« AnteriorContinuar »
COME into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the rose is blown.
VII From the meadow your walks have left so
sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs 40 He sets the jewel-print of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; But the rose was awake all night for your
sake, Knowing your promise to me;
50 The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.
For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she
loves On a bed of daffodil sky,
10 To faint in the light of the sun she loves, To faint in his light, and to die.
The flute, violin, bassoon;
stirr'd To the dancers dancing in tune; Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
Queen lily and rose in one;
curls, To the flowers, and be their sun.
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate. 60 She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate.
XII Would the happy spirit descend From the realms of light and song, In the chamber or the street, As she looks among the blest, Should I fear to greet my friend Or to say Forgive the wrong,' Or to ask her, Take me, sweet, To the regions of thy rest'?
XIII But the broad light glares and beats, And the shadow flits and fleets 90 And will not let me be; And I loathe the squares and streets, And the faces that one meets, Hearts with no love for me. Always I long to creep Into some still cavern deep, There to weep, and weep, and weep My whole soul out to thee.
Mourn, for to us he seems the last,
that blew ! Such was he whom we deplore.
40 The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. The great World-victor's victor will be
seen no more.
ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE
DUKE OF WELLINGTON
This poem, originally published on the day of the Duke's funeral in 1852. was probably written in some haste. It underwent considerable revision before it was reprinted in 1853, and was further retouched before it appeared with 'Maud' in 1855.
BURY the Great Duke
With an empire's lamentation;
Among the wise and the bold.
Against the myriads of Assaye Let the bell be toll’d,
Clash'd with his fiery few and won; 100 And a reverent people behold
And underneath another sun, The towering car, the sable steeds.
Warring on a later day, Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds, Round affrighted Lisbon drew Dark in its funeral fold.
The treble works, the vast designs Let the bell be tollid,
Of his labor'd rampart-lines, And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd; Where he greatly stood at bay, And the sound of the sorrowing anthem Whence he issued forth anew, rollid
60 And ever great and greater grew, Thro' the dome of the golden cross;
Beating from the wasted vines And the volleying cannon thunder his loss; Back to France her banded swarms, 110 He knew their voices of old.
Back to France with countless blows, For many a time in many a clime
Till o'er the hills her eagles flew
Follow'd up in valley and glen
Such a war had such a close.
Again their ravening eagle rose In that dread sound to the great name In anger, wheel'd on Europe -shadowing Which he has worn so pure of blame,
wings, In praise and in dispraise the same,
And barking for the thrones of kings; A man of well-attemper'd frame.
Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown O civic muse, to such a name,
On that loud Sabbath shook the spoiler To such a name for ages long,
down; To such a name,
A day of onsets of despair! Preserve a broad approach of fame,
Dash'd on every rocky square, And ever-echoing avenues of song!
Their surging charges foam'd themselves
Last, the Prussian trumpet blew; Who is he that cometh, like an honor'd Thro’ the long-tormented air • guest,
Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray, With banner and with music, with soldier And down we swept and charged and overand with priest,
threw. With a nation weeping, and breaking on my So great a soldier taught us there rest?'
W bat long-enduring hearts could do Mighty Seaman, this is he
In that world-earthquake, Waterloo! . Was great by land as thou by sea.
Mighty Seaman, tender and true, Thine island loves thee well, thou famous And pure as he from taint of craven guile, man,
O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, The greatest sailor since our world began. O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, Now, to the roll of muffled drums,
If aught of things that here befall To thee the greatest soldier comes;
Touch a spirit among things divine, 139 For this is he
If love of country move thee there at all, Was great by land as thou by sea. 90 Be glad, because his bones are laid by His foes were thine; he kept us free;
thine! 0, give him welcome, this is he
And thro’ the centuries let a people's voice Worthy of our gorgeous rites,
In full acclaim, And worthy to be laid by thee;
A people's voice, For this is England's greatest son,
The proof and echo of all human fame, He that gaind a hundred fights,
A people's voice, when they rejoice Nor ever lost an English gun;
At civic revel and pomp and game, This is be that far away
Attest their great commander's claim