye and internal heart-burning on the conduct of his intended son-in-law, chaffering away solid lands for lands in the moon, and scoffingly dubbed him Adelantado of Lubberland. In fact, he had never really relished the intended match, to which his consent had been slowly extorted by the tears and entreaties of his daughter. It is true he could have no reasonable objections to the youth, for Don Fernando was the very flower of Portuguese chivalry. No one could excel him at the tilting match, or the riding at the ring; none was more bold and dexterous in the bull-fight; none composed more gallant madrigals in praise of his lady's charms, or sang them with sweeter tones to the accompaniment of her guitar; nor could any one handle the castanets and dance the bolero with more captivating grace. All these admirable qualities and endowments, however, though they had been sufficient to win the heart of Serafina, were nothing in the eyes of her unreasonable father. O Cupid, god of Love! why will fathers always be so unreasonable!
The engagement to Serafina had threatened at first to throw an obstacle in the way of the expedition of Don Fernando, and for a time perplexed him in the extreme. He was passionately attached to the young lady; but he was also passionately bent on this romantic enterprise. How should he reconcile the two passionate inclinations? A simple and obvious arrangement at length presented itself: marry Serafina, enjoy a portion of the honeymoon at once, and defer the rest until his return from the discovery of the Seven Cities!
He hastened to make known this most excellent arrangement to Don Ramiro, when the long-smothered wrath of the old cavalier burst forth in a storm about his ears. He reproached him with being the dupe of wandering vagabonds and wild schemers, and of squandering all his real possessions in pursuit of empty bubbles. Don Fernando was too sanguine a projector, and too young a man, to listen tamely to such language. He acted with what is technically called 'becoming spirit.' A high quarrel ensued; Don Ramiro pronounced him a mad man, and forbade all farther intercourse with his daughter, until he should give proof of returning sanity by abandoning this mad-cap enterprise; while Don Fernando flung out of the house, more bent than ever on the expedition, from the idea of triumphing over the incredulity of the gray-beard when he should return successful.
Don Ramiro repaired to his daughter's chamber the moment the youth had departed. He represented to her the sanguine, unsteady character of her lover and the chimerical nature of his schemes; showed her the propriety of suspending all intercourse with him until he should recover from his present hallucination; folded her to his bosom with parental fondness, kissed the tear that stole down her cheek, and, as he left the chamber, gently locked the door; for although he was a fond father, and had a high opinion of the submissive temper of his child, he had a still higher opinion of the conservative virtues of lock and key. Whether the damsel had been in any wise shaken in her faith as to the schemes of her lover, and the existence of the Island of the Seven Cities, by the sage representations of her father, tradition does not say; but it is certain that she became a firm believer the moment she heard him turn the key in the lock.
Notwithstanding the interdict of Don Ramiro, therefore, and his shrewd precautions, the intercourse of the lovers continued, although clandestinely. Don Fernando toiled all day, hurrying forward his nautical enterprise, while at night he would repair, beneath the grated balcony of his mistress, to carry on at equal pace the no less interesting enterprise of the heart. At length the preparations for the expedition were completed. Two gallant caravels lay anchored in the Tagus, ready to sail with the morning dawn; while late at night, by the pale light of a waning moon, Don Fernando sought the stately mansion of Alvarez to take a last farewell of Serafina. The customary signal of a few low touches of a guitar brought her to the balcony. She was sad at heart and full of gloomy forebodings; but her lover strove to impart to her his own buoyant hope and youthful confidence. 'A few short months,' said he, 'and I shall return in triumph. Thy father will then blush at his incredulity, and will once more welcome me to his house, when I cross its threshold a wealthy suitor and Adelantado of the Seven Cities.'
The beautiful Serafina shook her head mournfully. It was not on those points that she felt doubt or dismay. She believed most implicitly in the Island of the Seven Cities, and trusted devoutly in the success of the enterprise; but she had heard of the inconstancy of the seas, and the inconstancy of those who roam them. Now, let the truth be spoken, Don Fernando, if he had any fault in the world, it was that he was a little too inflammable; that is to say, a little too subject to take fire from the sparkle of every bright eye: he had been somewhat of a rover among the sex on shore, what might he not be on sea? Might he not meet with other loves in foreign ports? Might he not behold some peerless beauty in one or other of those seven cities, who might efface the image of Serafina from his thoughts?
At length she ventured to hint her doubts; but Don Fernando spurned at the very idea. Never could his heart be false to Serafina! Never could another be captivating in his eyes! never, never! Repeatedly did he bend his knee, and smite his breast, and call upon the silver moon to witness the sincerity of his vows. But might not Serafina, herself, be forgetful of her plighted faith? Might not some wealthier rival present, while he was tossing on the sea, and, backed by the authority of her father, win the treasure of her hand? Alas, how little did he know Serafina's heart! The more her father should oppose, the more would she be fixed in her faith. Though years should pass before his return, he would find her true to her vows. Even should the salt seas swallow him up, (and her eyes streamed with salt tears at the very thought,) never would she be the wife of another, never, never! She raised her beautiful white arms between the iron bars of the balcony, and invoked the moon as a testimonial of her faith.
Thus, according to immemorial usage, the lovers parted, with many a vow of eternal constancy. But will they keep those vows? Perish the doubt! Have they not called the constant moon to witness?
With the morning dawn the caravels dropped down the Tagus and put to sea. They steered for the Canaries, in those days the regions of nautical romance. Scarcely had they reached those latitudes, when a violent tempest arose. Don Fernando soon lost sight of the accompanying caravel, and was driven out of all reckoning by the fury of the storm. For several weary days and nights he was tossed to and fro, at the mercy of the elements, expecting each moment to be swallowed up. At length, one day toward evening, the storm subsided; the clouds cleared up, as though a veil had suddenly been withdrawn from the face of heaven, and the setting sun shone gloriously upon a fair and mountainous island, that seemed close at hand. The tempest-tossed mariners rubbed their eyes, and gazed almost incredulously upon this land, that had emerged so suddenly from the murky gloom; yet there it lay, spread out in lovely landscapes; enlivened by villages, and towers, and spires, while the late stormy sea rolled in peaceful billows to its shores. About a league from the sea, on the banks of a river, stood a noble city, with lofty walls and towers, and a protecting castle. Don Fernando anchored off the mouth of the river, which appeared to form a spacious harbor. In a little while a barge was seen issuing from the river. It was evidently a barge of ceremony, for it was richly though quaintly carved and gilt, and decorated with a silken awning and fluttering streamers, while a banner, bearing the sacred emblem of the cross, floated to the breeze. The barge advanced slowly, impelled by sixteen oars, painted of a bright crimson. The oarsmen were uncouth, or rather antique, in their garb, and kept stroke to the regular cadence of an old Spanish ditty. Beneath the awning sat a cavalier, in a rich though old-fashioned doublet, with an enormous sombrero and feather. When the barge reached the caravel, the cavalier stepped on board. He was tall and gaunt, with a long, Spanish visage, and lack-lustre eyes, and an air of lofty and somewhat pompous gravity. His mustaches were curled up to his ears, his beard was forked and precise; he wore gauntlets that reached to his elbows, and a Toledo blade that strutted out behind, while, in front, its huge basket-hilt might have served for a porringer.
Thrusting out a long spindle leg, and taking off his sombrero with a grave and stately sweep, he saluted Don Fernando by name, and welcomed him, in old Castilian language, and in the style of old Castilian courtesy.
Don Fernando was startled at hearing himself accosted by name, by an utter stranger, in a strange land. As soon as he could recover from his surprise, he inquired what land it was at which he had arrived.
'The Island of the Seven Cities!'
Could this be true? Had he indeed been thus tempest-driven upon the very land of which he was in quest? It was even so. The other caravel, from which he had been separated in the storm, had made a neighboring port of the island, and announced the tidings of this expedition, which came to restore the country to the great community of Christendom. The whole island, he was told, was given up to rejoicings on the happy event; and they only awaited his arrival to acknowledge allegiance to the crown of Portugal, and hail him as Adelantado of the Seven Cities. A grand f'te was to be solemnized that very night in the palace of the Alcayde or governor of the city; who, on beholding the most opportune arrival of the caravel, had despatched his grand chamberlain, in his barge of state, to conduct the future Adelantado to the ceremony.
Don Fernando could scarcely believe but that this was all a dream. He fixed a scrutinizing gaze upon the grand chamberlain, who, having delivered his message, stood in buckram dignity, drawn up to his full stature, curling his whiskers, stroking his beard, and looking down upon him with inexpressible loftiness through his lack-lustre eyes. There was no doubting the word of so grave and ceremonious a hidalgo.
Don Fernando now arrayed himself in gala attire. He would have launched his boat, and gone on shore with his own men, but he was informed the barge of state was expressly provided for his accommodation, and, after the f'te, would bring him back to his ship; in which, on the following day, he might enter the harbor in befitting style. He accordingly stepped into the barge, and took his seat beneath the awning. The grand chamberlain seated himself on the cushion opposite. The rowers bent to their oars, and renewed their mournful old ditty, and the gorgeous, but unwieldy barge moved slowly and solemnly through the water.
The night closed in, before they entered the river. They swept along, past rock and promontory, each guarded by its tower. The sentinels at every post challenged them as they passed by.
'Who goes there?'
'The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.'
'He is welcome. Pass on.'
On entering the harbor, they rowed close along an armed galley, of the most ancient form. Soldiers with cross-bows were stationed on the deck.
'Who goes there?' was again demanded.
'The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.'
'He is welcome. Pass on.'
They landed at a broad flight of stone steps, leading up, between two massive towers, to the water-gate of the city, at which they knocked for admission. A sentinel, in an ancient steel casque, looked over the wall. 'Who is there?'
'The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.'
The gate swung slowly open, grating upon its rusty hinges. They entered between two rows of iron-clad warriors, in battered armor, with cross-bows, battle-axes, and ancient maces, and with faces as old-fashioned and rusty as their armor. They saluted Don Fernando in military style, but with perfect silence, as he passed between their ranks. The city was illuminated, but in such manner as to give a more shadowy and solemn effect to its old-time architecture. There were bonfires in the principal streets, with groups about them in such old-fashioned garbs, that they looked like the fantastic figures that roam the streets in carnival time. Even the stately dames who gazed from the balconies, which they had hung with antique tapestry, looked more like effigies dressed up for a quaint mummery, than like ladies in their fashionable attire. Every thing, in short, bore the stamp of former ages, as if the world had suddenly rolled back a few centuries. Nor was this to be wondered at. Had not the Island of the Seven Cities been for several hundred years cut off from all communication with the rest of the world, and was it not natural that the inhabitants should retain many of the modes and customs brought here by their ancestors?
One thing certainly they had conserved; the old-fashioned Spanish gravity and stateliness. Though this was a time of public rejoicing, and though Don Fernando was the object of their gratulations, every thing was conducted with the most solemn ceremony, and wherever he appeared, instead of acclamations, he was received with profound silence, and the most formal reverences and swayings of their sombreros.
Arrived at the palace of the Alcayde, the usual ceremonial was repeated. The chamberlain knocked for admission.
'Who is there?' demanded the porter.
'The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.'
'He is welcome. Pass on.'
The grand portal was thrown open. The chamberlain led the way up a vast but heavily moulded marble stair-case, and so through one of those interminable suites of apartments, that are the pride of Spanish palaces. All were furnished in a style of obsolete magnificence. As they passed through the chambers, the title of Don Fernando was forwarded on by servants stationed at every door; and every where produced the most profound reverences and courtesies. At length they reached a magnificent saloon, blazing with tapers, in which the Alcayde, and the principal dignitaries of the city, were waiting to receive their illustrious guest. The grand chamberlain presented Don Fernando in due form, and falling back among the other officers of the household, stood as usual curling his whiskers and stroking his forked beard.
Don Fernando was received by the Alcayde and the other dignitaries with the same stately and formal courtesy that he had every where remarked. In fact, there was so much form and ceremonial, that it seemed difficult to get at any thing social or substantial. Nothing but bows, and compliments, and old-fashioned courtesies. The Alcayde and his courtiers resembled, in face and form, those quaint worthies to be seen in the pictures of old illuminated manuscripts; while the cavaliers and dames who thronged the saloon, might have beep taken for the antique figures of gobelin tapestry suddenly vivified and put in motion.
The banquet, which had been kept back until the arrival of Don Fernando, was now announced; and such a feast! such unknown dishes and obsolete dainties; with the peacock, that bird of state and ceremony, served up in full plumage, in a golden dish, at the head of the table. And then, as Don Fernando cast his eyes over the glittering board, what a vista of odd heads and head-dresses, of formal bearded dignitaries, and stately dames, with castellated locks and towering plumes!
As fate would have it, on the other side of Don Fernando, was seated the daughter of the Alcayde. She was arrayed, it is true, in a dress that might have been worn before the flood; but then, she had a melting black Andalusian eye, that was perfectly irresistible. Her voice, too, her manner, her movements, all smacked of Andalusia, and showed how female fascination may be transmitted from age to age, and clime to clime, without ever losing its power, or going out of fashion. Those who know the witchery of the sex, in that most amorous region of old Spain, may judge what must have been the fascination to which Don Fernando was exposed, when seated beside one of the most captivating of its descendants. He was, as has already been hinted, of an inflammable temperament; with a heart ready to get in a light blaze at every instant. And then he had been so wearied by pompous, tedious old cavaliers, with their formal bows and speeches; is it to be wondered at that he turned with delight to the Alcayde's daughter, all smiles, and dimples, and melting looks, and melting accents? Beside, for I wish to give him every excuse in my power, he was in a particularly excitable mood, from the novelty of the scene before him, and his head was almost turned with this sudden and complete realization of all his hopes and fancies; and then, in the flurry of the moment, he had taken frequent draughts at the wine-cup, presented him at every instant by officious pages, and all the world knows the effect of such draughts in giving potency to female charms. In a word, there is no concealing the matter, the banquet was not half over, before Don Fernando was making love, outright, to the Alcayde's daughter. It was his cold habitude, contracted long before his matrimonial engagement. The young lady hung her head coyly; her eye rested upon a ruby heart, sparkling in a ring on the hand of Don Fernando, a parting gage of love from Serafina. A blush crimsoned her very temples. She darted a glance of doubt at the ring, and then at Don Fernando. He read her doubt, and in the giddy intoxication of the moment, drew off the pledge of his affianced bride, and slipped it on the finger of the Alcayde's daughter.
At this moment the banquet broke up. The chamberlain with his lofty demeanor, and his lack-lustre eyes, stood before him, and announced that the barge was waiting to conduct him back to the caravel. Don Fernando took a formal leave of the Alcayde and his dignitaries, and a tender farewell of the Alcayde's daughter, with a promise to throw himself at her feet on the following day. He was rowed back to his vessel in the same slow and stately manner, to the cadence of the same mournful old ditty. He retired to his cabin, his brain whirling with all that he had seen, and his heart now and then giving him a twinge as he recollected his temporary infidelity to the beautiful Serafina. He flung himself on his bed, and soon fell into a feverish sleep. His dreams were wild and incoherent. How long he slept he knew not, but when he awoke he found himself in a strange cabin, with persons around him of whom he had no knowledge. He rubbed his eyes to ascertain whether he were really awake. In reply to his inquiries, he was informed that he was on board of a Portuguese ship, bound to Lisbon; having been taken senseless from a wreck drifting about the ocean.
Don Fernando was confounded and perplexed. He retraced every thing distinctly that had happened to him in the Island of the Seven Cities, and until he had retired to rest on board of the caravel. Had his vessel been driven from her anchors, and wrecked during his sleep? The people about him could give him no information on the subject. He talked to them of the Island of the Seven Cities, and of all that had befallen him there. They regarded his words as the ravings of delirium, and in their honest solicitude, administered such rough remedies, that he was fain to drop the subject, and observe a cautious taciturnity.
At length they arrived in the Tagus, and anchored before the famous city of Lisbon. Don Fernando sprang joyfully on shore, and hastened to his ancestral mansion. To his surprise, it was inhabited by strangers; and when he asked about his family, no one could give him any information concerning them.
He now sought the mansion of Don Ramiro, for the temporary flame kindled by the bright eyes of the Alcayde's daughter had long since burnt itself out, and his genuine passion for Serafina had revived with all its fervor. He approached the balcony, beneath which he had so often serenaded her. Did his eyes deceive him? No! There was Serafina herself at the balcony. An exclamation of rapture burst from him, as he raised his arms toward her. She cast upon him a look of indignation, and hastily retiring, closed the casement. Could she have heard of his flirtation with the Alcayde's daughter? He would soon dispel every doubt of his constancy. The door was open. He rushed up-stairs, and entering the room, threw himself at her feet. She shrank back with affright, and took refuge in the arms of a youthful cavalier.
'What mean you, Sir,' cried the latter, 'by this intrusion?'
'What right have you,' replied Don Fernando, 'to ask the question?'
'The right of an affianced suitor!'
Don Fernando started, and turned pale. 'Oh, Serafina! Serafina!' cried he in a tone of agony, 'is this thy plighted constancy?'
'Serafina? what mean you by Serafina? If it be this young lady you intend, her name is Maria.'
'Is not this Serafina Alvarez, and is not that her portrait?' cried Don Fernando, pointing to a picture of his mistress.
'Holy Virgin!' cried the young lady; 'he is talking of my great-grandmother!'
An explanation ensued, if that could be called an explanation, which plunged the unfortunate Fernando into tenfold perplexity. If he might believe his eyes, he saw before him his beloved Serafina; if he might believe his ears, it was merely her hereditary form and features, perpetuated in the person of her great-granddaughter.
His brain began to spin. He sought tho office of the Minister of Marine, and made a report of his expedition, and of the Island of the Seven Cities, which he had so fortunately discovered. No body knew any thing of such an expedition, or such an island. He declared that he had undertaken the enterprise under a formal contract with the crown, and had received a regular commission, constituting him Adelantado. This must be matter of record, and he insisted loudly, that the books of the department should be consulted. The wordy strife at length attracted the attention of an old, gray-headed clerk, who sat perched on a high stool, at a high desk, with iron-rimmed spectacles on the top of a thin, pinched nose, copying records into an enormous folio. He had wintered and summered in the department for a great part of a century, until he had almost grown to be a piece of the desk at which he sat; his memory was a mere index of official facts and documents, and his brain was little better than red tape and parchment. After peering down for a time from his lofty perch, and ascertaining the matter in controversy, he put his pen behind his ear, and descended. He remembered to have heard something from his predecessor about an expedition of the kind in question, but then it had sailed during the reign of Don Ioam II., and he had been dead at least a hundred years. To put the matter beyond dispute, however, the archives of the Torve do Tombo, that sepulchre of old Portuguese documents, were diligently searched, and a record was found of a contract between the crown and one Fernando de Ulmo, for the discovery of the Island of the Seven Cities, and of a commission secured to him as Adelantado of the country he might discover.
'There!' cried Don Fernando, triumphantly, 'there you have proof, before your own eyes, of what I have said. I am the Fernando de Ulmo specified in that record. I have discovered the Island of the Seven Cities, and am entitled to be Adelantado, according to contract.'
The story of Don Fernando had certainly, what is pronounced the best of historical foundation, documentary evidence; but when a man, in the bloom of youth, talked of events that had taken place above a century previously, as having happened to himself, it is no wonder that he was set down for a mad man.
The old clerk looked at him from above and below his spectacles, shrugged his shoulders, stroked his chin, reascended his lofty stool, took the pen from behind his ears, and resumed his daily and eternal task, copying records into the fiftieth volume of a series of gigantic folios. The other clerks winked at each other shrewdly, and dispersed to their several places, and poor Don Fernando, thus left to himself, flung out of the office, almost driven wild by these repeated perplexities.
In the confusion of his mind, he instinctively repaired to the mansion of Alvarez, but it was barred against him. To break the delusion under which the youth apparently labored, and to convince him that the Serafina about whom he raved was really dead, he was conducted to her tomb. There she lay, a stately matron, cut out in alabaster; and there lay her husband beside her; a portly cavalier, in armor; and there knelt, on each side, the effigies of a numerous progeny, proving that she had been a fruitful vine. Even the very monument gave proof of the lapse of time, for the hands of her husband, which were folded as if in prayer, had lost their fingers, and the face of the once lovely Serafina was noseless.
Don Fernando felt a transient glow of indignation at beholding this monumental proof of the inconstancy of his mistress; but who could expect a mistress to remain constant during a whole century of absence? And what right had he to rail about constancy, after what had passed between him and the Alcayde's daughter? The unfortunate cavalier performed one pious act of tender devotion; he had the alabaster nose of Serafina restored by a skilful statuary, and then tore himself from the tomb.
He could now no longer doubt the fact that, somehow or other, he had skipped over a whole century, during the night he had spent at the Island of the Seven Cities; and he was now as complete a stranger in his native city, as if he had never been there. A thousand times did he wish himself back to that wonderful island, with its antiquated banquet halls, where he had been so courteously received; and now that the once young and beautiful Serafina was nothing but a great-grandmother in marble, with generations of descendants, a thousand times would he recall the melting black eyes of the Alcayde's daughter, who doubtless, like himself, was still flourishing in fresh juvenility, and breathe a secret wish that he were seated by her side.
He would at once have set on foot another expedition, at his own expense, to cruise in search of the sainted island, but his means were exhausted. He endeavored to rouse others to the enterprise, setting forth the certainty of profitable results, of which his own experience furnished such unquestionable proof. Alas! no one would give faith to his tale; but looked upon it as the feverish dream of a shipwrecked man. He persisted in his efforts; holding forth in all places and all companies, until he became an object of jest and jeer to the light-minded, who mistook his earnest enthusiasm for a proof of insanity; and the very children in the streets bantered him with the title of 'The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.'
Finding all his efforts in vain, in his native city of Lisbon, he took shipping for the Canaries, as being nearer the latitude of his former cruise, and inhabited by people given to nautical adventure. Here he found ready listeners to his story; for the old pilots and mariners of those parts were notorious island-hunters and devout believers in all the wonders of the seas. Indeed, one and all treated his adventure as a common occurrence, and turning to each other, with a sagacious nod of the head, observed, 'He has been at the Island of St. Brandan.'
They then went on to inform him of that great marvel and enigma of the ocean; of its repeated appearance to the inhabitants of their islands; and of the many but ineffectual expeditions that had been made in search of it. They took him to a promontory of the island of Palma, from whence the shadowy St. Brandan had oftenest been descried, and they pointed out the very tract in the west where its mountains had been seen.
Don Fernando listened with rapt attention. He had no longer a doubt that this mysterious and fugacious island must be the same with that of the Seven Cities; and that there must be some supernatural influence connected with it, that had operated upon himself, and made the events of a night occupy the space of a century.
He endeavored, but in vain, to rouse the islanders to another attempt at discovery; they had given up the phantom island as indeed inaccessible. Fernando, however, was not to be discouraged. The idea wore itself deeper and deeper in his mind, until it became the engrossing subject of his thoughts and object of his being. Every morning he would repair to the promontory of Palma, and sit there throughout the live-long day, in hopes of seeing the fairy mountains of St. Brandan peering above the horizon; every evening he returned to his home, a disappointed man, but ready to resume his post on the following morning.
His assiduity was all in vain. He grew gray in his ineffectual attempt; and was at length found dead at his post. His grave is still shown in the island of Palma, and a cross is erected on the spot where he used to sit and look out upon the sea, in hopes of the reappearance of the enchanted island.
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In the early part of the fifteenth century, when Prince Henry of Portugal, of worthy memory, was pushing the career of discovery along the western coast of Africa, and the world was resounding with reports of golden regions on the main land, and new-found islands in the ocean, there arrived at Lisbon an old bewildered pilot of the seas, who had been driven by tempests, he knew not whither, and who raved about an island far in the deep, on which he had landed, and which he had found peopled with Christians, and adorned with noble cities.
The inhabitants, he said, gathered round, and regarded him with surprise, having never before been visited by a ship. They told him they were descendants of a band of Christians, who fled from Spain when that country was conquered by the Moslems. They were curious about the state of their fatherland, and grieved to hear that the Moslems still held possession of the kingdom of Granada. They would have taken the old navigator to church, to convince him of their orthodoxy; but, either through lack of devotion, or lack of faith in their words, he declined their invitation, and preferred to return on board of his ship. He was properly punished. A furious storm arose, drove him from his anchorage, hurried him out to sea, and he saw no more of the unknown island.
This strange story caused great marvel in Lisbon and elsewhere. Those versed in history, remembered to have read, in an ancient chronicle, that, at the time of the conquest of Spain, in the eighth century, when the blessed cross was cast down, and the crescent erected in its place, and when Christian churches were turned into Moslem mosques, seven bishops, at the head of seven bands of pious exiles, had fled from the peninsula, and embarked in quest of some ocean island, or distant land, where they might found seven Christian cities, and enjoy their faith unmolested.
The fate of these pious saints errant had hitherto remained a mystery, and their story had faded from memory; the report of the old tempest-tossed pilot, however, revived this long-forgotten theme; and it was determined by the pious and enthusiastic, that the island thus accidentally discovered, was the identical place of refuge, whither the wandering bishops had been guided by a protecting Providence, and where they had folded their flocks.
This most excitable of worlds has always some darling object of chimerical enterprise: the 'Island of the Seven Cities' now awakened as much interest and longing among zealous Christians, as has the renowned city of Timbuctoo among adventurous travellers, or the North-east Passage among hardy navigators; and it was a frequent prayer of the devout, that these scattered and lost portions of the Christian family might be discovered, and reunited to the great body of Christendom.
No one, however, entered into the matter with half the zeal of Don Fernando de Ulmo, a young cavalier of high standing in the Portuguese court, and of most sanguine and romantic temperament. He had recently come to his estate, and had run the round of all kinds of pleasures and excitements, when this new theme of popular talk and wonder presented itself. The Island of the Seven Cities became now the constant subject of his thoughts by day and his dreams by night; it even rivalled his passion for a beautiful girl, one of the greatest belles of Lisbon, to whom he was betrothed. At length his imagination became so inflamed on the subject, that he determined to fit out an expedition, at his own expense, and set sail in quest of this sainted island. It could not be a cruise of any great extent; for according to the calculations of the tempest-tossed pilot, it must be somewhere in the latitude of the Canaries; which at that time, when the new world was as yet undiscovered, formed the frontier of ocean enterprise. Don Fernando applied to the crown for countenance and protection. As he was a favorite at court, the usual patronage was readily extended to him; that is to say, he received a commission from the king, Don Ioam II., constituting him Adelantado, or military governor, of any country he might discover, with the single proviso, that he should bear all the expenses of the discovery and pay a tenth of the profits to the crown.
Don Fernando now set to work in the true spirit of a projector. He sold acre after acre of solid land, and invested the proceeds in ships, guns, ammunition, and sea-stores. Even his old family mansion in Lisbon was mortgaged without scruple, for 'he looked forward to a palace in one of the Seven Cities of which he was to be Adelantado.' This was the age of nautical romance, when the thoughts of all speculative dreamers were turned to the ocean. The scheme of Don Fernando, therefore, drew adventurers of every kind. The merchant promised himself new marts of opulent traffic; the soldier hoped to sack and plunder some one or other of those Seven Cities; even the fat monk shook off the sleep and sloth of the cloister, to join in a crusade which promised such increase to the possessions of the church.
One person alone regarded the whole project with sovereign contempt and growling hostility. This was Don Ramiro Alvarez, the father of the beautiful Serafina, to whom Don Fernando was betrothed. He was one of those perverse, matter-of-fact old men who are prone to oppose every thing speculative and romantic. He had no faith in the Island of the Seven Cities; regarded the projected cruise as a crack-brained freak; looked with angry eye and internal heart-burning on the conduct of his intended son-in-law, chaffering away solid lands for lands in the moon, and scoffingly dubbed him Adelantado of Lubberland. In fact, he had never really relished the intended match, to which his consent had been slowly extorted by the tears and entreaties of his daughter. It is true he could have no reasonable objections to the youth, for Don Fernando was the very flower of Portuguese chivalry. No one could excel him at the tilting match, or the riding at the ring; none was more bold and dexterous in the bull-fight; none composed more gallant madrigals in praise of his lady's charms, or sang them with sweeter tones to the accompaniment of her guitar; nor could any one handle the castanets and dance the bolero with more captivating grace. All these admirable qualities and endowments, however, though they had been sufficient to win the heart of Serafina, were nothing in the eyes of her unreasonable father. O Cupid, god of Love! why will fathers always be so unreasonable!
The engagement to Serafina had threatened at first to throw an obstacle in the way of the expedition of Don Fernando, and for a time perplexed him in the extreme. He was passionately attached to the young lady; but he was also passionately bent on this romantic enterprise. How should he reconcile the two passionate inclinations? A simple and obvious arrangement at length presented itself: marry Serafina, enjoy a portion of the honeymoon at once, and defer the rest until his return from the discovery of the Seven Cities!
He hastened to make known this most excellent arrangement to Don Ramiro, when the long-smothered wrath of the old cavalier burst forth in a storm about his ears. He reproached him with being the dupe of wandering vagabonds and wild schemers, and of squandering all his real possessions in pursuit of empty bubbles. Don Fernando was too sanguine a projector, and too young a man, to listen tamely to such language. He acted with what is technically called 'becoming spirit.' A high quarrel ensued; Don Ramiro pronounced him a mad man, and forbade all farther intercourse with his daughter, until he should give proof of returning sanity by abandoning this mad-cap enterprise; while Don Fernando flung out of the house, more bent than ever on the expedition, from the idea of triumphing over the incredulity of the gray-beard when he should return successful.
Don Ramiro repaired to his daughter's chamber the moment the youth had departed. He represented to her the sanguine, unsteady character of her lover and the chimerical nature of his schemes; showed her the propriety of suspending all intercourse with him until he should recover from his present hallucination; folded her to his bosom with parental fondness, kissed the tear that stole down her cheek, and, as he left the chamber, gently locked the door; for although he was a fond father, and had a high opinion of the submissive temper of his child, he had a still higher opinion of the conservative virtues of lock and key. Whether the damsel had been in any wise shaken in her faith as to the schemes of her lover, and the existence of the Island of the Seven Cities, by the sage representations of her father, tradition does not say; but it is certain that she became a firm believer the moment she heard him turn the key in the lock.
Notwithstanding the interdict of Don Ramiro, therefore, and his shrewd precautions, the intercourse of the lovers continued, although clandestinely. Don Fernando toiled all day, hurrying forward his nautical enterprise, while at night he would repair, beneath the grated balcony of his mistress, to carry on at equal pace the no less interesting enterprise of the heart. At length the preparations for the expedition were completed. Two gallant caravels lay anchored in the Tagus, ready to sail with the morning dawn; while late at night, by the pale light of a waning moon, Don Fernando sought the stately mansion of Alvarez to take a last farewell of Serafina. The customary signal of a few low touches of a guitar brought her to the balcony. She was sad at heart and full of gloomy forebodings; but her lover strove to impart to her his own buoyant hope and youthful confidence. 'A few short months,' said he, 'and I shall return in triumph. Thy father will then blush at his incredulity, and will once more welcome me to his house, when I cross its threshold a wealthy suitor and Adelantado of the Seven Cities.'
The beautiful Serafina shook her head mournfully. It was not on those points that she felt doubt or dismay. She believed most implicitly in the Island of the Seven Cities, and trusted devoutly in the success of the enterprise; but she had heard of the inconstancy of the seas, and the inconstancy of those who roam them. Now, let the truth be spoken, Don Fernando, if he had any fault in the world, it was that he was a little too inflammable; that is to say, a little too subject to take fire from the sparkle of every bright eye: he had been somewhat of a rover among the sex on shore, what might he not be on sea? Might he not meet with other loves in foreign ports? Might he not behold some peerless beauty in one or other of those seven cities, who might efface the image of Serafina from his thoughts?
At length she ventured to hint her doubts; but Don Fernando spurned at the very idea. Never could his heart be false to Serafina! Never could another be captivating in his eyes! never, never! Repeatedly did he bend his knee, and smite his breast, and call upon the silver moon to witness the sincerity of his vows. But might not Serafina, herself, be forgetful of her plighted faith? Might not some wealthier rival present, while he was tossing on the sea, and, backed by the authority of her father, win the treasure of her hand? Alas, how little did he know Serafina's heart! The more her father should oppose, the more would she be fixed in her faith. Though years should pass before his return, he would find her true to her vows. Even should the salt seas swallow him up, (and her eyes streamed with salt tears at the very thought,) never would she be the wife of another, never, never! She raised her beautiful white arms between the iron bars of the balcony, and invoked the moon as a testimonial of her faith.
Thus, according to immemorial usage, the lovers parted, with many a vow of eternal constancy. But will they keep those vows? Perish the doubt! Have they not called the constant moon to witness?
With the morning dawn the caravels dropped down the Tagus and put to sea. They steered for the Canaries, in those days the regions of nautical romance. Scarcely had they reached those latitudes, when a violent tempest arose. Don Fernando soon lost sight of the accompanying caravel, and was driven out of all reckoning by the fury of the storm. For several weary days and nights he was tossed to and fro, at the mercy of the elements, expecting each moment to be swallowed up. At length, one day toward evening, the storm subsided; the clouds cleared up, as though a veil had suddenly been withdrawn from the face of heaven, and the setting sun shone gloriously upon a fair and mountainous island, that seemed close at hand. The tempest-tossed mariners rubbed their eyes, and gazed almost incredulously upon this land, that had emerged so suddenly from the murky gloom; yet there it lay, spread out in lovely landscapes; enlivened by villages, and towers, and spires, while the late stormy sea rolled in peaceful billows to its shores. About a league from the sea, on the banks of a river, stood a noble city, with lofty walls and towers, and a protecting castle. Don Fernando anchored off the mouth of the river, which appeared to form a spacious harbor. In a little while a barge was seen issuing from the river. It was evidently a barge of ceremony, for it was richly though quaintly carved and gilt, and decorated with a silken awning and fluttering streamers, while a banner, bearing the sacred emblem of the cross, floated to the breeze. The barge advanced slowly, impelled by sixteen oars, painted of a bright crimson. The oarsmen were uncouth, or rather antique, in their garb, and kept stroke to the regular cadence of an old Spanish ditty. Beneath the awning sat a cavalier, in a rich though old-fashioned doublet, with an enormous sombrero and feather. When the barge reached the caravel, the cavalier stepped on board. He was tall and gaunt, with a long, Spanish visage, and lack-lustre eyes, and an air of lofty and somewhat pompous gravity. His mustaches were curled up to his ears, his beard was forked and precise; he wore gauntlets that reached to his elbows, and a Toledo blade that strutted out behind, while, in front, its huge basket-hilt might have served for a porringer.
Thrusting out a long spindle leg, and taking off his sombrero with a grave and stately sweep, he saluted Don Fernando by name, and welcomed him, in old Castilian language, and in the style of old Castilian courtesy.
Don Fernando was startled at hearing himself accosted by name, by an utter stranger, in a strange land. As soon as he could recover from his surprise, he inquired what land it was at which he had arrived.
'The Island of the Seven Cities!'
Could this be true? Had he indeed been thus tempest-driven upon the very land of which he was in quest? It was even so. The other caravel, from which he had been separated in the storm, had made a neighboring port of the island, and announced the tidings of this expedition, which came to restore the country to the great community of Christendom. The whole island, he was told, was given up to rejoicings on the happy event; and they only awaited his arrival to acknowledge allegiance to the crown of Portugal, and hail him as Adelantado of the Seven Cities. A grand f'te was to be solemnized that very night in the palace of the Alcayde or governor of the city; who, on beholding the most opportune arrival of the caravel, had despatched his grand chamberlain, in his barge of state, to conduct the future Adelantado to the ceremony.
Don Fernando could scarcely believe but that this was all a dream. He fixed a scrutinizing gaze upon the grand chamberlain, who, having delivered his message, stood in buckram dignity, drawn up to his full stature, curling his whiskers, stroking his beard, and looking down upon him with inexpressible loftiness through his lack-lustre eyes. There was no doubting the word of so grave and ceremonious a hidalgo.
Don Fernando now arrayed himself in gala attire. He would have launched his boat, and gone on shore with his own men, but he was informed the barge of state was expressly provided for his accommodation, and, after the f'te, would bring him back to his ship; in which, on the following day, he might enter the harbor in befitting style. He accordingly stepped into the barge, and took his seat beneath the awning. The grand chamberlain seated himself on the cushion opposite. The rowers bent to their oars, and renewed their mournful old ditty, and the gorgeous, but unwieldy barge moved slowly and solemnly through the water.
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The night closed in, before they entered the river. They swept along, past rock and promontory, each guarded by its tower. The sentinels at every post challenged them as they passed by.
'Who goes there?'
'The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.'
'He is welcome. Pass on.'
On entering the harbor, they rowed close along an armed galley, of the most ancient form. Soldiers with cross-bows were stationed on the deck.
'Who goes there?' was again demanded.
'The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.'
'He is welcome. Pass on.'
They landed at a broad flight of stone steps, leading up, between two massive towers, to the water-gate of the city, at which they knocked for admission. A sentinel, in an ancient steel casque, looked over the wall. 'Who is there?'
'The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.'
The gate swung slowly open, grating upon its rusty hinges. They entered between two rows of iron-clad warriors, in battered armor, with cross-bows, battle-axes, and ancient maces, and with faces as old-fashioned and rusty as their armor. They saluted Don Fernando in military style, but with perfect silence, as he passed between their ranks. The city was illuminated, but in such manner as to give a more shadowy and solemn effect to its old-time architecture. There were bonfires in the principal streets, with groups about them in such old-fashioned garbs, that they looked like the fantastic figures that roam the streets in carnival time. Even the stately dames who gazed from the balconies, which they had hung with antique tapestry, looked more like effigies dressed up for a quaint mummery, than like ladies in their fashionable attire. Every thing, in short, bore the stamp of former ages, as if the world had suddenly rolled back a few centuries. Nor was this to be wondered at. Had not the Island of the Seven Cities been for several hundred years cut off from all communication with the rest of the world, and was it not natural that the inhabitants should retain many of the modes and customs brought here by their ancestors?
One thing certainly they had conserved; the old-fashioned Spanish gravity and stateliness. Though this was a time of public rejoicing, and though Don Fernando was the object of their gratulations, every thing was conducted with the most solemn ceremony, and wherever he appeared, instead of acclamations, he was received with profound silence, and the most formal reverences and swayings of their sombreros.
Arrived at the palace of the Alcayde, the usual ceremonial was repeated. The chamberlain knocked for admission.
'Who is there?' demanded the porter.
'The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.'
'He is welcome. Pass on.'
The grand portal was thrown open. The chamberlain led the way up a vast but heavily moulded marble stair-case, and so through one of those interminable suites of apartments, that are the pride of Spanish palaces. All were furnished in a style of obsolete magnificence. As they passed through the chambers, the title of Don Fernando was forwarded on by servants stationed at every door; and every where produced the most profound reverences and courtesies. At length they reached a magnificent saloon, blazing with tapers, in which the Alcayde, and the principal dignitaries of the city, were waiting to receive their illustrious guest. The grand chamberlain presented Don Fernando in due form, and falling back among the other officers of the household, stood as usual curling his whiskers and stroking his forked beard.
Don Fernando was received by the Alcayde and the other dignitaries with the same stately and formal courtesy that he had every where remarked. In fact, there was so much form and ceremonial, that it seemed difficult to get at any thing social or substantial. Nothing but bows, and compliments, and old-fashioned courtesies. The Alcayde and his courtiers resembled, in face and form, those quaint worthies to be seen in the pictures of old illuminated manuscripts; while the cavaliers and dames who thronged the saloon, might have beep taken for the antique figures of gobelin tapestry suddenly vivified and put in motion.
The banquet, which had been kept back until the arrival of Don Fernando, was now announced; and such a feast! such unknown dishes and obsolete dainties; with the peacock, that bird of state and ceremony, served up in full plumage, in a golden dish, at the head of the table. And then, as Don Fernando cast his eyes over the glittering board, what a vista of odd heads and head-dresses, of formal bearded dignitaries, and stately dames, with castellated locks and towering plumes!
As fate would have it, on the other side of Don Fernando, was seated the daughter of the Alcayde. She was arrayed, it is true, in a dress that might have been worn before the flood; but then, she had a melting black Andalusian eye, that was perfectly irresistible. Her voice, too, her manner, her movements, all smacked of Andalusia, and showed how female fascination may be transmitted from age to age, and clime to clime, without ever losing its power, or going out of fashion. Those who know the witchery of the sex, in that most amorous region of old Spain, may judge what must have been the fascination to which Don Fernando was exposed, when seated beside one of the most captivating of its descendants. He was, as has already been hinted, of an inflammable temperament; with a heart ready to get in a light blaze at every instant. And then he had been so wearied by pompous, tedious old cavaliers, with their formal bows and speeches; is it to be wondered at that he turned with delight to the Alcayde's daughter, all smiles, and dimples, and melting looks, and melting accents? Beside, for I wish to give him every excuse in my power, he was in a particularly excitable mood, from the novelty of the scene before him, and his head was almost turned with this sudden and complete realization of all his hopes and fancies; and then, in the flurry of the moment, he had taken frequent draughts at the wine-cup, presented him at every instant by officious pages, and all the world knows the effect of such draughts in giving potency to female charms. In a word, there is no concealing the matter, the banquet was not half over, before Don Fernando was making love, outright, to the Alcayde's daughter. It was his cold habitude, contracted long before his matrimonial engagement. The young lady hung her head coyly; her eye rested upon a ruby heart, sparkling in a ring on the hand of Don Fernando, a parting gage of love from Serafina. A blush crimsoned her very temples. She darted a glance of doubt at the ring, and then at Don Fernando. He read her doubt, and in the giddy intoxication of the moment, drew off the pledge of his affianced bride, and slipped it on the finger of the Alcayde's daughter.
At this moment the banquet broke up. The chamberlain with his lofty demeanor, and his lack-lustre eyes, stood before him, and announced that the barge was waiting to conduct him back to the caravel. Don Fernando took a formal leave of the Alcayde and his dignitaries, and a tender farewell of the Alcayde's daughter, with a promise to throw himself at her feet on the following day. He was rowed back to his vessel in the same slow and stately manner, to the cadence of the same mournful old ditty. He retired to his cabin, his brain whirling with all that he had seen, and his heart now and then giving him a twinge as he recollected his temporary infidelity to the beautiful Serafina. He flung himself on his bed, and soon fell into a feverish sleep. His dreams were wild and incoherent. How long he slept he knew not, but when he awoke he found himself in a strange cabin, with persons around him of whom he had no knowledge. He rubbed his eyes to ascertain whether he were really awake. In reply to his inquiries, he was informed that he was on board of a Portuguese ship, bound to Lisbon; having been taken senseless from a wreck drifting about the ocean.
Don Fernando was confounded and perplexed. He retraced every thing distinctly that had happened to him in the Island of the Seven Cities, and until he had retired to rest on board of the caravel. Had his vessel been driven from her anchors, and wrecked during his sleep? The people about him could give him no information on the subject. He talked to them of the Island of the Seven Cities, and of all that had befallen him there. They regarded his words as the ravings of delirium, and in their honest solicitude, administered such rough remedies, that he was fain to drop the subject, and observe a cautious taciturnity.
At length they arrived in the Tagus, and anchored before the famous city of Lisbon. Don Fernando sprang joyfully on shore, and hastened to his ancestral mansion. To his surprise, it was inhabited by strangers; and when he asked about his family, no one could give him any information concerning them.
He now sought the mansion of Don Ramiro, for the temporary flame kindled by the bright eyes of the Alcayde's daughter had long since burnt itself out, and his genuine passion for Serafina had revived with all its fervor. He approached the balcony, beneath which he had so often serenaded her. Did his eyes deceive him? No! There was Serafina herself at the balcony. An exclamation of rapture burst from him, as he raised his arms toward her. She cast upon him a look of indignation, and hastily retiring, closed the casement. Could she have heard of his flirtation with the Alcayde's daughter? He would soon dispel every doubt of his constancy. The door was open. He rushed up-stairs, and entering the room, threw himself at her feet. She shrank back with affright, and took refuge in the arms of a youthful cavalier.
'What mean you, Sir,' cried the latter, 'by this intrusion?'
'What right have you,' replied Don Fernando, 'to ask the question?'
'The right of an affianced suitor!'
Don Fernando started, and turned pale. 'Oh, Serafina! Serafina!' cried he in a tone of agony, 'is this thy plighted constancy?'
'Serafina? what mean you by Serafina? If it be this young lady you intend, her name is Maria.'
'Is not this Serafina Alvarez, and is not that her portrait?' cried Don Fernando, pointing to a picture of his mistress.
'Holy Virgin!' cried the young lady; 'he is talking of my great-grandmother!'
An explanation ensued, if that could be called an explanation, which plunged the unfortunate Fernando into tenfold perplexity. If he might believe his eyes, he saw before him his beloved Serafina; if he might believe his ears, it was merely her hereditary form and features, perpetuated in the person of her great-granddaughter.
His brain began to spin. He sought tho office of the Minister of Marine, and made a report of his expedition, and of the Island of the Seven Cities, which he had so fortunately discovered. No body knew any thing of such an expedition, or such an island. He declared that he had undertaken the enterprise under a formal contract with the crown, and had received a regular commission, constituting him Adelantado. This must be matter of record, and he insisted loudly, that the books of the department should be consulted. The wordy strife at length attracted the attention of an old, gray-headed clerk, who sat perched on a high stool, at a high desk, with iron-rimmed spectacles on the top of a thin, pinched nose, copying records into an enormous folio. He had wintered and summered in the department for a great part of a century, until he had almost grown to be a piece of the desk at which he sat; his memory was a mere index of official facts and documents, and his brain was little better than red tape and parchment. After peering down for a time from his lofty perch, and ascertaining the matter in controversy, he put his pen behind his ear, and descended. He remembered to have heard something from his predecessor about an expedition of the kind in question, but then it had sailed during the reign of Don Ioam II., and he had been dead at least a hundred years. To put the matter beyond dispute, however, the archives of the Torve do Tombo, that sepulchre of old Portuguese documents, were diligently searched, and a record was found of a contract between the crown and one Fernando de Ulmo, for the discovery of the Island of the Seven Cities, and of a commission secured to him as Adelantado of the country he might discover.
'There!' cried Don Fernando, triumphantly, 'there you have proof, before your own eyes, of what I have said. I am the Fernando de Ulmo specified in that record. I have discovered the Island of the Seven Cities, and am entitled to be Adelantado, according to contract.'
The story of Don Fernando had certainly, what is pronounced the best of historical foundation, documentary evidence; but when a man, in the bloom of youth, talked of events that had taken place above a century previously, as having happened to himself, it is no wonder that he was set down for a mad man.
The old clerk looked at him from above and below his spectacles, shrugged his shoulders, stroked his chin, reascended his lofty stool, took the pen from behind his ears, and resumed his daily and eternal task, copying records into the fiftieth volume of a series of gigantic folios. The other clerks winked at each other shrewdly, and dispersed to their several places, and poor Don Fernando, thus left to himself, flung out of the office, almost driven wild by these repeated perplexities.
In the confusion of his mind, he instinctively repaired to the mansion of Alvarez, but it was barred against him. To break the delusion under which the youth apparently labored, and to convince him that the Serafina about whom he raved was really dead, he was conducted to her tomb. There she lay, a stately matron, cut out in alabaster; and there lay her husband beside her; a portly cavalier, in armor; and there knelt, on each side, the effigies of a numerous progeny, proving that she had been a fruitful vine. Even the very monument gave proof of the lapse of time, for the hands of her husband, which were folded as if in prayer, had lost their fingers, and the face of the once lovely Serafina was noseless.
Don Fernando felt a transient glow of indignation at beholding this monumental proof of the inconstancy of his mistress; but who could expect a mistress to remain constant during a whole century of absence? And what right had he to rail about constancy, after what had passed between him and the Alcayde's daughter? The unfortunate cavalier performed one pious act of tender devotion; he had the alabaster nose of Serafina restored by a skilful statuary, and then tore himself from the tomb.
He could now no longer doubt the fact that, somehow or other, he had skipped over a whole century, during the night he had spent at the Island of the Seven Cities; and he was now as complete a stranger in his native city, as if he had never been there. A thousand times did he wish himself back to that wonderful island, with its antiquated banquet halls, where he had been so courteously received; and now that the once young and beautiful Serafina was nothing but a great-grandmother in marble, with generations of descendants, a thousand times would he recall the melting black eyes of the Alcayde's daughter, who doubtless, like himself, was still flourishing in fresh juvenility, and breathe a secret wish that he were seated by her side.
He would at once have set on foot another expedition, at his own expense, to cruise in search of the sainted island, but his means were exhausted. He endeavored to rouse others to the enterprise, setting forth the certainty of profitable results, of which his own experience furnished such unquestionable proof. Alas! no one would give faith to his tale; but looked upon it as the feverish dream of a shipwrecked man. He persisted in his efforts; holding forth in all places and all companies, until he became an object of jest and jeer to the light-minded, who mistook his earnest enthusiasm for a proof of insanity; and the very children in the streets bantered him with the title of 'The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.'
Finding all his efforts in vain, in his native city of Lisbon, he took shipping for the Canaries, as being nearer the latitude of his former cruise, and inhabited by people given to nautical adventure. Here he found ready listeners to his story; for the old pilots and mariners of those parts were notorious island-hunters and devout believers in all the wonders of the seas. Indeed, one and all treated his adventure as a common occurrence, and turning to each other, with a sagacious nod of the head, observed, 'He has been at the Island of St. Brandan.'
They then went on to inform him of that great marvel and enigma of the ocean; of its repeated appearance to the inhabitants of their islands; and of the many but ineffectual expeditions that had been made in search of it. They took him to a promontory of the island of Palma, from whence the shadowy St. Brandan had oftenest been descried, and they pointed out the very tract in the west where its mountains had been seen.
Don Fernando listened with rapt attention. He had no longer a doubt that this mysterious and fugacious island must be the same with that of the Seven Cities; and that there must be some supernatural influence connected with it, that had operated upon himself, and made the events of a night occupy the space of a century.
He endeavored, but in vain, to rouse the islanders to another attempt at discovery; they had given up the phantom island as indeed inaccessible. Fernando, however, was not to be discouraged. The idea wore itself deeper and deeper in his mind, until it became the engrossing subject of his thoughts and object of his being. Every morning he would repair to the promontory of Palma, and sit there throughout the live-long day, in hopes of seeing the fairy mountains of St. Brandan peering above the horizon; every evening he returned to his home, a disappointed man, but ready to resume his post on the following morning.
His assiduity was all in vain. He grew gray in his ineffectual attempt; and was at length found dead at his post. His grave is still shown in the island of Palma, and a cross is erected on the spot where he used to sit and look out upon the sea, in hopes of the reappearance of the enchanted island.
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free_verse
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Robert Fuller Murray
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An Afterthought
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You found my life, a poor lame bird
That had no heart to sing,
You would not speak the magic word
To give it voice and wing.
Yet sometimes, dreaming of that hour,
I think, if you had known
How much my life was in your power,
It might have sung and flown.
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You found my life, a poor lame bird
That had no heart to sing,
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You would not speak the magic word
To give it voice and wing.
Yet sometimes, dreaming of that hour,
I think, if you had known
How much my life was in your power,
It might have sung and flown.
|
free_verse
|
Madison Julius Cawein
|
The Woodland Waterfall
|
Rock and root and fern and flower
They had led him for an hour
To the inmost forest, where,
In a hollow, green with moss,
That the deep ferns trailed across,
Fell a fall, a presence fair,
Syllabling to the air,
Charming with cool sounds the bower.
It was she he used to know
In some land of Long Ago,
Some far land of Yesterday,
Where he listened to her words,
And she lured him, like the birds,
To her lips; and in his way
Danced a bubble or rainbow-ray,
Or a minnow's silvery bow.
Round him now her arms she flung,
And, as dripping there she clung,
In her gaze of green and gold
He beheld a beauty gleam,
And the shadow of a dream,
That to no man hath been told,
Like a Faery tale of old,
Rise up glimmering, ever young.
As his form to hers she drew
In his soul, it seemed, he knew
She was daughter of a king,
Hate-transformed into a fall
By a witch; long-held in thrall,
And condemned to sigh and sing
Till some mortal find the ring,
Charm, that would the spell undo.
In a pool of spray and foam,
With a crystal-bubble dome,
Suddenly he saw the charm:
Newt-like, coiling, there it lay
Could he seize it he would stay,
Master all! and, white and warm,
Clasp the princess in his arm,
Lead her to her palace home!
He would free her; share her crown.
So he thought; and, bare and brown,
Clove the water at a blow.
But, behold, a mottled form,
Like a newt's, stretched out an arm,
Crimson-freckled, from below;
And before his heart could know,
With wild laughter drew him down.
|
Rock and root and fern and flower
They had led him for an hour
To the inmost forest, where,
In a hollow, green with moss,
That the deep ferns trailed across,
Fell a fall, a presence fair,
Syllabling to the air,
Charming with cool sounds the bower.
It was she he used to know
In some land of Long Ago,
Some far land of Yesterday,
Where he listened to her words,
And she lured him, like the birds,
To her lips; and in his way
Danced a bubble or rainbow-ray,
Or a minnow's silvery bow.
|
Round him now her arms she flung,
And, as dripping there she clung,
In her gaze of green and gold
He beheld a beauty gleam,
And the shadow of a dream,
That to no man hath been told,
Like a Faery tale of old,
Rise up glimmering, ever young.
As his form to hers she drew
In his soul, it seemed, he knew
She was daughter of a king,
Hate-transformed into a fall
By a witch; long-held in thrall,
And condemned to sigh and sing
Till some mortal find the ring,
Charm, that would the spell undo.
In a pool of spray and foam,
With a crystal-bubble dome,
Suddenly he saw the charm:
Newt-like, coiling, there it lay
Could he seize it he would stay,
Master all! and, white and warm,
Clasp the princess in his arm,
Lead her to her palace home!
He would free her; share her crown.
So he thought; and, bare and brown,
Clove the water at a blow.
But, behold, a mottled form,
Like a newt's, stretched out an arm,
Crimson-freckled, from below;
And before his heart could know,
With wild laughter drew him down.
|
free_verse
|
Walter De La Mare
|
Berries
|
There was an old woman
Went blackberry picking
Along the hedges
From Weep to Wicking.
Half a pottle -
No more she had got,
When out steps a Fairy
From her green grot;
And says, "Well, Jill,
Would 'ee pick 'ee mo?"
And Jill, she curtseys,
And looks just so.
"Be off," says the Fairy,
"As quick as you can,
Over the meadows
To the little green lane,
That dips to the hayfields
Of Farmer Grimes:
I've berried those hedges
A score of times;
Bushel on bushel
I'll promise 'ee, Jill,
This side of supper
If 'ee pick with a will."
She glints very bright,
And speaks her fair;
Then lo, and behold!
She has faded in air.
Be sure old Goodie
She trots betimes
Over the meadows
To Farmer Grimes.
And never was queen
With jewellry rich
As those same hedges
From twig to ditch;
Like Dutchmen's coffers,
Fruit, thorn, and flower -
They shone like William
And Mary's bower.
And be sure Old Goodie
Went back to Weep,
So tired with her basket
She scarce could creep.
When she comes in the dusk
To her cottage door,
There's Towser wagging
As never before,
To see his Missus
So glad to be
Come from her fruit-picking
Back to he.
As soon as next morning
Dawn was grey,
The pot on the hob
Was simmering away;
And all in a stew
And a hugger-mugger
Towser and Jill
A-boiling of sugar,
And the dark clear fruit
That from Fa'rie came,
For syrup and jelly
And blackberry jam.
Twelve jolly gallipots
Jill put by;
And one little teeny one,
One inch high;
And that she's hidden
A good thumb deep,
Half way over
From Wicking to Weep.
|
There was an old woman
Went blackberry picking
Along the hedges
From Weep to Wicking.
Half a pottle -
No more she had got,
When out steps a Fairy
From her green grot;
And says, "Well, Jill,
Would 'ee pick 'ee mo?"
And Jill, she curtseys,
And looks just so.
"Be off," says the Fairy,
"As quick as you can,
Over the meadows
To the little green lane,
That dips to the hayfields
Of Farmer Grimes:
I've berried those hedges
A score of times;
Bushel on bushel
I'll promise 'ee, Jill,
This side of supper
If 'ee pick with a will."
|
She glints very bright,
And speaks her fair;
Then lo, and behold!
She has faded in air.
Be sure old Goodie
She trots betimes
Over the meadows
To Farmer Grimes.
And never was queen
With jewellry rich
As those same hedges
From twig to ditch;
Like Dutchmen's coffers,
Fruit, thorn, and flower -
They shone like William
And Mary's bower.
And be sure Old Goodie
Went back to Weep,
So tired with her basket
She scarce could creep.
When she comes in the dusk
To her cottage door,
There's Towser wagging
As never before,
To see his Missus
So glad to be
Come from her fruit-picking
Back to he.
As soon as next morning
Dawn was grey,
The pot on the hob
Was simmering away;
And all in a stew
And a hugger-mugger
Towser and Jill
A-boiling of sugar,
And the dark clear fruit
That from Fa'rie came,
For syrup and jelly
And blackberry jam.
Twelve jolly gallipots
Jill put by;
And one little teeny one,
One inch high;
And that she's hidden
A good thumb deep,
Half way over
From Wicking to Weep.
|
free_verse
|
Herman Melville
|
The Tuft Of Kelp
|
All dripping in tangles green,
Cast up by a lonely sea
If purer for that, O Weed,
Bitterer, too, are ye?
|
All dripping in tangles green,
|
Cast up by a lonely sea
If purer for that, O Weed,
Bitterer, too, are ye?
|
quatrain
|
Robert Herrick
|
To Sappho.
|
Thou say'st thou lov'st me, Sappho; I say no;
But would to Love I could believe 'twas so!
Pardon my fears, sweet Sappho; I desire
That thou be righteous found, and I the liar.
|
Thou say'st thou lov'st me, Sappho; I say no;
|
But would to Love I could believe 'twas so!
Pardon my fears, sweet Sappho; I desire
That thou be righteous found, and I the liar.
|
quatrain
|
Richard Hunter
|
Smiler.
|
He smiles throughout the morning,
And all the afternoon;
He smiles whene'er the sun shines,
And also at the moon.
He smiles upon the carpet,
Or when you pick him up;
He smiles all through his dinner,
And when he goes to sup.
|
He smiles throughout the morning,
And all the afternoon;
|
He smiles whene'er the sun shines,
And also at the moon.
He smiles upon the carpet,
Or when you pick him up;
He smiles all through his dinner,
And when he goes to sup.
|
octave
|
Jean Blewett
|
Soldiers All.
|
They're praying for the soldier lads in grim old London town;
Last night I went, myself, and heard a bishop in his gown
Confiding to the Lord of Hosts his views of this affair.
"We do petition Thee," he said, "to have a watchful care
Of all the stalwart men and strong who at their country's call
Went sailing off to Africa to fight, perchance to fall!"
"Amen!" a thousand voices cried. I whispered low: "Dear Lord,
A host is praying for the men, I want to say a word
For those who stay at home and wait - the mothers and the wives.
Keep close to them and help them bear their cheerless, empty lives!"
The Bishop prayed: "Our cause is good, our quarrel right and just;
The God of battles is our God, and in His arm we trust."
He never got that prayer of his in any printed book,
It came straight from the heart of him, his deep voice, how it shook!
And something glistened in his eye and down his flushed cheek ran.
I like a Bishop best of all when he is just a man.
"Amen!" they cried out louder still, but I bent low my head;
"Dear Christ, be kind to hearts that break for loved ones dying - dead;
Keep close to women folk who wait beset with anxious fears,
The wan-faced watchers whose dim eyes are filled with bitter tears!
I know, dear Christ, how hard it is," I whispered as I kneeled,
"For long ago my bonnie boy fell on the battlefield.
Find comfort for the broken hearts of those weighed down to-day
With love and longing for the ones in danger far away."
"They will not shrink," the Bishop prayed, "nor fear a soldier's grave;
Nay, each man will acquit himself like Briton true and brave.
God of battles, march with them, keep guard by day and night,
And arm them with a trust in Thee when they go up to fight!"
"Amen!" a sound of muffled sobs. The deep voice trembled some,
But I, with hot tears on my face, prayed hard for those at home:
"Keep watch and ward of all that wait in fever of unrest,
Who said good-bye and let them go, the ones they loved the best!
O comfort, Christ! Above the din of martial clamor, hark!
The saddest sound in all God's world - a crying in the dark."
|
They're praying for the soldier lads in grim old London town;
Last night I went, myself, and heard a bishop in his gown
Confiding to the Lord of Hosts his views of this affair.
"We do petition Thee," he said, "to have a watchful care
Of all the stalwart men and strong who at their country's call
Went sailing off to Africa to fight, perchance to fall!"
"Amen!" a thousand voices cried. I whispered low: "Dear Lord,
A host is praying for the men, I want to say a word
For those who stay at home and wait - the mothers and the wives.
Keep close to them and help them bear their cheerless, empty lives!"
The Bishop prayed: "Our cause is good, our quarrel right and just;
|
The God of battles is our God, and in His arm we trust."
He never got that prayer of his in any printed book,
It came straight from the heart of him, his deep voice, how it shook!
And something glistened in his eye and down his flushed cheek ran.
I like a Bishop best of all when he is just a man.
"Amen!" they cried out louder still, but I bent low my head;
"Dear Christ, be kind to hearts that break for loved ones dying - dead;
Keep close to women folk who wait beset with anxious fears,
The wan-faced watchers whose dim eyes are filled with bitter tears!
I know, dear Christ, how hard it is," I whispered as I kneeled,
"For long ago my bonnie boy fell on the battlefield.
Find comfort for the broken hearts of those weighed down to-day
With love and longing for the ones in danger far away."
"They will not shrink," the Bishop prayed, "nor fear a soldier's grave;
Nay, each man will acquit himself like Briton true and brave.
God of battles, march with them, keep guard by day and night,
And arm them with a trust in Thee when they go up to fight!"
"Amen!" a sound of muffled sobs. The deep voice trembled some,
But I, with hot tears on my face, prayed hard for those at home:
"Keep watch and ward of all that wait in fever of unrest,
Who said good-bye and let them go, the ones they loved the best!
O comfort, Christ! Above the din of martial clamor, hark!
The saddest sound in all God's world - a crying in the dark."
|
free_verse
|
Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)
|
Two Songs by Sitara, of Kashmir
|
Beloved! your hair was golden
As tender tints of sunrise,
As corn beside the River
In softly varying hues.
I loved you for your slightness,
Your melancholy sweetness,
Your changeful eyes, that promised
What your lips would still refuse.
You came to me, and loved me,
Were mine upon the River,
The azure water saw us
And the blue transparent sky;
The Lotus flowers knew it,
Our happiness together,
While life was only River,
Only love, and you and I.
Love wakened on the River,
To sounds of running water,
With silver Stars for witness
And reflected Stars for light;
Awakened to existence,
With ripples for first music
And sunlight on the River
For earliest sense of sight.
Love grew upon the River
Among the scented flowers,
The open rosy flowers
Of the Lotus buds in bloom -
Love, brilliant as the Morning,
More fervent than the Noon-day,
And tender as the Twilight
In its blue transparent gloom.
Love died upon the River!
Cold snow upon the mountains,
The Lotus leaves turned yellow
And the water very grey.
Our kisses faint and falter,
The clinging hands unfasten,
The golden time is over
And our passion dies away.
Away. To be forgotten,
A ripple on the River,
That flashes in the sunset,
That flashed, - and died away.
|
Beloved! your hair was golden
As tender tints of sunrise,
As corn beside the River
In softly varying hues.
I loved you for your slightness,
Your melancholy sweetness,
Your changeful eyes, that promised
What your lips would still refuse.
You came to me, and loved me,
Were mine upon the River,
The azure water saw us
And the blue transparent sky;
The Lotus flowers knew it,
Our happiness together,
|
While life was only River,
Only love, and you and I.
Love wakened on the River,
To sounds of running water,
With silver Stars for witness
And reflected Stars for light;
Awakened to existence,
With ripples for first music
And sunlight on the River
For earliest sense of sight.
Love grew upon the River
Among the scented flowers,
The open rosy flowers
Of the Lotus buds in bloom -
Love, brilliant as the Morning,
More fervent than the Noon-day,
And tender as the Twilight
In its blue transparent gloom.
Love died upon the River!
Cold snow upon the mountains,
The Lotus leaves turned yellow
And the water very grey.
Our kisses faint and falter,
The clinging hands unfasten,
The golden time is over
And our passion dies away.
Away. To be forgotten,
A ripple on the River,
That flashes in the sunset,
That flashed, - and died away.
|
free_verse
|
Archibald Lampman
|
Sight.
|
The world is bright with beauty, and its days
Are filled with music; could we only know
True ends from false, and lofty things from low;
Could we but tear away the walls that graze
Our very elbows in life's frosty ways;
Behold the width beyond us with its flow,
Its knowledge and its murmur and its glow,
Where doubt itself is but a golden haze.
Ah brothers, still upon our pathway lies
The shadow of dim weariness and fear,
Yet if we could but lift our earthward eyes
To see, and open our dull ears to hear,
Then should the wonder of this world draw near
And life's innumerable harmonies.
|
The world is bright with beauty, and its days
Are filled with music; could we only know
True ends from false, and lofty things from low;
Could we but tear away the walls that graze
|
Our very elbows in life's frosty ways;
Behold the width beyond us with its flow,
Its knowledge and its murmur and its glow,
Where doubt itself is but a golden haze.
Ah brothers, still upon our pathway lies
The shadow of dim weariness and fear,
Yet if we could but lift our earthward eyes
To see, and open our dull ears to hear,
Then should the wonder of this world draw near
And life's innumerable harmonies.
|
sonnet
|
Rudyard Kipling
|
The Appeal
|
It I have given you delight
By aught that I have done,
Let me lie quiet in that night
Which shall be yours anon:
And for the little, little, span
The dead are born in mind,
Seek not to question other than
The books I leave behind.
|
It I have given you delight
By aught that I have done,
|
Let me lie quiet in that night
Which shall be yours anon:
And for the little, little, span
The dead are born in mind,
Seek not to question other than
The books I leave behind.
|
octave
|
Richard Hunter
|
Ping-Pong.
|
Sing a song of Ping-pong,
Fast away he ran:
"Come along," said Ping-pong,
"Catch me if you can!"
Sing a song of Ping-pong,
Racquet and a ball:
"Come along," said Ping-pong,
"You can't run at all!"
|
Sing a song of Ping-pong,
Fast away he ran:
|
"Come along," said Ping-pong,
"Catch me if you can!"
Sing a song of Ping-pong,
Racquet and a ball:
"Come along," said Ping-pong,
"You can't run at all!"
|
octave
|
Unknown
|
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXCIII. Love And Matrimony.
|
Blue eye beauty,
Grey eye greedy,
Black eye blackie,
Brown eye brownie.
|
Blue eye beauty,
|
Grey eye greedy,
Black eye blackie,
Brown eye brownie.
|
quatrain
|
John Milton
|
Sonnet to the Nightingale
|
O nightingale that on yon blooming spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,
Thou with fresh hopes the Lover's heart dost fill,
While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day,
First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill,
Portend success in love. O if Jove's will
Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh;
As thou from year to year hast sung too late
For my relief, yet had'st no reason why.
Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
|
O nightingale that on yon blooming spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,
Thou with fresh hopes the Lover's heart dost fill,
While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May.
|
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day,
First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill,
Portend success in love. O if Jove's will
Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh;
As thou from year to year hast sung too late
For my relief, yet had'st no reason why.
Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
|
sonnet
|
Unknown
|
Nursery Rhyme. CCCXCVIII. Lullabies.
|
My dear cockadoodle, my jewel, my joy,
My darling, my honey, my pretty sweet boy;
Before I do rock thee with soft lullaby,
Give me thy dear lips to be kiss'd, kiss'd, kiss'd.
|
My dear cockadoodle, my jewel, my joy,
|
My darling, my honey, my pretty sweet boy;
Before I do rock thee with soft lullaby,
Give me thy dear lips to be kiss'd, kiss'd, kiss'd.
|
quatrain
|
George MacDonald
|
To My Lord And Master
|
Imagination cannot rise above thee;
Near and afar I see thee, and I love thee;
My misery away from me I thrust it,
For thy perfection I behold, and trust it.
|
Imagination cannot rise above thee;
|
Near and afar I see thee, and I love thee;
My misery away from me I thrust it,
For thy perfection I behold, and trust it.
|
quatrain
|
Paul Laurence Dunbar
|
Dead
|
A knock is at her door, but she is weak;
Strange dews have washed the paint streaks from her cheek;
She does not rise, but, ah, this friend is known,
And knows that he will find her all alone.
So opens he the door, and with soft tread
Goes straightway to the richly curtained bed.
His soft hand on her dewy head he lays.
A strange white light she gives him for his gaze.
Then, looking on the glory of her charms,
He crushes her resistless in his arms.
Stand back! look not upon this bold embrace,
Nor view the calmness of the wanton's face;
With joy unspeakable and 'bated breath,
She keeps her last, long liaison with death!
|
A knock is at her door, but she is weak;
Strange dews have washed the paint streaks from her cheek;
She does not rise, but, ah, this friend is known,
And knows that he will find her all alone.
|
So opens he the door, and with soft tread
Goes straightway to the richly curtained bed.
His soft hand on her dewy head he lays.
A strange white light she gives him for his gaze.
Then, looking on the glory of her charms,
He crushes her resistless in his arms.
Stand back! look not upon this bold embrace,
Nor view the calmness of the wanton's face;
With joy unspeakable and 'bated breath,
She keeps her last, long liaison with death!
|
sonnet
|
William Lisle Bowles
|
The Winds
|
When dark November bade the leaves adieu,
And the gale sung amid the sea-boy's shrouds,
Methought I saw four winged forms, that flew,
With garments streaming light, amid the clouds;
From adverse regions of the sky,
In dim succession, they went by.
The first, as o'er the billowy deep he passed,
Blew from its brazen trump a far-resounding blast.
Upon a beaked promontory high,
With streaming heart, and cloudy brow severe,
Marked ye the father of the frowning year!
Dark vapours rolled o'er the tempestuous sky,
When creeping WINTER from his cave came forth;
Stern courier of the storm, he cried, what from the north?
|
When dark November bade the leaves adieu,
And the gale sung amid the sea-boy's shrouds,
Methought I saw four winged forms, that flew,
With garments streaming light, amid the clouds;
|
From adverse regions of the sky,
In dim succession, they went by.
The first, as o'er the billowy deep he passed,
Blew from its brazen trump a far-resounding blast.
Upon a beaked promontory high,
With streaming heart, and cloudy brow severe,
Marked ye the father of the frowning year!
Dark vapours rolled o'er the tempestuous sky,
When creeping WINTER from his cave came forth;
Stern courier of the storm, he cried, what from the north?
|
sonnet
|
Michael Drayton
|
Amour 39
|
Die, die, my soule, and neuer taste of ioy,
If sighes, nor teares, nor vowes, nor prayers can moue;
If fayth and zeale be but esteemd a toy,
And kindnes be vnkindnes in my loue.
Then, with vnkindnes, Loue, reuenge thy wrong:
O sweet'st reuenge that ere the heauens gaue!
And with the swan record thy dying song,
And praise her still to thy vntimely graue.
So in loues death shall loues perfection proue
That loue diuine which I haue borne to you,
By doome concealed to the heauens aboue,
That yet the world vnworthy neuer knew;
Whose pure Idea neuer tongue exprest:
I feele, you know, the heauens can tell the rest.
|
Die, die, my soule, and neuer taste of ioy,
If sighes, nor teares, nor vowes, nor prayers can moue;
If fayth and zeale be but esteemd a toy,
And kindnes be vnkindnes in my loue.
|
Then, with vnkindnes, Loue, reuenge thy wrong:
O sweet'st reuenge that ere the heauens gaue!
And with the swan record thy dying song,
And praise her still to thy vntimely graue.
So in loues death shall loues perfection proue
That loue diuine which I haue borne to you,
By doome concealed to the heauens aboue,
That yet the world vnworthy neuer knew;
Whose pure Idea neuer tongue exprest:
I feele, you know, the heauens can tell the rest.
|
sonnet
|
Robert Herrick
|
Salutation.
|
Christ, I have read, did to His chaplains say,
Sending them forth, Salute no man by th' way:
Not that He taught His ministers to be
Unsmooth or sour to all civility,
But to instruct them to avoid all snares
Of tardidation in the Lord's affairs.
Manners are good; but till His errand ends,
Salute we must nor strangers, kin, or friends.
|
Christ, I have read, did to His chaplains say,
Sending them forth, Salute no man by th' way:
|
Not that He taught His ministers to be
Unsmooth or sour to all civility,
But to instruct them to avoid all snares
Of tardidation in the Lord's affairs.
Manners are good; but till His errand ends,
Salute we must nor strangers, kin, or friends.
|
octave
|
Charles Hamilton Musgrove
|
Forgiven.
|
I might have met his anger with a smile
For so it was that I had set my heart
To mask deception with a wanton's guile,
And save the tears that now begin to start.
I might have worn my guilty crown of thorn,--
Yea, even worn it gladly like a prize;
But, oh! more bitter than his rage or scorn,
He left me with forgiveness in his eyes.
|
I might have met his anger with a smile
For so it was that I had set my heart
|
To mask deception with a wanton's guile,
And save the tears that now begin to start.
I might have worn my guilty crown of thorn,--
Yea, even worn it gladly like a prize;
But, oh! more bitter than his rage or scorn,
He left me with forgiveness in his eyes.
|
octave
|
Jonathan Swift
|
The Gulf Of All Human Possessions
|
Come hither, and behold the fruits,
Vain man! of all thy vain pursuits.
Take wise advice, and look behind,
Bring all past actions to thy mind.
Here you may see, as in a glass,
How soon all human pleasures pass;
How will it mortify thy pride,
To turn the true impartial side!
How will your eyes contain their tears,
When all the sad reverse appears!
This cave within its womb confines
The last result of all designs:
Here lie deposited the spoils
Of busy mortals' endless toils:
Here, with an easy search, we find
The foul corruptions of mankind.
The wretched purchase here behold
Of traitors, who their country sold.
This gulf insatiate imbibes
The lawyer's fees, the statesman's bribes.
Here, in their proper shape and mien,
Fraud, perjury, and guilt are seen.
Necessity, the tyrant's law,
All human race must hither draw;
All prompted by the same desire,
The vigorous youth and aged sire.
Behold the coward and the brave,
The haughty prince, the humble slave,
Physician, lawyer, and divine,
All make oblations at this shrine.
Some enter boldly, some by stealth,
And leave behind their fruitless wealth.
For, while the bashful sylvan maid,
As half-ashamed and half-afraid,
Approaching finds it hard to part
With that which dwelt so near her heart;
The courtly dame, unmoved by fear,
Profusely pours her offering here.
A treasure here of learning lurks,
Huge heaps of never-dying works;
Labours of many an ancient sage,
And millions of the present age.
In at this gulf all offerings pass
And lie an undistinguish'd mass.
Deucalion,[1] to restore mankind,
Was bid to throw the stones behind;
So those who here their gifts convey
Are forced to look another way;
For few, a chosen few, must know
The mysteries that lie below.
Sad charnel-house! a dismal dome,
For which all mortals leave their home!
The young, the beautiful, and brave,
Here buried in one common grave!
Where each supply of dead renews
Unwholesome damps, offensive dews:
And lo! the writing on the walls
Points out where each new victim falls;
The food of worms and beasts obscene,
Who round the vault luxuriant reign.
See where those mangled corpses lie,
Condemn'd by female hands to die;
A comely dame once clad in white,
Lies there consign'd to endless night;
By cruel hands her blood was spilt,
And yet her wealth was all her guilt.
And here six virgins in a tomb,
All-beauteous offspring of one womb,
Oft in the train of Venus seen,
As fair and lovely as their queen;
In royal garments each was drest,
Each with a gold and purple vest;
I saw them of their garments stript,
Their throats were cut, their bellies ript,
Twice were they buried, twice were born,
Twice from their sepulchres were torn;
But now dismember'd here are cast,
And find a resting-place at last.
Here oft the curious traveller finds
The combat of opposing winds;
And seeks to learn the secret cause,
Which alien seems from nature's laws;
Why at this cave's tremendous mouth,
He feels at once both north and south;
Whether the winds, in caverns pent,
Through clefts oppugnant force a vent;
Or whether, opening all his stores,
Fierce 'olus in tempest roars.
Yet, from this mingled mass of things,
In time a new creation springs.
These crude materials once shall rise
To fill the earth, and air, and skies;
In various forms appear again,
Of vegetables, brutes, and men.
So Jove pronounced among the gods,
Olympus trembling as he nods.
|
Come hither, and behold the fruits,
Vain man! of all thy vain pursuits.
Take wise advice, and look behind,
Bring all past actions to thy mind.
Here you may see, as in a glass,
How soon all human pleasures pass;
How will it mortify thy pride,
To turn the true impartial side!
How will your eyes contain their tears,
When all the sad reverse appears!
This cave within its womb confines
The last result of all designs:
Here lie deposited the spoils
Of busy mortals' endless toils:
Here, with an easy search, we find
The foul corruptions of mankind.
The wretched purchase here behold
Of traitors, who their country sold.
This gulf insatiate imbibes
The lawyer's fees, the statesman's bribes.
Here, in their proper shape and mien,
Fraud, perjury, and guilt are seen.
Necessity, the tyrant's law,
All human race must hither draw;
All prompted by the same desire,
The vigorous youth and aged sire.
Behold the coward and the brave,
The haughty prince, the humble slave,
Physician, lawyer, and divine,
All make oblations at this shrine.
Some enter boldly, some by stealth,
And leave behind their fruitless wealth.
|
For, while the bashful sylvan maid,
As half-ashamed and half-afraid,
Approaching finds it hard to part
With that which dwelt so near her heart;
The courtly dame, unmoved by fear,
Profusely pours her offering here.
A treasure here of learning lurks,
Huge heaps of never-dying works;
Labours of many an ancient sage,
And millions of the present age.
In at this gulf all offerings pass
And lie an undistinguish'd mass.
Deucalion,[1] to restore mankind,
Was bid to throw the stones behind;
So those who here their gifts convey
Are forced to look another way;
For few, a chosen few, must know
The mysteries that lie below.
Sad charnel-house! a dismal dome,
For which all mortals leave their home!
The young, the beautiful, and brave,
Here buried in one common grave!
Where each supply of dead renews
Unwholesome damps, offensive dews:
And lo! the writing on the walls
Points out where each new victim falls;
The food of worms and beasts obscene,
Who round the vault luxuriant reign.
See where those mangled corpses lie,
Condemn'd by female hands to die;
A comely dame once clad in white,
Lies there consign'd to endless night;
By cruel hands her blood was spilt,
And yet her wealth was all her guilt.
And here six virgins in a tomb,
All-beauteous offspring of one womb,
Oft in the train of Venus seen,
As fair and lovely as their queen;
In royal garments each was drest,
Each with a gold and purple vest;
I saw them of their garments stript,
Their throats were cut, their bellies ript,
Twice were they buried, twice were born,
Twice from their sepulchres were torn;
But now dismember'd here are cast,
And find a resting-place at last.
Here oft the curious traveller finds
The combat of opposing winds;
And seeks to learn the secret cause,
Which alien seems from nature's laws;
Why at this cave's tremendous mouth,
He feels at once both north and south;
Whether the winds, in caverns pent,
Through clefts oppugnant force a vent;
Or whether, opening all his stores,
Fierce 'olus in tempest roars.
Yet, from this mingled mass of things,
In time a new creation springs.
These crude materials once shall rise
To fill the earth, and air, and skies;
In various forms appear again,
Of vegetables, brutes, and men.
So Jove pronounced among the gods,
Olympus trembling as he nods.
|
free_verse
|
John Byrom
|
Which Is Which
|
"God bless the King! God bless the faith's defender!
God bless, no harm in blessing, the Pretender.
But who pretender is, and who is king,
God bless us all, that's quite another thing."
|
"God bless the King! God bless the faith's defender!
|
God bless, no harm in blessing, the Pretender.
But who pretender is, and who is king,
God bless us all, that's quite another thing."
|
quatrain
|
Madison Julius Cawein
|
The Man Hunt
|
The woods stretch wild to the mountain-side,
And the brush is deep where a man may hide.
They have brought the bloodhounds up again
To the roadside rock where they found the slain.
They have brought the bloodhounds up, and they
Have taken the trail to the mountain way.
Three times they circled the trail and crossed,
And thrice they found it and thrice they lost.
Now straight through the trees and the underbrush
They follow the scent through the forest's hush.
And their deep-mouthed bay is a pulse of fear
In the heart of the wood that the man must hear.
The man who crouches among the trees
From the stern-faced men who follow these.
A huddle of rocks that the ooze has mossed
And the trail of the hunted again is lost.
An upturned pebble; a bit of ground
A heel has trampled the trail is found.
And the woods re-echo the bloodhounds' bay
As again they take to the mountain way.
A rock; a ribbon of road; a ledge,
With a pine-tree clutching its crumbling edge.
A pine, that the lightning long since clave,
Whose huge roots hollow a ragged cave.
A shout; a curse; and a face aghast,
And the human quarry is laired at last.
The human quarry with clay-clogged hair
And eyes of terror who waits them there.
That glares and crouches and rising then
Hurls clods and curses at dogs and men.
Until the blow of a gun-butt lays
Him stunned and bleeding upon his face.
A rope, a prayer, and an oak-tree near,
And a score of hands to swing him clear.
A grim, black thing for the setting sun
And the moon and the stars to look upon.
|
The woods stretch wild to the mountain-side,
And the brush is deep where a man may hide.
They have brought the bloodhounds up again
To the roadside rock where they found the slain.
They have brought the bloodhounds up, and they
Have taken the trail to the mountain way.
Three times they circled the trail and crossed,
And thrice they found it and thrice they lost.
Now straight through the trees and the underbrush
They follow the scent through the forest's hush.
And their deep-mouthed bay is a pulse of fear
In the heart of the wood that the man must hear.
|
The man who crouches among the trees
From the stern-faced men who follow these.
A huddle of rocks that the ooze has mossed
And the trail of the hunted again is lost.
An upturned pebble; a bit of ground
A heel has trampled the trail is found.
And the woods re-echo the bloodhounds' bay
As again they take to the mountain way.
A rock; a ribbon of road; a ledge,
With a pine-tree clutching its crumbling edge.
A pine, that the lightning long since clave,
Whose huge roots hollow a ragged cave.
A shout; a curse; and a face aghast,
And the human quarry is laired at last.
The human quarry with clay-clogged hair
And eyes of terror who waits them there.
That glares and crouches and rising then
Hurls clods and curses at dogs and men.
Until the blow of a gun-butt lays
Him stunned and bleeding upon his face.
A rope, a prayer, and an oak-tree near,
And a score of hands to swing him clear.
A grim, black thing for the setting sun
And the moon and the stars to look upon.
|
free_verse
|
William Butler Yeats
|
Spilt Milk
|
We that have done and thought,
That have thought and done,
Must ramble, and thin out
Like milk spilt on a stone.
|
We that have done and thought,
|
That have thought and done,
Must ramble, and thin out
Like milk spilt on a stone.
|
quatrain
|
George Pope Morris
|
Thy Will Be Done.
|
Searcher of Hearts!--from mine erase
All thoughts that should not be,
And in its deep recesses trace
My gratitude to Thee!
Hearer of Prayer!--oh, guide aright
Each word and deed of mine;
Life's battle teach me how to fight,
And be the victory Thine.
Giver of All!--for every good--
In the Redeemer came--
For raiment, shelter, and for food,
I thank Thee in His name.
Father and Son and Holy Ghost!
Thou glorious Three in One!
Thou knowest best what I need most,
And let Thy will be done.
|
Searcher of Hearts!--from mine erase
All thoughts that should not be,
And in its deep recesses trace
My gratitude to Thee!
Hearer of Prayer!--oh, guide aright
|
Each word and deed of mine;
Life's battle teach me how to fight,
And be the victory Thine.
Giver of All!--for every good--
In the Redeemer came--
For raiment, shelter, and for food,
I thank Thee in His name.
Father and Son and Holy Ghost!
Thou glorious Three in One!
Thou knowest best what I need most,
And let Thy will be done.
|
free_verse
|
Walter Savage Landor
|
Mild Is The Parting Year
|
Mild is the parting year, and sweet
The odour of the falling spray;
Life passes on more rudely fleet,
And balmless is its closing day.
I wait its close, I court its gloom,
But mourn that never must there fall
Or on my breast or on my tomb
The tear that would have soothed it all.
|
Mild is the parting year, and sweet
The odour of the falling spray;
|
Life passes on more rudely fleet,
And balmless is its closing day.
I wait its close, I court its gloom,
But mourn that never must there fall
Or on my breast or on my tomb
The tear that would have soothed it all.
|
octave
|
Robert Herrick
|
Upon Prig.
|
Prig now drinks water, who before drank beer;
What's now the cause? we know the case is clear;
Look in Prig's purse, the chev'ril there tells you
Prig money wants, either to buy or brew.
|
Prig now drinks water, who before drank beer;
|
What's now the cause? we know the case is clear;
Look in Prig's purse, the chev'ril there tells you
Prig money wants, either to buy or brew.
|
quatrain
|
Louisa May Alcott
|
Listening To Celestial Lays
|
'"Listening to celestial lays,
Bending thy unclouded gaze
On the pure and living light,
Thou art blest, Aslauga's Knight!"
|
'"Listening to celestial lays,
|
Bending thy unclouded gaze
On the pure and living light,
Thou art blest, Aslauga's Knight!"
|
quatrain
|
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
|
It Can't Be Summer,
|
It can't be summer, -- that got through;
It 's early yet for spring;
There 's that long town of white to cross
Before the blackbirds sing.
It can't be dying, -- it's too rouge, --
The dead shall go in white.
So sunset shuts my question down
With clasps of chrysolite.
|
It can't be summer, -- that got through;
It 's early yet for spring;
|
There 's that long town of white to cross
Before the blackbirds sing.
It can't be dying, -- it's too rouge, --
The dead shall go in white.
So sunset shuts my question down
With clasps of chrysolite.
|
free_verse
|
Robert Herrick
|
To The Lord Hopton, On His Fight In Cornwall.
|
Go on, brave Hopton, to effectuate that
Which we, and times to come, shall wonder at.
Lift up thy sword; next, suffer it to fall,
And by that one blow set an end to all.
|
Go on, brave Hopton, to effectuate that
|
Which we, and times to come, shall wonder at.
Lift up thy sword; next, suffer it to fall,
And by that one blow set an end to all.
|
quatrain
|
William Wordsworth
|
Miscellaneous Sonnets, 1842 - I - 'A Poet'! He Hath Put His Heart To School
|
'A poet'! He hath put his heart to school,
Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff
Which Art hath lodged within his hand must laugh
By precept only, and shed tears by rule.
Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff,
And let the groveler sip his stagnant pool,
In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool
Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph.
How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold?
Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold;
And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree
Comes not by casting in a formal mould,
But from its 'own' divine vitality.
|
'A poet'! He hath put his heart to school,
Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff
Which Art hath lodged within his hand must laugh
By precept only, and shed tears by rule.
|
Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff,
And let the groveler sip his stagnant pool,
In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool
Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph.
How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold?
Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold;
And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree
Comes not by casting in a formal mould,
But from its 'own' divine vitality.
|
sonnet
|
Victor-Marie Hugo
|
Apostrophe To Nature.
|
("O Soleil!")
[Bk. II. iv., Anniversary of the Coup d''tat, 1852.]
O Sun! thou countenance divine!
Wild flowers of the glen,
Caves swoll'n with shadow, where sunshine
Has pierced not, far from men;
Ye sacred hills and antique rocks,
Ye oaks that worsted time,
Ye limpid lakes which snow-slide shocks
Hurl up in storms sublime;
And sky above, unruflfed blue,
Chaste rills that alway ran
From stainless source a course still true,
What think ye of this man?
|
("O Soleil!")
[Bk. II. iv., Anniversary of the Coup d''tat, 1852.]
O Sun! thou countenance divine!
Wild flowers of the glen,
|
Caves swoll'n with shadow, where sunshine
Has pierced not, far from men;
Ye sacred hills and antique rocks,
Ye oaks that worsted time,
Ye limpid lakes which snow-slide shocks
Hurl up in storms sublime;
And sky above, unruflfed blue,
Chaste rills that alway ran
From stainless source a course still true,
What think ye of this man?
|
sonnet
|
W. M. MacKeracher
|
Sonnet to ---- .
|
Journeying through a desert, waste and drear,
Exhausted and disheartened by his way,
So hard and parched, unchanged from day to day,
Saw the lone traveller an oasis near,
In which a tender flower did appear,
Endued with beauty and with fragrance sweet,
Known not to scorching winds nor blighting heat;
And gazing on it, it imparted cheer.
The traveller trod the weary sands of Time,
Entering thy home delightful peace he found;
Radiant with youthful beauty half divine,
On him thine angel face with sunbeams crowned
Smiled, and that artless, beaming smile of thine
Sped to his soul that with new life did bound.
|
Journeying through a desert, waste and drear,
Exhausted and disheartened by his way,
So hard and parched, unchanged from day to day,
Saw the lone traveller an oasis near,
|
In which a tender flower did appear,
Endued with beauty and with fragrance sweet,
Known not to scorching winds nor blighting heat;
And gazing on it, it imparted cheer.
The traveller trod the weary sands of Time,
Entering thy home delightful peace he found;
Radiant with youthful beauty half divine,
On him thine angel face with sunbeams crowned
Smiled, and that artless, beaming smile of thine
Sped to his soul that with new life did bound.
|
sonnet
|
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
|
The Shelter.
|
The body grows outside, --
The more convenient way, --
That if the spirit like to hide,
Its temple stands alway
Ajar, secure, inviting;
It never did betray
The soul that asked its shelter
In timid honesty.
|
The body grows outside, --
The more convenient way, --
|
That if the spirit like to hide,
Its temple stands alway
Ajar, secure, inviting;
It never did betray
The soul that asked its shelter
In timid honesty.
|
octave
|
James Whitcomb Riley
|
Dedication To Hewitt Hanson Howland With Halest Christmas Greetings And Fraternal
|
Little Boy! Halloo! - halloo!
Can't you hear me calling you? -
Little Boy that used to be,
Come in here and play with me.
|
Little Boy! Halloo! - halloo!
|
Can't you hear me calling you? -
Little Boy that used to be,
Come in here and play with me.
|
quatrain
|
James Stephens
|
The Patriot's Bed (The Rocky Road To Dublin)
|
When a son you shall desire,
Pray to water and to fire;
But when you would have a daughter,
Pray to fire and then to water.
|
When a son you shall desire,
|
Pray to water and to fire;
But when you would have a daughter,
Pray to fire and then to water.
|
quatrain
|
Robert Herrick
|
The Little Filcher; Or, The Captiv'd Bee
|
As Julia once a-slumb'ring lay,
It chanced a bee did fly that way,
After a dew, or dew-like shower,
To tipple freely in a flower;
For some rich flower, he took the lip
Of Julia, and began to sip;
But when he felt he suck'd from thence
Honey, and in the quintessence,
He drank so much he scarce could stir;
So Julia took the pilferer.
And thus surprised, as filchers use,
He thus began himself t'excuse:
'Sweet lady-flower, I never brought
Hither the least one thieving thought;
But taking those rare lips of yours
For some fresh, fragrant, luscious flowers,
I thought I might there take a taste,
Where so much sirup ran at waste.
Besides, know this, I never sting
The flower that gives me nourishing;
But with a kiss, or thanks, do pay
For honey that I bear away.'
This siid, he laid his little scrip
Of honey 'fore her ladyship,
And told her, as some tears did fall,
That, that he took, and that was all.
At which she smiled, and bade him go
And take his bag; but thus much know,
When next he came a-pilfering so,
He should from her full lips derive
Honey enough to fill his hive.
|
As Julia once a-slumb'ring lay,
It chanced a bee did fly that way,
After a dew, or dew-like shower,
To tipple freely in a flower;
For some rich flower, he took the lip
Of Julia, and began to sip;
But when he felt he suck'd from thence
Honey, and in the quintessence,
He drank so much he scarce could stir;
So Julia took the pilferer.
|
And thus surprised, as filchers use,
He thus began himself t'excuse:
'Sweet lady-flower, I never brought
Hither the least one thieving thought;
But taking those rare lips of yours
For some fresh, fragrant, luscious flowers,
I thought I might there take a taste,
Where so much sirup ran at waste.
Besides, know this, I never sting
The flower that gives me nourishing;
But with a kiss, or thanks, do pay
For honey that I bear away.'
This siid, he laid his little scrip
Of honey 'fore her ladyship,
And told her, as some tears did fall,
That, that he took, and that was all.
At which she smiled, and bade him go
And take his bag; but thus much know,
When next he came a-pilfering so,
He should from her full lips derive
Honey enough to fill his hive.
|
free_verse
|
Algernon Charles Swinburne
|
Sonnets on English Dramatic Poets (1590-1650): Epilogue
|
Our mother, which wast twice, as history saith,
Found first among the nations: once, when she
Who bore thine ensign saw the God in thee
Smite Spain, and bring forth Shakespeare: once, when death
Shrank, and Rome's bloodhounds cowered, at Milton's breath:
More than thy place, then first among the free,
More than that sovereign lordship of the sea
Bequeathed to Cromwell from Elizabeth,
More than thy fiery guiding- star, which Drake
Hailed, and the deep saw lit again for Blake,
More than all deeds wrought of thy strong right hand,
This praise keeps most thy fame's memorial strong,
That thou wast head of all these streams of song,
And time bows down to thee as Shakespeare's land.
|
Our mother, which wast twice, as history saith,
Found first among the nations: once, when she
Who bore thine ensign saw the God in thee
Smite Spain, and bring forth Shakespeare: once, when death
|
Shrank, and Rome's bloodhounds cowered, at Milton's breath:
More than thy place, then first among the free,
More than that sovereign lordship of the sea
Bequeathed to Cromwell from Elizabeth,
More than thy fiery guiding- star, which Drake
Hailed, and the deep saw lit again for Blake,
More than all deeds wrought of thy strong right hand,
This praise keeps most thy fame's memorial strong,
That thou wast head of all these streams of song,
And time bows down to thee as Shakespeare's land.
|
sonnet
|
William Shakespeare
|
The Sonnets CXIII - Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind
|
Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;
And that which governs me to go about
Doth part his function and is partly blind,
Seems seeing, but effectually is out;
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird, of flower, or shape which it doth latch:
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch;
For if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight,
The most sweet favour or deformed'st creature,
The mountain or the sea, the day or night:
The crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature.
Incapable of more, replete with you,
My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue.
|
Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;
And that which governs me to go about
Doth part his function and is partly blind,
Seems seeing, but effectually is out;
|
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird, of flower, or shape which it doth latch:
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch;
For if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight,
The most sweet favour or deformed'st creature,
The mountain or the sea, the day or night:
The crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature.
Incapable of more, replete with you,
My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue.
|
sonnet
|
Robert Herrick
|
His Last Request To Julia
|
I have been wanton, and too bold, I fear,
To chafe o'er-much the virgin's cheek or ear;--
Beg for my pardon, Julia! he doth win
Grace with the gods who's sorry for his sin.
That done, my Julia, dearest Julia, come,
And go with me to chuse my burial room:
My fates are ended; when thy Herrick dies,
Clasp thou his book, then close thou up his eyes.
|
I have been wanton, and too bold, I fear,
To chafe o'er-much the virgin's cheek or ear;--
|
Beg for my pardon, Julia! he doth win
Grace with the gods who's sorry for his sin.
That done, my Julia, dearest Julia, come,
And go with me to chuse my burial room:
My fates are ended; when thy Herrick dies,
Clasp thou his book, then close thou up his eyes.
|
octave
|
Robert Herrick
|
To The Nightingale And Robin Redbreast.
|
When I departed am, ring thou my knell,
Thou pitiful and pretty Philomel:
And when I'm laid out for a corse, then be
Thou sexton, redbreast, for to cover me.
|
When I departed am, ring thou my knell,
|
Thou pitiful and pretty Philomel:
And when I'm laid out for a corse, then be
Thou sexton, redbreast, for to cover me.
|
quatrain
|
William Shakespeare
|
The Sonnets XII - When I do count the clock that tells the time
|
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls, all silvered o'er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
|
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls, all silvered o'er with white;
|
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
|
sonnet
|
Madison Julius Cawein
|
Leander To Hero.
|
I.
Brows wan thro' blue-black tresses
Wet with sharp rain and kisses;
Locks loose the sea-wind scatters,
Like torn wings fierce for flight;
Cold brows, whose sadness flatters,
One kiss and then - good-night.
II.
Can this thy love undo me
When in the heavy waves?
Nay; it must make unto me
Their groaning backs but slaves!
For its magic doth indue me
With strength o'er all their graves.
III.
Weep not as heavy-hearted
Before I go! For thou
Wilt follow as we parted -
A something hollow-hearted,
Dark eyes whence cold tears started,
Gray, ghostly arms out-darted
To take me, even as now,
To drag me, their weak lover,
To caves where sirens hover,
Deep caves the dark waves cover,
Down! throat and hair and brow.
IV.
But in thy sleep shalt follow -
Thy bosom fierce to mine,
Long arms wound warm and hollow, -
In sleep, in sleep shalt follow, -
To save me from the brine;
Dim eyes on mine divine;
Deep breath at mine like wine;
Sweet thou, with dream-soft kisses
To dream me onward home,
White in white foam that hisses,
Love's creature safe in foam.
V.
What, Hero, else for weeping
Than long, lost hours of sleeping
And vestal-vestured Dreams,
Where thy Leander stooping
Sighs; no dead eyelids drooping;
No harsh, hard looks accusing;
No curls with ocean oozing;
But then as now he seems,
Sweet-favored as can make him
Thy smile, which is a might,
A hope, a god to take him
Thro' all this hell of night.
VI.
Then where thy breasts are hollow
One kiss! one kiss! I go!
Sweet soul! a kiss to follow
Up whence thy breasts bud hollow,
Cheeks than wood-blossoms whiter,
Eyes than dark waters brighter
Wherein the far stars glow.
Look lovely when I leave thee! -
I go, my love, I go!
Look lovely, love, nor grieve thee,
That I must leave thee so.
|
I.
Brows wan thro' blue-black tresses
Wet with sharp rain and kisses;
Locks loose the sea-wind scatters,
Like torn wings fierce for flight;
Cold brows, whose sadness flatters,
One kiss and then - good-night.
II.
Can this thy love undo me
When in the heavy waves?
Nay; it must make unto me
Their groaning backs but slaves!
For its magic doth indue me
With strength o'er all their graves.
III.
Weep not as heavy-hearted
Before I go! For thou
Wilt follow as we parted -
A something hollow-hearted,
Dark eyes whence cold tears started,
Gray, ghostly arms out-darted
|
To take me, even as now,
To drag me, their weak lover,
To caves where sirens hover,
Deep caves the dark waves cover,
Down! throat and hair and brow.
IV.
But in thy sleep shalt follow -
Thy bosom fierce to mine,
Long arms wound warm and hollow, -
In sleep, in sleep shalt follow, -
To save me from the brine;
Dim eyes on mine divine;
Deep breath at mine like wine;
Sweet thou, with dream-soft kisses
To dream me onward home,
White in white foam that hisses,
Love's creature safe in foam.
V.
What, Hero, else for weeping
Than long, lost hours of sleeping
And vestal-vestured Dreams,
Where thy Leander stooping
Sighs; no dead eyelids drooping;
No harsh, hard looks accusing;
No curls with ocean oozing;
But then as now he seems,
Sweet-favored as can make him
Thy smile, which is a might,
A hope, a god to take him
Thro' all this hell of night.
VI.
Then where thy breasts are hollow
One kiss! one kiss! I go!
Sweet soul! a kiss to follow
Up whence thy breasts bud hollow,
Cheeks than wood-blossoms whiter,
Eyes than dark waters brighter
Wherein the far stars glow.
Look lovely when I leave thee! -
I go, my love, I go!
Look lovely, love, nor grieve thee,
That I must leave thee so.
|
free_verse
|
Walter De La Mare
|
Peak And Puke
|
From his cradle in the glamourie
They have stolen my wee brother,
Roused a changeling in his swaddlings
For to fret mine own poor mother.
Pules it in the candle light
Wi' a cheek so lean and white,
Chinkling up its eyne so wee,
Wailing shrill at her an' me.
It we'll neither rock nor tend
Till the Silent Silent send,
Lapping in their waesome arms
Him they stole with spells and charms,
Till they take this changeling creature
Back to its own fairy nature -
Cry! Cry! as long as may be,
Ye shall ne'er be woman's baby!
|
From his cradle in the glamourie
They have stolen my wee brother,
Roused a changeling in his swaddlings
For to fret mine own poor mother.
Pules it in the candle light
|
Wi' a cheek so lean and white,
Chinkling up its eyne so wee,
Wailing shrill at her an' me.
It we'll neither rock nor tend
Till the Silent Silent send,
Lapping in their waesome arms
Him they stole with spells and charms,
Till they take this changeling creature
Back to its own fairy nature -
Cry! Cry! as long as may be,
Ye shall ne'er be woman's baby!
|
free_verse
|
James Whitcomb Riley
|
At Aunty's House
|
One time, when we'z at Aunty's house -
'Way in the country! - where
They's ist but woods - an' pigs, an' cows -
An' all's out-doors an' air! -
An' orchurd-swing; an' churry-trees -
An' churries in 'em! - Yes, an' these -
Here red-head birds steals all they please,
An' tetch 'em ef you dare! -
W'y, wunst, one time, when we wuz there,
We et out on the porch!
Wite where the cellar-door wuz shut
The table wuz; an' I
Let Aunty set by me an' cut
My vittuls up - an' pie.
'Tuz awful funny! - I could see
The red-heads in the churry-tree;
An' bee-hives, where you got to be
So keerful, goin' by; -
An' "Comp'ny" there an' all! - an' we -
We et out on the porch!
An' I ist et p'surves an' things
'At Ma don't 'low me to -
An' chickun-gizzurds - (don't like wings
Like Parunts does! do you?)
An' all the time, the wind blowed there,
An' I could feel it in my hair,
An' ist smell clover ever'where! -
An' a' old red-head flew
Purt' nigh wite over my high-chair,
When we et on the porch!
|
One time, when we'z at Aunty's house -
'Way in the country! - where
They's ist but woods - an' pigs, an' cows -
An' all's out-doors an' air! -
An' orchurd-swing; an' churry-trees -
An' churries in 'em! - Yes, an' these -
Here red-head birds steals all they please,
An' tetch 'em ef you dare! -
W'y, wunst, one time, when we wuz there,
We et out on the porch!
|
Wite where the cellar-door wuz shut
The table wuz; an' I
Let Aunty set by me an' cut
My vittuls up - an' pie.
'Tuz awful funny! - I could see
The red-heads in the churry-tree;
An' bee-hives, where you got to be
So keerful, goin' by; -
An' "Comp'ny" there an' all! - an' we -
We et out on the porch!
An' I ist et p'surves an' things
'At Ma don't 'low me to -
An' chickun-gizzurds - (don't like wings
Like Parunts does! do you?)
An' all the time, the wind blowed there,
An' I could feel it in my hair,
An' ist smell clover ever'where! -
An' a' old red-head flew
Purt' nigh wite over my high-chair,
When we et on the porch!
|
free_verse
|
William Cowper
|
Lines Written In An Album Of Miss Patty More's, Sister Of Hannah More.
|
In vain to live from age to age
While modern bards endeavour,
I write my name in Patty's page,
And gain my point for ever.
|
In vain to live from age to age
|
While modern bards endeavour,
I write my name in Patty's page,
And gain my point for ever.
|
quatrain
|
John Alexander McCrae
|
The Harvest of the Sea
|
The earth grows white with harvest; all day long
The sickles gleam, until the darkness weaves
Her web of silence o'er the thankful song
Of reapers bringing home the golden sheaves.
The wave tops whiten on the sea fields drear,
And men go forth at haggard dawn to reap;
But ever 'mid the gleaners' song we hear
The half-hushed sobbing of the hearts that weep.
|
The earth grows white with harvest; all day long
The sickles gleam, until the darkness weaves
|
Her web of silence o'er the thankful song
Of reapers bringing home the golden sheaves.
The wave tops whiten on the sea fields drear,
And men go forth at haggard dawn to reap;
But ever 'mid the gleaners' song we hear
The half-hushed sobbing of the hearts that weep.
|
octave
|
Madison Julius Cawein
|
The Tree-Toad
|
I
Secluded, solitary on some underbough,
Or cradled in a leaf, 'mid glimmering light,
Like Puck thou crouchest: Haply watching how
The slow toadstool comes bulging, moony white,
Through loosening loam; or how, against the night,
The glowworm gathers silver to endow
The darkness with; or how the dew conspires
To hang, at dusk, with lamps of chilly fires
Each blade that shrivels now.
II
O vague confederate of the whippoorwill,
Of owl and cricket and the katydid!
Thou gatherest up the silence in one shrill
Vibrating note and send'st it where, half hid
In cedars, twilight sleeps - each azure lid
Drooping a line of golden eyeball still. -
Afar, yet near, I hear thy dewy voice
Within the Garden of the Hours apoise
On dusk's deep daffodil.
III
Minstrel of moisture! silent when high noon
Shows her tanned face among the thirsting clover
And parching meadows, thy tenebrious tune
Wakes with the dew or when the rain is over.
Thou troubadour of wetness and damp lover
Of all cool things! admitted comrade boon
Of twilight's hush, and little intimate
Of eve's first fluttering star and delicate
Round rim of rainy moon!
IV
Art trumpeter of Dwarfland? does thy horn
Inform the gnomes and goblins of the hour
When they may gambol under haw and thorn,
Straddling each winking web and twinkling flower?
Or bell-ringer of Elfland? whose tall tower
The liriodendron is? from whence is borne
The elfin music of thy bell's deep bass,
To summon Faeries to their starlit maze,
To summon them or warn.
|
I
Secluded, solitary on some underbough,
Or cradled in a leaf, 'mid glimmering light,
Like Puck thou crouchest: Haply watching how
The slow toadstool comes bulging, moony white,
Through loosening loam; or how, against the night,
The glowworm gathers silver to endow
The darkness with; or how the dew conspires
To hang, at dusk, with lamps of chilly fires
Each blade that shrivels now.
II
O vague confederate of the whippoorwill,
Of owl and cricket and the katydid!
|
Thou gatherest up the silence in one shrill
Vibrating note and send'st it where, half hid
In cedars, twilight sleeps - each azure lid
Drooping a line of golden eyeball still. -
Afar, yet near, I hear thy dewy voice
Within the Garden of the Hours apoise
On dusk's deep daffodil.
III
Minstrel of moisture! silent when high noon
Shows her tanned face among the thirsting clover
And parching meadows, thy tenebrious tune
Wakes with the dew or when the rain is over.
Thou troubadour of wetness and damp lover
Of all cool things! admitted comrade boon
Of twilight's hush, and little intimate
Of eve's first fluttering star and delicate
Round rim of rainy moon!
IV
Art trumpeter of Dwarfland? does thy horn
Inform the gnomes and goblins of the hour
When they may gambol under haw and thorn,
Straddling each winking web and twinkling flower?
Or bell-ringer of Elfland? whose tall tower
The liriodendron is? from whence is borne
The elfin music of thy bell's deep bass,
To summon Faeries to their starlit maze,
To summon them or warn.
|
free_verse
|
Walter Savage Landor
|
Dying Speech Of An Old Philosopher
|
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife:
Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art:
I warm'd both hands before the fire of Life;
It sinks; and I am ready to depart.
|
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife:
|
Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art:
I warm'd both hands before the fire of Life;
It sinks; and I am ready to depart.
|
quatrain
|
Charles Sangster
|
Sonnet: - XX.
|
I sat within the temple of her heart,
And watched the living Soul as it passed through,
Arrayed in pearly vestments, white and pure.
The calm, immortal Presence made me start.
It searched through all the chambers of her mind
With one mild glance of love, and smiled to view
The fastnesses of feeling, strong - secure,
And safe from all surprise. It sits enshrined
And offers incense in her heart, as on
An altar sacred unto God. The dawn
Of an imperishable love passed through
The lattice of my senses, and I, too,
Did offer incense in that solemn place -
A woman's heart made pure and sanctified by Grace.
|
I sat within the temple of her heart,
And watched the living Soul as it passed through,
Arrayed in pearly vestments, white and pure.
The calm, immortal Presence made me start.
|
It searched through all the chambers of her mind
With one mild glance of love, and smiled to view
The fastnesses of feeling, strong - secure,
And safe from all surprise. It sits enshrined
And offers incense in her heart, as on
An altar sacred unto God. The dawn
Of an imperishable love passed through
The lattice of my senses, and I, too,
Did offer incense in that solemn place -
A woman's heart made pure and sanctified by Grace.
|
sonnet
|
Robert Burns
|
My Peggy's Face.
|
Tune - "My Peggy's Face."
I.
My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form,
The frost of hermit age might warm;
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind,
Might charm the first of human kind.
I love my Peggy's angel air,
Her face so truly, heav'nly fair,
Her native grace so void of art,
But I adore my Peggy's heart.
II.
The lily's hue, the rose's dye,
The kindling lustre of an eye;
Who but owns their magic sway?
Who but knows they all decay!
The tender thrill, the pitying tear,
The gen'rous purpose, nobly dear,
The gentle look, that rage disarms
These are all immortal charms.
|
Tune - "My Peggy's Face."
I.
My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form,
The frost of hermit age might warm;
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind,
Might charm the first of human kind.
|
I love my Peggy's angel air,
Her face so truly, heav'nly fair,
Her native grace so void of art,
But I adore my Peggy's heart.
II.
The lily's hue, the rose's dye,
The kindling lustre of an eye;
Who but owns their magic sway?
Who but knows they all decay!
The tender thrill, the pitying tear,
The gen'rous purpose, nobly dear,
The gentle look, that rage disarms
These are all immortal charms.
|
free_verse
|
Theodosia Garrison
|
Beauty
|
Sometimes, slow moving through unlovely days,
The need to look on beauty falls on me
As on the blind the anguished wish to see,
As on the dumb the urge to rage or praise;
Beauty of marble where the eyes may gaze
Till soothed to peace by white serenity,
Or canvas where one master hand sets free
Great colours that like angels blend and blaze.
O, there be many starved in this strange wise--
For this diviner food their days deny,
Knowing beyond their vision beauty stands
With pitying eyes--with tender, outstretched hands,
Eager to give to every passer-by
The loveliness that feeds a soul's demands.
|
Sometimes, slow moving through unlovely days,
The need to look on beauty falls on me
As on the blind the anguished wish to see,
As on the dumb the urge to rage or praise;
|
Beauty of marble where the eyes may gaze
Till soothed to peace by white serenity,
Or canvas where one master hand sets free
Great colours that like angels blend and blaze.
O, there be many starved in this strange wise--
For this diviner food their days deny,
Knowing beyond their vision beauty stands
With pitying eyes--with tender, outstretched hands,
Eager to give to every passer-by
The loveliness that feeds a soul's demands.
|
sonnet
|
Paul Cameron Brown
|
Isles And Rivulets
|
On your brow, the steppes of Asia
are fetched by deep set eyes
A colouring distict with mystery
perceives the Polos greeting the Great Khan,
the golden isle of Ciphangu, the sultry east.
I revel in the mystery
of my warm, wet flower.
A pollen bee laden with honey
squirms, embraces with me,
in the abrupt opening of our jar,
serrated edge of the known world.
The air, buoyed and elastic with pleasure, belongs to me.
Tawny, pale rose, your oriental skin
peels back
the tiny veils separating our cultures.
I peer in to find Confucian
lilac, towers of silence,
opal pheasants.
Harmony strains all dogmas.
Rain darts penetrate the gathering pools.
The tiny plastic cup
my life,
inseparable from your hand.
|
On your brow, the steppes of Asia
are fetched by deep set eyes
A colouring distict with mystery
perceives the Polos greeting the Great Khan,
the golden isle of Ciphangu, the sultry east.
I revel in the mystery
of my warm, wet flower.
|
A pollen bee laden with honey
squirms, embraces with me,
in the abrupt opening of our jar,
serrated edge of the known world.
The air, buoyed and elastic with pleasure, belongs to me.
Tawny, pale rose, your oriental skin
peels back
the tiny veils separating our cultures.
I peer in to find Confucian
lilac, towers of silence,
opal pheasants.
Harmony strains all dogmas.
Rain darts penetrate the gathering pools.
The tiny plastic cup
my life,
inseparable from your hand.
|
free_verse
|
Robert Herrick
|
Upon Puss And Her 'Prentice. Epig.
|
Puss and her 'prentice both at drawgloves play;
That done, they kiss, and so draw out the day:
At night they draw to supper; then well fed,
They draw their clothes off both, so draw to bed.
|
Puss and her 'prentice both at drawgloves play;
|
That done, they kiss, and so draw out the day:
At night they draw to supper; then well fed,
They draw their clothes off both, so draw to bed.
|
quatrain
|
John Greenleaf Whittier
|
The Battle Autumn Of 1862
|
The flags of war like storm-birds fly,
The charging trumpets blow;
Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,
No earthquake strives below.
And, calm and patient, Nature keeps
Her ancient promise well,
Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps
The battle's breath of hell.
And still she walks in golden hours
Through harvest-happy farms,
And still she wears her fruits and flowers
Like jewels on her arms.
What mean the gladness of the plain,
This joy of eve and morn,
The mirth that shakes the beard of grain
And yellow locks of corn?
Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,
And hearts with hate are hot;
But even-paced come round the years,
And Nature changes not.
She meets with smiles our bitter grief,
With songs our groans of pain;
She mocks with tint of flower and leaf
The war-field's crimson stain.
Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear
Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm;
Too near to God for doubt or fear,
She shares the eternal calm.
She knows the seed lies safe below
The fires that blast and burn;
For all the tears of blood we sow
She waits the rich return.
She sees with clearer eye than ours
The good of suffering born,
The hearts that blossom like her flowers,
And ripen like her corn.
Oh, give to us, in times like these,
The vision of her eyes;
And make her fields and fruited trees
Our golden prophecies
Oh, give to us her finer ear
Above this stormy din,
We too would hear the bells of cheer
Ring peace and freedom in.
|
The flags of war like storm-birds fly,
The charging trumpets blow;
Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,
No earthquake strives below.
And, calm and patient, Nature keeps
Her ancient promise well,
Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps
The battle's breath of hell.
And still she walks in golden hours
Through harvest-happy farms,
And still she wears her fruits and flowers
Like jewels on her arms.
What mean the gladness of the plain,
This joy of eve and morn,
|
The mirth that shakes the beard of grain
And yellow locks of corn?
Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,
And hearts with hate are hot;
But even-paced come round the years,
And Nature changes not.
She meets with smiles our bitter grief,
With songs our groans of pain;
She mocks with tint of flower and leaf
The war-field's crimson stain.
Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear
Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm;
Too near to God for doubt or fear,
She shares the eternal calm.
She knows the seed lies safe below
The fires that blast and burn;
For all the tears of blood we sow
She waits the rich return.
She sees with clearer eye than ours
The good of suffering born,
The hearts that blossom like her flowers,
And ripen like her corn.
Oh, give to us, in times like these,
The vision of her eyes;
And make her fields and fruited trees
Our golden prophecies
Oh, give to us her finer ear
Above this stormy din,
We too would hear the bells of cheer
Ring peace and freedom in.
|
free_verse
|
Charles Baudelaire
|
Spleen
|
Pluvius, this whole city on his nerves,
Spills from his urn great waves of chilling rain
On graveyards' pallid inmates, and he pours
Mortality in gloomy district streets.
My restless cat goes scratching on the tiles
To make a litter for his scabby hide.
Some poet's phantom roams the gutter-spouts,
Moaning and whimpering like a freezing soul.
A great bell wails-within, the smoking log
Pipes in falsetto to a wheezing clock,
And meanwhile, in a reeking deck of cards
Some dropsied crone's foreboding legacy
The dandy Jack of Hearts and Queen of Spades
Trade sinister accounts of wasted love.
|
Pluvius, this whole city on his nerves,
Spills from his urn great waves of chilling rain
On graveyards' pallid inmates, and he pours
Mortality in gloomy district streets.
|
My restless cat goes scratching on the tiles
To make a litter for his scabby hide.
Some poet's phantom roams the gutter-spouts,
Moaning and whimpering like a freezing soul.
A great bell wails-within, the smoking log
Pipes in falsetto to a wheezing clock,
And meanwhile, in a reeking deck of cards
Some dropsied crone's foreboding legacy
The dandy Jack of Hearts and Queen of Spades
Trade sinister accounts of wasted love.
|
sonnet
|
George MacDonald
|
Song
|
She loves thee, loves thee not!
That, that is all, my heart.
Why should she take a part
In every selfish blot,
In every greedy spot
That now doth ache and smart
Because she loves thee not--
Not, not at all, poor heart!
Thou art no such dove-cot
Of virtues--no such chart
Of highways, though the dart
Of love be through thee shot!
Why should she not love not
Thee, poor, pinched, selfish heart?
|
She loves thee, loves thee not!
That, that is all, my heart.
Why should she take a part
In every selfish blot,
|
In every greedy spot
That now doth ache and smart
Because she loves thee not--
Not, not at all, poor heart!
Thou art no such dove-cot
Of virtues--no such chart
Of highways, though the dart
Of love be through thee shot!
Why should she not love not
Thee, poor, pinched, selfish heart?
|
sonnet
|
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