Obrazy na stronie
PDF
ePub

PAGE

8

16

15. Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare,

e, . 16. Thus while I ape the measure wild," 17. The sound of Rokeby's woods I hear, 18. The riders rode abreast ; and one his shield,

IO

64

62

19. 'Tis the last rose of summer,
20. 'Tis long since Freedom fled the Hesperian Clime,

36

21. Two angels, one of Life, and one of Death,

24

[merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small]

I.

STRIKE the wild harp, while maids prepare
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair :
And, while his crown of laurel leaves
With bloody hand the victor weaves,
Let the loud trump his triumph tell :
But when you hear the passing bell,
Then, lady, twine a wreath for me,
And twine it of the cypress tree.

Yes! twine for me the cypress bough,

But oh ! Matilda, twine not now :
Stay till a few brief months be past,
And I have looked and loved

my

last :

When villagers my shroud bestrew
With pansies, rosemary, and rue
Then, lady, weave a wreath for me,

And weave it of the cypress tree.

SIR W. SCOTT. I.

DET lyra tacta rudes numeros : sit cura puellis

Ferre hederas, vatis præmia digna comis. Dumque triumphales e lauri fronde corollas

Victoris properat sanguinolenta manus, Egregios referat magna tuba voce triumphos,

Quodque reportavit victor ab hoste decus.

At mihi serta pares, et serta cupressina, virgo,

Quum dabit infaustos nenia mesta sonos. Immo age, necte mihi ferali serta cupressu ;

Necte, sed hoc noli deproperare die. Tempus inane peto ; detur mora parvula, donec

Supremum intuito fugerit omnis amor. Quum flores, nova dona, manu spargentur agresti,

Ros maris in tumulum rutaque amara meum :

Tunc age, necte mihi sertum, pulcherrima virgo,

Et mihi pro serto sola cupressus erit.

II.

The sound of Rokeby's woods I hear,

They mingle with the song : Dark Greta's voice is in mine ear,

I must not hear them long. From every loved and native haunt

The native heir must stray,

And like a ghost whom sunbeams daunt

Must part before the day.

Soon from the halls my fathers reared

Their scutcheons may descend,

A line so long beloved and feared

May soon obscurely end.

No longer here Matilda's tone

Shall bid those echoes swell : Yet shall they hear her proudly own

The cause in which we fell.

« PoprzedniaDalej »