« PoprzedniaDalej »
By Ben Jonson.
Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears:
Yet slower, yet: O faintly gentle springs!
List to the heavy part the music bears,
Woe weep out her diversion, where she sings.
Droop herb and flowers,
Fall grief in showers,
Our beauties are not ours:
O, I could still,
Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
Drop, drop, drop, drop,
WHAT IS THAT MOTHER?
"what is that, mother?
The lark, my child; The morn has but just look'd out and smiled, When he starts from his humble, grassy nest, And is up and away with the dew on his breast, And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere, To warble it out in his Maker's ear. Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.
What is that, mother?
The dove, my son;
What is that, mother?
The swan, my love;
What is that, mother ? —
The eagle, boy!—
Another of the very powerful descriptive passages found in Pollok's Course of Time.
Among the tombs she walks at noon of night,
In miserable garb of widowhood.
Observe her yonder, sickly, pale, and sad,
Bending her wasted body o'er the grave
Of him who was the husband of her youth.
The moonbeams trembling through these ancient yews,
That stand like ranks of mourners round the bed
Of death, fall dismally upon her face,
Her little, hollow, wither'd face, almost
Invisible, so worn away with wo.
The tread of hasty foot, passing so late,
Disturbs her not; nor yet the roar of mirth,
From neighbouring revelry ascending loud.
She hears, sees nought, fears nought. One thought alone
Fills all her heart and soul, half hoping, half
Remembering, sad, unutterable thought!
Utter'd by silence and by tears alone.
Sweet tears! the awful language eloquent
Of infinite affection, far too big
For words. She sheds not many now. That grass,
Which springs so rankly o'er the dead, has drunk
Already many showers of grief; a drop
Or two are all that now remain behind,
And, from her eye that darts strange fiery beams,
At dreary intervals, drip down her cheek,
Falling most mournfully from bone to bone.
But yet she wants not tears. That babe, that hangs
Upon her breast, that babe that never saw
Its father—he was dead before its birth—
Helps her to weep, weeping before its time,
Taught sorrow by the mother's melting voice,
Repeating oft the father's sacred name.
Be not surprised at this expense of woe!
The man she mourns was all she call'd her own,
The music of her ear, light of her eye,
Desire of all her heart, her hope, her fear,
The element in which her passions lived,
Dead now, or dying all: nor long shall she
Visit that place of skulls. Night alter night,
She wears herself away. The moonbeam now,
That falls upon her unsubstantial frame,
Scarce finds obstruction; and upon her bones,
Barren as leafless boughs in winter-time,
Her infant fastens his little hands, as oft,
Forgetful, she leaves him awhile unheld.
But look, she passes not away in gloom.
A light from far illumes her face, a light
That comes beyond the moon, beyond the sun—
The light of truth divine, the glorious hope
Of resurrection at the promised morn,
An meetings then which ne'er shall part again.
ESCAPE FROM WINTER.
0 Had I the wings of a swallow, I'd fly
0 then I would fly from the cold and the snow, And hie to the land of the orange and vine, And carol the winter away in the glow
That rolls o'er the evergreen bowers of the line.
Indeed, I should gloomily steal o'er the deep,
Like the storm-loving petrel, that skims there alone;
1 would take me a dear little martin to keep
We would fly from the dark clouds of winter away!
We would nestle awhile in the jessamine bowers,
How light we would skim, where the billows are roll'd
Through clusters that bend with the cane and the lime,
And break on the beaches in surges of gold,
When morning comes forth in her loveliest prime!
We would touch for a while, as we traversed the ocean,
At the islands that echoed to Waller and Moore,
And winnow our wings, with an easier motion,
Through the breath of the cedar that blows from the shore.
And when we had rested our wings, and had fed
By Miss Landon.
Thou graceful tree,
Like one who patient grieves,
When summer flowers have birth,
Thy leaves are ever green:
It is not just to thee,
Thou wert made to wave,
Like that martyr thou hast given