Anthology _Romanticism_ 2 by gjmpzlaezgx

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									Romanticism in the British Isles
William Cowper (1731-1800; England)
The Morning Dream
‘Twas in the glad season of Spring,                     Thus swiftly dividing the flood                   25
  Asleep at the dawn of the day                           To a slave-cultur‘d island we came,
I dream‘d what I cannot but sing,                       Where a daemon, her enemy, stood,
  So pleasant it seem‘d as I lay.                         Oppression his terrible name.
I dream‘d that on Ocean afloat                    5     In his hand, as the sign of his sway,
  Far hence to the westward I sail‘d,                     A scourge hung with lashes he bore,             30
While the billows high-lifted the boat,                 And stood looking out for his prey,
  And the fresh-blowing breeze never fail‘d.              From Africa‘s sorrowful shore.

In the steerage a woman I saw,                          But soon as approaching the land
  (Such at least was the form that she wore)      10      That goddess-like Woman he view‘d,
Whose beauty impress‘d me with awe                      The scourge he let fall from his hand             35
  Ne‘er taught me by woman before.                        With blood of his subjects imbrued;
She sat, and a shield at her side                       I saw him both sicken and die,
  Shed light like a sun on the waves,                     And the moment the monster expired
And smiling divinely, she cried,                  15    Heard shouts that ascended the sky
  I go to make Freemen of Slaves—                         From thousands with rapture inspired.           40

Then raising her voice to a strain                      Awaking, how could I but muse
 The sweetest that ear ever heard,                       On what such a Dream might betide?
She sung of the Slave‘s broken chain                    But soon my ear caught the glad news
 Wherever her glory appear‘d.                     20     Which serv‘d my weak thought for a guide—
Some clouds which had over us hung                      That Britannia, renown‘d o‘er the waves     45
 Fled chased by her melody clear,                        For the hatred she ever has shown
And methought while she Liberty sung                    To the black-sceptred rulers of Slaves—
 ‘Twas Liberty only to hear.                             Resolves to have none of her own.

Sweet Meat has Sour Sauce: or, the Slave Trader in the Dumps
A trader I am to the African shore,                     Here‘s supple-jack plenty and store of rat-tan,
But since that my trading is like to be o‘er,           That will wind itself round the sides of a man,
I‘ll sing you a song that you ne‘er heard before,       As close as a hoop round a bucket or can,
       Which nobody can deny, deny,                          Which nobody can deny, deny,
       Which nobody can deny.                     5          Which nobody can deny.                       20

When I first heard the news it gave me a shock,         Here‘s padlocks and bolts, and screws for the
Much like what they call an electrical knock,           thumbs,
And now I am going to sell off my stock,                That squeeze them so lovingly till the blood comes,
     Which nobody can deny, deny,                       They sweeten the temper like comfits or plums,
     Which nobody can deny.                     10           Which nobody can deny, deny,
                                                             Which nobody can deny.                     25
‘Tis a curious assortment of dainty regales,
To tickle the Negroes with when the ship sails,         When a Negro his head from his victuals withdraws,
Fine chains for the neck, and a cat with nine tails,    And clenches his teeth and thrusts out his paws,
      Which nobody can deny, deny,                      Here‘s a notable engine to open his jaws,
      Which nobody can deny.                       15        Which nobody can deny, deny,
                                                             Which nobody can deny.                      30
Thus going to market, we kindly prepare                          Which nobody can deny, deny,
A pretty black cargo of African ware,                            Which nobody can deny.                       45
For what they must meet with when they get there,
     Which nobody can deny, deny,                           For oh! how it enters my soul like an awl!
     Which nobody can deny.                    35           This pity, which some people self-pity call,
                                                            Is sure the most heart-piercing pity of all,
‘Twould do your heart good to see ‘em below,                      Which nobody can deny, deny,
Lie flat on their backs all the way as we go,                     Which nobody can deny.                      50
Like sprats on a gridiron, scores in a row,
      Which nobody can deny, deny,                          So this is my song, as I told you before;
      Which nobody can deny.                    40          Come, buy off my stock, for I must no more
                                                            Carry Caesars and Pompeys to Sugar-cane shore,
But ah! if in vain I have studied an art                          Which nobody can deny, deny,
So gainful to me, all boasting apart,                             Which nobody can deny.                  55
I think it will break my compassionate heart,

Charlotte Smith (1749-1806; England)
                        To the South Downs
                        Ah, hills beloved! where once, a happy child,
                           Your beechen shades, ‗your turf, your flowers among‘,
                        I wove your bluebells into garlands wild,
                           And woke your echoes with my artless song—
                        Ah, hills beloved! your turf, your flowers, remain,                       5
                           But can they peace to this sad breast restore—
                        For one poor moment soothe the sense of pain,
                           And teach a breaking heart to throb no more?
                        And you, Aruna, in the vale below,
                           As to the sea your limpid waves you bear,                              10
                        Can you one kind Lethean cup bestow
                           To drink a long oblivion to my care?
                        Ah no! when all, e‘en hope‘s last ray, is gone,
                        There‘s no oblivion—but in death alone.

                        Huge Vapours Brood Above the Clifted Shore
                        Huge vapours brood above the clifted shore,
                        Night o‘er the ocean settles, dark and mute,
                        Save where is heard the repercussive roar
                        Of drowsy billows, on the rugged foot
                        Of rocks remote; or still more distant tone                               5
                        Of seamen, in the anchored bark, that tell
                        The watch relieved; or one deep voice alone,
                        Singing the hour, and bidding ―strike the bell.‖
                        All is black shadow, but the lucid line
                        Marked by the light surf on the level sand,                               10
                        Or where afar, the ship-lights faintly shine
                        Like wandering fairy fires, that oft on land
                        Mislead the pilgrim; such the dubious ray
                        That wavering reason lends, in life‘s long darkling way.

To a Nightingale
Poor melancholy bird—that all night long
Tell‘st to the Moon, thy tale of tender woe;
From what sad cause can such sweet sorrow flow,
And whence this mournful melody of song?

Thy poet‘s musing fancy would translate              5
What mean the sounds that swell thy little breast,
When still at dewy eve thou leav‘st thy nest,
Thus to the listening night to sing thy fate!

Pale Sorrow‘s victims wert thou once among,
Tho‘ now releas‘d in woodlands wild to rove?         10
Say—hast thou felt from friends some cruel wrong,
Or diedst thou—martyr of disastrous love?
Ah! songstress sad! that such my lot might be,
To sigh and sing at liberty—like thee!

Press’d by the Moon
Press‘d by the Moon, mute arbitress of tides,
While the loud equinox its power combines,
The sea no more its swelling surge confines,
But o‘er the shrinking land sublimely rides.
The wild blast, rising from the Western cave,        5
Drives the huge billows from their heaving bed;
Tears from their grassy tombs the village dead,
And breaks the silent sabbath of the grave!
With shells and sea-weed mingled, on the shore
Lo! their bones whiten in the frequent wave;         10
But vain to them the winds and waters rave;
They hear the warring elements no more:
While I am doom‘d—by life‘s long storm opprest,
To gaze with envy on their gloomy rest.

To Fancy
Thee, Queen of Shadows!—shall I still invoke,
Still love the scenes thy sportive pencil drew,
When on mine eyes the early radiance broke
Which shew‘d the beauteous rather than the true!
Alas! long since those glowing tints are dead,       5
And now ‘tis thine in darkest hues to dress
The spot where pale Experience hangs her head
O‘er the sad grave of murder‘d Happiness!
Thro‘ thy false medium, then, no longer view‘d,
May fancied pain and fancied pleasure fly,           10
And I, as from me all thy dreams depart,
Be to my wayward destiny subdued:
Nor seek perfection with a poet‘s eye,
Nor suffer anguish with a poet‘s heart!

                          On Passing over a Dreary Tract
                          Swift fleet the billowy clouds along the sky,
                          Earth seems to shudder at the storm aghast;
                          While only beings as forlorn as I,
                          Court the chill horrors of the howling blast.
                          Even round yon crumbling walls, in search of food,                       5
                          The ravenous Owl foregoes his evening flight,
                          And in his cave, within the deepest wood,
                          The Fox eludes the tempest of the night.
                          But to my heart congenial is the gloom
                          Which hides me from a World I wish to shun;                              10
                          That scene where Ruin saps the mouldering tomb,
                          Suits with the sadness of a wretch undone.
                          Nor is the deepest shade, the keenest air,
                          Black as my fate, or cold as my despair.

                          On Being Cautioned Against Walking on an Headland Overlooking
                          the Sea, Because It Was Frequented by a Lunatic
                          Is there a solitary wretch who hies
                          To the tall cliff, with starting pace or slow,
                          And, measuring, views with wild and hollow eyes
                          Its distance from the waves that chide below;
                          Who, as the sea-born gale with frequent sighs                            5
                          Chills his cold bed upon the mountain turf,
                          With hoarse, half-utter‘d lamentation, lies
                          Murmuring responses to the dashing surf?
                          In moody sadness, on the giddy brink,
                          I see him more with envy than with fear;                                 10
                          He has no nice felicities that shrink
                          From giant horrors; wildly wandering here,
                          He seems (uncursed with reason) not to know
                          The depth or the duration of his woe.

The Female Exile
November‘s chill blast on the rough beach is howling,       Loose stream to wild winds those fair flowing tresses,
  The surge breaks afar, and then foams to the shore,         Once woven with garlands of gay summer flowers;
Dark clouds o‘er the sea gather heavy and scowling,         Her dress unregarded bespeaks her distresses, 15
  And the white cliffs re‘echo the wild wintry roar.          And beauty is blighted by grief‘s heavy hours.

Beneath that chalk rock, a fair stranger reclining, 5       Her innocent children, unconscious of sorrow,
  Has found on damp sea-weed a cold lonely seat;              To seek the gloss‘d shell or the crimson weed stray;
Her eyes fill‘d with tears, and her heart with repining,    Amus‘d with the present, they heed not tomorrow,
  She starts at the billows that burst at her feet.           Nor think of the storm that is gathering today. 20

There, day after day, with an anxious heart heaving,        The gilt, fairyship, with its ribbon-sail spreading,
  She watches the waves where they mingle with air;           They launch on the salt-pool the tide left behind;
For the sail which, alas! all her fond hopes deceiving,     Ah! victims—for whom their sad mother is dreading
  May bring only tidings to add to her care.                  The multiplied mis‘ries that wait on mankind!

To fair fortune born, she beholds them, with anguish,            She flies to the quay, dreading tidings of ruin,
  Now wand‘rers with her on a once hostile soil,                   All breathless with haste, half-expiring with fears.
Perhaps doom‘d for life in chill penury to languish,
  Or abject dependence, or soul-crushing toil.                   Poor mourner—I would that my fortune had left me
                                                                   The means to alleviate the woes I deplore;
But the sea-boat, her hopes and her terrors renewing,            But, like thine, my hard fate has of affluence bereft me,
  O‘er the dim grey horizon now faintly appears; 30                I can warm the cold heart of the wretched no more.
Author‟s Note: “This little Poem, of which a sketch first appeared in blank verse in a poem called “The Emigrants,” was
suggested by the sight of the group it attempts to describe—a French Lady and her children.”

William Blake (1757-1827; England)

Fair Elenor
The bell struck one, and shook the silent tower;                 As the deer wounded, Ellen flew over
The graves give up their dead—fair Elenor                        The pathless plain! As the arrows that fly
Walk‘d by the castle gate, and lookéd in.                        By night, destruction flies, and strikes in darkness!
A hollow groan ran thro‘ the dreary vaults!                      She fled from fear, till at her house arriv‘d.

She shriek‘d aloud, and sunk upon the steps,     5               Her maids await her; on her bed she falls—
On the cold stone her pale cheeks. Sickly smells                 That bed of joy, where erst her lord hath press‘d.
Of death issue as from a sepulchre,                              ‗Ah, woman‘s fear!‘ she cried: ‗Ah, curséd duke!
And all is silent but the sighing vaults.                        Ah, my dear lord! Ah, wretched Elenor!             40

Chill Death withdraws his hand, and she revives!                 My lord was like a flower upon the brows
Amaz‘d, she finds herself upon her feet,        10               Of lusty May! Ah, life as frail as flower!
And, like a ghost, thro‘ narrow passages                         O ghastly death, withdraw thy cruel hand—
Walking, feeling the cold walls with her hands.                  Seek‘st thou that flow‘r to deck thy horrid temples?

Fancy returns, and now she thinks of bones,                      My lord was like a star in highest heav‘n      45
And grinning skulls, and corruptible death,                      Drawn down to earth by spells and wickedness;
Wrapp‘d in his shroud; and now fancies she hears                 My lord was like the opening eyes of day
Deep sighs and sees pale sickly ghosts gliding.                  When western winds creep softly o‘er the flowers;

At length, no fancy—but reality—                                 But he is darken‘d—like the summer‘s noon
Distracts her. A rushing sound, and the feet                     Clouded—fall‘n like the stately tree, cut down! 50
Of one that fled, approaches! Ellen stood                        The breath of heaven dwelt among his leaves.
Like a dumb statue, froze to stone with fear.       20           O Elenor, weak woman, fill‘d with woe!‘

The wretch approaches, crying: ‗The deed is done;                Thus having spoke, she raised up her head
Take this, and send it by whom thou wilt send.                   And saw the bloody napkin by her side,
It is my life—send it to Elenor—                                 Which in her arms she brought—and now, tenfold
He‘s dead, and howling after me for blood!                       More terrified, saw it unfold itself.

‗Take this,‘ he cried; and thrust into her arms     25           Her eyes were fix‘d. The bloody cloth unfolds,
A wet napkin, wrapp‘d about—then rush‘d                          Disclosing to her sight the murder‘d head
Past, howling. She receiv‘d into her arms                        Of her dear lord, all ghastly pale, clotted
Pale death, and follow‘d on the wings of fear!                   With gory blood. It groan‘d, and thus it spake: 60

They pass‘d swift thro‘ the outer gate. The wretch,              ‗O Elenor, behold thy husband‘s head,
Howling, leap‘d o‘er the wall into the moat,     30              Who, sleeping on the stones of yonder tower,
Stifling in mud. Fair Ellen pass‘d the bridge,                   Was reft of life by the accurséd Duke!
And heard a gloomy voice cry ‗Is it done?‘                       A hiréd villain turn‘d my sleep to death.
‗O Elenor, beware the curséd Duke—               65        She sat with dead cold limbs, stiffen‘d to stone;
O give not him thy hand, now I am dead.                    She took the gory head up in her arms;              70
He seeks thy love; who, (coward, in the night)             She kiss‘d the pale lips; she had no tears to shed;
Hiréd a villain to bereave my life.‘                       She hugg‘d it to her breast—and groan‘d her last!

From William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience
Songs of Innocence                                      Songs of Experience

The Lamb                                                The Tyger
Little Lamb who made thee                               Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
  Dost thou know who made thee                          In the forests of the night:
Gave thee life & bid thee feed.                         What immortal hand or eye,
By the stream & o‘er the mead;                          Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
Gave thee clothing of delight,                   5
Softest clothing wooly bright;                          In what distant deeps or skies                     5
Gave thee such a tender voice,                          Burnt the fire of thine eyes!
Making all the vales rejoice:                           On what wings dare he aspire!
  Little Lamb who made thee?                            What the hand, dare sieze the fire?
  Dost thou know who made thee?                  10
  Little Lamb I‘ll tell thee,                           And what shoulder, & what art,
  Little Lamb I‘ll tell thee:                           Could twist the sinews of thy heart?               10
He is called by thy name,                               And when thy heart began to beat,
For he calls himself a Lamb:                            What dread hand? & what dread feet?
He is meek & he is mild,                         15     What the hammer? what the chain,
He became a little child:                               In what furnace was thy brain?
I a child & thou a lamb,                                What the anvil? what dread grasp,                  15
We are called by his name.                              Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
  Little Lamb God bless thee.
  Little Lamb God bless thee.                    20     When the stars threw down their spears
                                                        And water‘d heaven with their tears:
                                                        Did he smile his work to see?
                                                        Did he who made the Lamb make thee?                20
                                                        Tyger, Tyger burning bright,
                                                        In the forests of the night:
                                                        What immortal hand or eye,
                                                        Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

The Chimney Sweeper [1]                                 The Chimney Sweeper [2]
When my mother died I was very young,                   A little black thing among the snow:
And my father sold me while yet my tongue,              Crying weep, weep, in notes of woe!
Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep.                 Where are thy father & mother? say?
So your Chimneys I sweep & in soot I sleep.             They are both gone up to the church to pray.

Theres little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head        Because I was happy upon the heath,                5
That curl‘d like a lambs back, was shav‘d, so I said.   And smil‘d among the winters snow:
Hush Tom never mind it, for when your head‘s bare,      They clothed me in the clothes of death,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.    And taught me to sing the notes of woe.

And so he was quiet, & that very night,                 And because I am happy, & dance & sing,
As Tom was a sleeping he had such a sight,              They think they have done me no injury:            10
That thousands of sweepers Dick, Joe, Ned & Jack        And are gone to praise God & his Priest & King
Were all of them lockd up in coffins of black,          Who make up a heaven of our misery.
And by came an Angel who had a bright key,
And he open‘d the coffins & set them all free.
Then down a green plain leaping laughing they run                                                        15
And wash in a river and shine in the Sun.

Then naked & white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind.
And the Angel told Tom if he‘d be a good boy,
He‘d have God for his father & never want joy.                                                           20

And so Tom awoke and we rose in the dark
And got with our bags & our brushes to work.
Tho‘ the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm,
So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

Holy Thursday [1]                                                       Holy Thursday [2]
Twas on a Holy Thursday their innocent faces clean                      Is this a holy thing to see,
The children walking two & two in red & blue & green                    In a rich and fruitful land,
Grey headed beadles walkd before with wands as white as snow            Babes reduced to misery,
Till into the high dome of Pauls they like Thames waters flow           Fed with cold and usurous hand?

O what a multitude they seemd these flowers of London town       5      Is that trembling cry a song?    5
Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own                Can it be a song of joy?
The hum of multitudes was there but multitudes of lambs                 And so many children poor?
Thousands of little boys & girls raising their innocent hands           It is a land of poverty!

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song           And their sun does never shine.
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among         10     And their fields are bleak & bare.
Beneath them sit the aged men wise guardians of the poor                And their ways are fill‘d with thorns.
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door               It is eternal winter there.
                                                          (1789)                                        (1794)

Additional poems from William Blake’s Songs of Experience
The Sick Rose
O Rose thou art sick.                                       Has found out thy bed                             5
The invisible worm,                                         Of crimson joy:
That flies in the night                                     And his dark secret love
In the howling storm:                                       Does thy life destroy.

A Poison Tree
I was angry with my friend;                                 And I watered it in fears,                        5
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.                          Night & morning with my tears:
I was angry with my foe:                                    And I sunned it with smiles,
I told it not, my wrath did grow.                           And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night.                                    And into my garden stole,
Till it bore an apple bright.                         10           When the night had veiled the pole;
And my foe beheld it shine,                                        In the morning glad I see;                            15
And he knew that it was mine.                                      My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

I wander thro‘ each charter‘d street,                              How the Chimney-sweeper‘s cry
Near where the charter‘d Thames does flow,                         Every black‘ning Church appalls;                      10
And mark in every face I meet                                      And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.                                   Runs in blood down Palace walls.

In every cry of every man,                            5            But most thro‘ midnight streets I hear
In every Infant‘s cry of fear,                                     How the youthful Harlot‘s curse
In every voice, in every ban,                                      Blasts the new-born infant‘s tear,                    15
The mind-forg‘d manacles I hear.                                   And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.

Preface to Milton
And did those feet in ancient time,                                Bring me my Bow of burning gold:
Walk upon Englands mountains green:                                Bring me my Arrows of desire:                         10
And was the holy Lamb of God,                                      Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
On Englands pleasant pastures seen!                                Bring me my Chariot of fire!

And did the Countenance Divine,                       5            I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?                                Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
And was Jerusalem builded here,                                    Till we have built Jerusalem,                         15
Among these dark Satanic Mills?                                    In Englands green & pleasant Land.

Note: The term “dark Satanic mills,” is most likely referring to the destruction of nature during the early industrial
revolution. He may have had in mind specifically the Albion Flour Mills (located close to Blake‟s home), which was the
first major factory in London, built in 1769. The factory threatened to drive independent millers out of business, but was
destroyed by fire in 1791. The Mills‟ opponents referred to the factory as satanic. Note also that the poem refers to Christ,
who according to legend once visited England.

Robert Burns (1759-1796; Scotland)

Castle Gordon

Streams that glide in orient plains,                               Spicy forests, ever gray,                             10
Never bound by Winter‘s chains;                                    Shading from the burning ray
Glowing here on golden sands,                                      Hapless wretches sold to toil;
There immix‘d with foulest stains                                  Or the ruthless native‘s way,
From Tyranny‘s empurpled hands;                       5            Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil:
These, their richly gleaming waves,                                Woods that ever verdant wave,                         15
I leave to tyrants and their slaves;                               I leave the tyrant and the slave;
Give me the stream that sweetly laves                              Give me the groves that lofty brave
The banks by Castle Gordon.                                        The storms by Castle Gordon.

Wildly here, without control,                        Life‘s poor day I‘ll musing rave
Nature reigns and rules the whole;              20   And find at night a sheltering cave,               25
In that sober pensive mood,                          Where waters flow and wild woods wave,
Dearest to the feeling soul,                         By bonie Castle Gordon.
She plants the forest, pours the flood:

Verses on the Destruction of the Woods near Drumlanrig
As on the banks o‘ wandering Nith,                   ―When, glinting thro‘ the trees, appear‘d          25
Ae smiling simmer morn I stray‘d,                    The wee white cot aboon the mill,
And traced its bonie howes and haughs,               And peacefu‘ rose its ingle reek,
Where linties sang and lammies play‘d,               That, slowly curling, clamb the hill.
I sat me down upon a craig,                     5    But now the cot is bare and cauld,
And drank my fill o‘ fancy‘s dream,                  Its leafy bield for ever gane,                     30
When from the eddying deep below,                    And scarce a stinted birk is left
Up rose the genius of the stream.                    To shiver in the blast its lane.‖

Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow,              ―Alas!‖ quoth I, ―what ruefu‘ chance
And troubled, like his wintry wave,             10   Has twin‘d ye o‘ your stately trees?
And deep, as sughs the boding wind                   Has laid your rocky bosom bare—                    35
Amang his caves, the sigh he gave—                   Has stripped the cleeding o‘ your braes?
―And come ye here, my son,‖ he cried,                Was it the bitter eastern blast,
―To wander in my birken shade?                       That scatters blight in early spring?
To muse some favourite Scottish theme,          15   Or was‘t the wil‘fire scorch‘d their boughs,
Or sing some favourite Scottish maid?                Or canker-worm wi‘ secret sting?‖                  40

―There was a time, it‘s nae lang syne,               ―Nae eastlin blast,‖ the sprite replied;
Ye might hae seen me in my pride,                    ―It blaws na here sae fierce and fell,
When a‘ my banks sae bravely saw                     And on my dry and halesome banks
Their woody pictures in my tide;                20   Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell:
When hanging beech and spreading elm                 Man! cruel man!‖ the genius sighed—                45
Shaded my stream sae clear and cool:                 As through the cliffs he sank him down—
And stately oaks their twisted arms                  ―The worm that gnaw‘d my bonie trees,
Threw broad and dark across the pool;                That reptile wears a ducal crown.‖

To Mary in Heaven
Thou ling‘ring star, with lessening ray,             Ayr, gurgling, kiss‘d his pebbled shore,
That lov‘st to greet the early morn,                 O‘erhung with wild-woods, thickening green;
Again thou usher‘st in the day                       The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar,
My Mary from my soul was torn.                       ‘Twin‘d amorous round the raptur‘d scene:          20
O Mary! dear departed shade!                    5    The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
Where is thy place of blissful rest?                 The birds sang love on every spray;
See‘st thou thy lover lowly laid?                    Till too, too soon, the glowing west,
Hear‘st thou the groans that rend his breast?        Proclaim‘d the speed of winged day.

That sacred hour can I forget,                       Still o‘er these scenes my mem‘ry wakes,           25
Can I forget the hallow‘d grove,                10   And fondly broods with miser-care;
Where, by the winding Ayr, we met,                   Time but th‘ impression stronger makes,
To live one day of parting love!                     As streams their channels deeper wear,
Eternity will not efface                             My Mary! dear departed shade!
Those records dear of transports past,               Where is thy blissful place of rest?               30
Thy image at our last embrace,                  15   See‘st thou thy lover lowly laid?
Ah! little thought we ‘twas our last!                Hear‘st thou the groans that rend his breast?
Afton Water
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,        How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Flow gently, I‘ll sing thee a song in thy praise;       Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
My Mary‘s asleep by thy murmuring stream,               There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, 15
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.        The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen,   Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,         And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,      How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.            As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills,          Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills;     Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,                My Mary‘s asleep by thy murmuring stream,
My flocks and my Mary‘s sweet cot in my eye.            Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dreams.

Ae Fond Kiss, and Then We Sever
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;                        Had we never lov‘d sae kindly,
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!                            Had we never lov‘d sae blindly,
Deep in heart-wrung tears I‘ll pledge thee,             Never met-or never parted,                        15
Warring sighs and groans I‘ll wage thee.                We had ne‘er been broken-hearted.
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,           5
While the star of hope she leaves him?                  Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest!
Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me;                     Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest!
Dark despair around benights me.                        Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
                                                        Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure!              20
I‘ll ne‘er blame my partial fancy,                      Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!
Naething could resist my Nancy:                   10    Ae fareweeli alas, for ever!
But to see her was to love her;                         Deep in heart-wrung tears I‘ll pledge thee,
Love but her, and love for ever.                        Warring sighs and groans I‘ll wage thee.

The Banks O’Doon
Ye banks and braes o‘ bonie Doon,                       Aft hae I rov‘d by Bonie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?                    To see the rose and woodbine twine:               10
How can ye chant, ye little birds,                      And ilka bird sang o‘ its Luve,
And I sae weary fu‘ o‘ care!                            And fondly sae did I o‘ mine;
Thou‘ll break my heart, thou warbling bird,       5     Wi‘ lightsome heart I pu‘d a rose,
That wantons thro‘ the flowering thorn:                 Fu‘ sweet upon its thorny tree!
Thou minds me o‘ departed joys,                         And may fause Luver staw my rose,                 15
Departed never to return.                               But ah! he left the thorn wi‘ me.

A Red, Red Rose
O my luve‘s like a red, red rose,                       As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,                 5
  That‘s newly sprung in June;                            So deep in luve am I;
O my luve‘s like the melodie                            And I will luve thee still, my dear,
  That‘s sweetly played in tune.                        Till a‘ the seas gang dry.

Till a‘ the seas gang dry, my dear,                  And fare thee weel, my only luve,
  And the rocks melt wi‘ the sun:               10     And fare thee weel awhile!
O I will love thee still, my dear,                   And I will come again, my luve,                   15
  While the sands o‘ life shall run.                   Though it were ten thousand mile.

A Man’s a Man For A’ That
Is there for honest Poverty                          His ribband, star, an‘ a‘ that:
That hings his head, an‘ a‘ that;                    The man o‘ independent mind
The coward slave-we pass him by,                     He looks an‘ laughs at a‘ that.
We dare be poor for a‘ that!
For a‘ that, an‘ a‘ that.                       5    A prince can mak a belted knight,                 25
Our toils obscure an‘ a‘ that,                       A marquis, duke, an‘ a‘ that;
The rank is but the guinea‘s stamp,                  But an honest man‘s aboon his might,
The Man‘s the gowd for a‘ that.                      Gude faith, he maunna fa‘ that!
                                                     For a‘ that, an‘ a‘ that,
What though on hamely fare we dine,                  Their dignities an‘ a‘ that;                      30
Wear hoddin-grey, an‘ a that;                   10   The pith o‘ sense, an‘ pride o‘ worth,
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;        Are higher rank than a‘ that.
A Man‘s a Man for a‘ that:
For a‘ that, and a‘ that,                            Then let us pray that come it may,
Their tinsel show, an‘ a‘ that;                      (As come it will for a‘ that,)
The honest man, tho‘ e‘er sae poor,             15   That Sense and Worth, o‘er a‘ the earth,          35
Is king o‘ men for a‘ that.                          Shall bear the gree, an‘ a‘ that.
                                                     For a‘ that, an‘ a‘ that,
Ye see yon birkie, ca‘d a lord,                      It‘s coming yet for a‘ that,
Wha struts, an‘ stares, an‘ a‘ that;                 That Man to Man, the world o‘er,
Tho‘ hundreds worship at his word,                   Shall brothers be for a‘ that.                    40
He‘s but a coof for a‘ that:                    20
For a‘ that, an‘ a‘ that,

Ode for General Washington’s Birthday
No Spartan tube, no Attic shell,                     Yet, crouching under the iron rod,            20
No lyre Aeolian I awake;                             Canst laud the hand that struck
‘Tis liberty‘s bold note I swell,                       th‘ insulting blow!
Thy harp, Columbia, let me take!                     Art thou of man‘s Imperial line?
See gathering thousands, while I sing,          5    Dost boast that countenance divine?
A broken chain exulting bring,                       Each skulking feature answers, No!
And dash it in a tyrant‘s face,                      But come, ye sons of Liberty,                 25
And dare him to his very beard,                      Columbia‘s offspring, brave as free,
And tell him he no more is feared—                   In danger‘s hour still flaming in the van,
No more the despot of Columbia‘s race!          10   Ye know, and dare maintain, the Royalty of Man!
A tyrant‘s proudest insults brav‘d,
They shout-a People freed! They hail an              Alfred! on thy starry throne,
   Empire saved.                                     Surrounded by the tuneful choir,                  30
Where is man‘s god-like form?                        The bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre,
Where is that brow erect and bold—                   And rous‘d the freeborn Briton‘s soul of fire,
That eye that can unmov‘d behold                15   No more thy England own!
The wildest rage, the loudest storm                  Dare injured nations form the great design,
That e‘er created fury dared to raise?               To make detested tyrants bleed?                   35
Avaunt! thou caitiff, servile, base,                 Thy England execrates the glorious deed!
That tremblest at a despot‘s nod,                    Beneath her hostile banners waving,
Every pang of honour braving,                        Beneath that hallow‘d turf where Wallace lies
England in thunder calls, ―The tyrant‘s cause        Hear it not, Wallace! in thy bed of death.      50
   is mine!‖                                         Ye babbling winds! in silence sweep,
That hour accurst how did the fiends rejoice  40     Disturb not ye the hero‘s sleep,
And hell, thro‘ all her confines, raise the          Nor give the coward secret breath!
   exulting voice,                                   Is this the ancient Caledonian form,
That hour which saw the generous English name        Firm as the rock, resistless as the storm?      55
Linkt with such damned deeds of everlasting          Show me that eye which shot immortal hate,
shame!                                               Blasting the despot‘s proudest bearing;
                                                     Show me that arm which, nerv‘d with
Thee, Caledonia! thy wild heaths among,                  thundering fate,
Fam‘d for the martial deed, the heaven-taught        Crush‘d Usurpation‘s boldest daring!—
   song,                                        45   Dark-quench‘d as yonder sinking star,           60
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;                   No more that glance lightens afar;
Where is that soul of Freedom fled?                  That palsied arm no more whirls on the
Immingled with the mighty dead,                          waste of war.

Helen Maria Williams (1762-1827; Scotch / Welsh)
The Bastille: A Vision
I.                                                   IV.
―Drear cell! along whose lonely bounds,              ―O! tear me from these haunted walls,          25
Unvisited by light,                                  Or these fierce shapes control!
Chill silence dwells with night,                     Lest madness seize my soul!
Save where the clanging fetter sounds!               That pond‘rous mask of iron falls,
Abyss, where mercy never came,                  5    I see—‖ ―Rash mortal, ha! beware,
Nor hope the wretch can find;                        Nor breathe that hidden name!                  30
Where long inaction wastes the frame,                Should those dire accents wound the air,
And half annihilates the mind!                       Know death shall lock thy stiff‘ning frame.

II.                                                  V.
―Stretch‘d helpless in this living tomb,             ―Hark! that loud bell which sullen tolls!
O haste, congenial death!                       10   It wakes a shriek of woe
Seize, seize this ling‘ring breath,                  From yawning depths below;                     35
And shroud me in unconscious gloom.                  Shrill through this hollow vault it rolls!
BRITAIN! thy exil‘d son no more                      A deed was done in this black cell
Thy blissful vales shall see—                        Unfit for mortal ear—
Why did I leave thy hallow‘d shore,             15   A deed was done when toll‘d that knell,
Ah, land ador‘d, where all are free?‖                No human heart could live and hear!            40

III.                                                 VI.
BASTILLE! within thy hideous pile,                   ―Arouse thee from thy numbing glance,
Which stains of blood defile,                        Near yon thick gloom, advance;
Thus rose the captive‘s sighs,                       The solid cloud has shook;
Till slumber seal‘d his weeping eyes.           20   Arm all thy soul with strength to look—
Terrific visions hover near!                         Enough!—thy starting locks have rose—       45
He sees an awful form appear!                        Thy limbs have fail‘d—thy blood has froze!—
Who drags his step to deeper cells,                  On scenes so foul, with mad affright,
Where stranger, wilder horror dwells!                I fix no more thy fasten‘d sight.

VII.                                               IX.
―Those troubled phantoms melt away!                ―Does the fam‘d Roman page sublime
I lose the sense of care—                     50   An hour more bright unroll,
I feel the vital air—                              To animate the soul,                              75
I see—I see the light of day!                      Than this lov‘d theme of future time?—
Visions of bliss!—eternal powers!                  Posterity, with rapture meet,
What force has shook those hated walls?            The consecrated act shall hear;
What arm has rent those threat‘ning towers?   55   Age shall the glowing tale repeat,
It falls—the guilty fabric falls!‖                 And youth shall drop the burning tear!            80

VIII.                                              X.
―Now, favour‘d mortal, now behold!                 ―The peasant, while he fondly sees
To soothe thy captive state                        His infants round the hearth
I ope the book of fate;                            Pursue their simple mirth,
Mark what its registers unfold:               60   Or emulously climb his knees,
Where this dark pile in chaos lies,                No more bewails their future lot,                 85
With nature‘s execrations hurl‘d,                  By tyranny‘s stern rod opprest;
Shall Freedom‘s sacred temple rise,                While freedom cheers his straw-roof‘d cot,
And charm an emulating world!                      And tells him all his toils are blest!

IX.                                                XI.
―‘Tis her awak‘ning voice commands            65   ―Philosophy! O, share the meed
Those firm, those patriot bands;                   Of freedom‘s noblest deed!                        90
Arm‘d to avenge her cause,                         ‘Tis thine each truth to scan,
And guard her violated laws!—                      And dignify the rank of man!
Did ever earth a scene display                     ‘Tis thine all human wrongs to heal,
More glorious to the eye of day,              70   ‘Tis thine to love all nature‘s weal;
Than millions with according mind,                 To give our frail existence worth,                95
Who claim the rights of human kind?                And shed a ray from heaven on earth.‖

William Wordsworth(1770-1850; England)
The Complaint of a Forsaken Indian Woman
I                                                  For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire;
Before I see another day,                          But they to me no joy can give,
Oh let my body die away!                           No pleasure now, and no desire.
In sleep I heard the northern gleams;              Then here contented will I lie!
The stars, they were among my dreams;              Alone, I cannot fear to die.                      20
In rustling conflict through the skies,       5
I heard, I saw the flashes drive,                  III
And yet they are upon my eyes,                     Alas! ye might have dragged me on
And yet I am alive;                                Another day, a single one!
Before I see another day,                          Too soon I yielded to despair;
Oh let my body die away!                      10   Why did ye listen to my prayer?
                                                   When ye were gone my limbs were stronger;         25
II                                                 And oh, how grievously I rue,
My fire is dead: it knew no pain;                  That, afterwards, a little longer,
Yet is it dead, and I remain:                      My friends, I did not follow you!
All stiff with ice the ashes lie;                  For strong and without pain I lay,
And they are dead, and I will die.                 Dear friends, when ye were gone away.             30
When I was well, I wished to live,            15
IV                                               VI
My Child! they gave thee to another,             I‘ll follow you across the snow;
A woman who was not thy mother.                  Ye travel heavily and slow;
When from my arms my Babe they took,             In spite of all my weary pain
On me how strangely did he look!                 I‘ll look upon your tents again.
Through his whole body something ran,       35   —My fire is dead, and snowy white                 55
A most strange working did I see;                The water which beside it stood:
—As if he strove to be a man,                    The wolf has come to me to-night,
That he might pull the sledge for me:            And he has stolen away my food.
And then he stretched his arms, how wild!        For ever left alone am I;
Oh mercy! like a helpless child.            40   Then wherefore should I fear to die?              60

V                                                VII
My little joy! my little pride!                  Young as I am, my course is run,
In two days more I must have died.               I shall not see another sun;
Then do not weep and grieve for me;              I cannot lift my limbs to know
I feel I must have died with thee.               If they have any life or no.
O wind, that o‘er my head art flying        45   My poor forsaken Child, if I                      65
The way my friends their course did bend,        For once could have thee close to me,
I should not feel the pain of dying,             With happy heart I then would die,
Could I with thee a message send;                And my last thought would happy be;
Too soon, my friends, ye went away;              But thou, dear Babe, art far away,
For I had many things to say.               50   Nor shall I see another day.

The Thorn
I                                                III
―There is a Thorn—it looks so old,               High on a mountain‘s highest ridge,
In truth, you‘d find it hard to say              Where oft the stormy winter gale
How it could ever have been young,               Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds      25
It looks so old and grey.                        It sweeps from vale to vale;
Not higher than a two years‘ child          5    Not five yards from the mountain path,
It stands erect, this aged Thorn;                This Thorn you on your left espy;
No leaves it has, no prickly points;             And to the left, three yards beyond,
It is a mass of knotted joints,                  You see a little muddy pond                       30
A wretched thing forlorn.                        Of water—never dry
It stands erect, and like a stone           10   Though but of compass small, and bare
With lichens is it overgrown.                    To thirsty suns and parching air.

II                                               IV
Like rock or stone, it is o‘ergrown,             And, close beside this aged Thorn,
With lichens to the very top,                    There is a fresh and lovely sight,                35
And hung with heavy tufts of moss,               A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,
A melancholy crop:                          15   Just half a foot in height.
Up from the earth these mosses creep,            All lovely colours there you see,
And this poor Thorn they clasp it round          All colours that were ever seen;
So close, you‘d say that they are bent           And mossy network too is there,                   40
With plain and manifest intent                   As if by hand of lady fair
To drag it to the ground;                   20   The work had woven been;
And all have joined in one endeavour             And cups, the darlings of the eye,
To bury this poor Thorn for ever.                So deep is their vermilion dye.

V                                              IX
Ah me! what lovely tints are there        45   ―I cannot tell; I wish I could;
Of olive green and scarlet bright,             For the true reason no one knows:          90
In spikes, in branches, and in stars,          But would you gladly view the spot,
Green, red, and pearly white!                  The spot to which she goes;
This heap of earth o‘ergrown with moss,        The hillock like an infant‘s grave,
Which close beside the Thorn you see,     50   The pond—and Thorn, so old and grey;
So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,            Pass by her door—‘tis seldom shut—         95
Is like an infant‘s grave in size,             And, if you see her in her hut—
As like as like can be:                        Then to the spot away!
But never, never any where,                    I never heard of such as dare
An infant‘s grave was half so fair.       55   Approach the spot when she is there.‖

VI                                             X
Now would you see this aged Thorn,             ―But wherefore to the mountain-top         100
This pond, and beauteous hill of moss,         Can this unhappy Woman go,
You must take care and choose your time        Whatever star is in the skies,
The mountain when to cross.                    Whatever wind may blow?‖
For oft there sits between the heap       60   ―Full twenty years are past and gone
So like an infant‘s grave in size,             Since she (her name is Martha Ray)         105
And that same pond of which I spoke,           Gave with a maiden‘s true good-will
A Woman in a scarlet cloak,                    Her company to Stephen Hill;
And to herself she cries,                      And she was blithe and gay,
‗Oh misery! oh misery!                    65   While friends and kindred all approved
Oh woe is me! oh misery!‘                      Of him whom tenderly she loved.            110

VII                                            XI
At all times of the day and night              And they had fixed the wedding day,
This wretched Woman thither goes;              The morning that must wed them both;
And she is known to every star,                But Stephen to another Maid
And every wind that blows;                70   Had sworn another oath;
And there, beside the Thorn, she sits          And, with this other Maid, to church       115
When the blue daylight‘s in the skies,         Unthinking Stephen went—
And when the whirlwind‘s on the hill,          Poor Martha! on that woeful day
Or frosty air is keen and still,               A pang of pitiless dismay
And to herself she cries,                 75   Into her soul was sent;
‗Oh misery! oh misery!                         A fire was kindled in her breast,          120
Oh woe is me! oh misery!‘‖                     Which might not burn itself to rest.

VIII                                           XII
―Now wherefore, thus, by day and night,        They say, full six months after this,
In rain, in tempest, and in snow,              While yet the summer leaves were green,
Thus to the dreary mountain-top           80   She to the mountain-top would go,
Does this poor Woman go?                       And there was often seen .                 125
And why sits she beside the Thorn              What could she seek?—or wish to hide?
When the blue daylight‘s in the sky            Her state to any eye was plain;
Or when the whirlwind‘s on the hill,           She was with child, and she was mad;
Or frosty air is keen and still,          85   Yet often was she sober sad
And wherefore does she cry?—                   From her exceeding pain.                   130
O wherefore? wherefore? tell me why            O guilty Father—would that death
Does she repeat that doleful cry?‖             Had saved him from that breach of faith!

XIII                                                XVII
Sad case for such a brain to hold                   ‘Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain:
Communion with a stirring child!                    No screen, no fence could I discover;
Sad case, as you may think, for one           135   And then the wind! in sooth, it was
Who had a brain so wild!                            A wind full ten times over.                 180
Last Christmas-eve we talked of this,               I looked around, I thought I saw
And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen                 A jutting crag,—and off I ran,
Held that the unborn infant wrought                 Head-foremost, through the driving rain,
About its mother‘s heart, and brought         140   The shelter of the crag to gain;
Her senses back again:                              And, as I am a man,                         185
And, when at last her time drew near,               Instead of jutting crag, I found
Her looks were calm, her senses clear.              A Woman seated on the ground.

XIV                                                 XVIII
More know I not, I wish I did,                      I did not speak—I saw her face;
And it should all be told to you;             145   Her face!—it was enough for me;
For what became of this poor child                  I turned about and heard her cry,           190
No mortal ever knew;                                ‗Oh misery! oh misery!‘
Nay—if a child to her was born                      And there she sits, until the moon
No earthly tongue could ever tell;                  Through half the clear blue sky will go;
And if ‘twas born alive or dead,              150   And, when the little breezes make
Far less could this with proof be said;             The waters of the pond to shake,            195
But some remember well,                             As all the country know,
That Martha Ray about this time                     She shudders, and you hear her cry,
Would up the mountain often climb.                  ‗Oh misery! oh misery!‘‖

XV                                                  XIX
And all that winter, when at night            155   ―But what‘s the Thorn? and what the pond?
The wind blew from the mountain-peak,               And what the hill of moss to her?           200
‘Twas worth your while, though in the dark,         And what the creeping breeze that comes
The churchyard path to seek:                        The little pond to stir?‖
For many a time and oft were heard                  ―I cannot tell; but some will say
Cries coming from the mountain head:          160   She hanged her baby on the tree;
Some plainly living voices were;                    Some say she drowned it in the pond,        205
And others, I‘ve heard many swear,                  Which is a little step beyond:
Were voices of the dead:                            But all and each agree,
I cannot think, whate‘er they say,                  The little Babe was buried there,
They had to do with Martha Ray.               165   Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

XVI                                                 XX
But that she goes to this old Thorn,                I‘ve heard, the moss is spotted red         210
The Thorn which I described to you,                 With drops of that poor infant‘s blood;
And there sits in a scarlet cloak,                  But kill a new-born infant thus,
I will be sworn is true.                            I do not think she could!
For one day with my telescope,                170   Some say, if to the pond you go,
To view the ocean wide and bright,                  And fix on it a steady view,                215
When to this country first I came,                  The shadow of a babe you trace,
Ere I had heard of Martha‘s name,                   A baby and a baby‘s face,
I climbed the mountain‘s height:—                   And that it looks at you;
A storm came on, and I could see              175   Whene‘er you look on it, ‘tis plain
No object higher than my knee.                      The baby looks at you again.                220

XXI                                                       XXII
And some had sworn an oath that she                       I cannot tell how this may be
Should be to public justice brought;                      But plain it is the Thorn is bound
And for the little infant‘s bones                         With heavy tufts of moss that strive
With spades they would have sought.                       To drag it to the ground;                       235
But instantly the hill of moss                 225        And this I know, full many a time,
Before their eyes began to stir!                          When she was on the mountain high,
And, for full fifty yards around,                         By day, and in the silent night,
The grass—it shook upon the ground!                       When all the stars shone clear and bright,
Yet all do still aver                                     That I have heard her cry,                      240
The little Babe lies buried there,             230        ‗Oh misery! oh misery!
Beneath that hill of moss so fair.                        Oh woe is me! oh misery!‘‖

                       The Simplon Pass
                                                   —Brook and road
                       Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass,
                       And with them did we journey several hours
                       At a slow step. The immeasurable height
                       Of woods decaying, never to be decayed,                                  5
                       The stationary blasts of waterfalls,
                       And in the narrow rent, at every turn,
                       Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn,
                       The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky,
                       The rocks that muttered close upon our ears,                             10
                       Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside
                       As if a voice were in them, the sick sight
                       And giddy prospect of the raving stream,
                       The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens,
                       Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light—                            15
                       Were all like workings of one mind, the features
                       Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree,
                       Characters of the great Apocalypse,
                       The types and symbols of Eternity,
                       Of first, and last, and midst, and without end.                          20

                       Airey-Force Valley
                                                    —Not a breath of air
                       Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen.
                       From the brook‘s margin, wide around, the trees
                       Are steadfast as the rocks; the brook itself,
                       Old as the hills that feed it from afar,                                 5
                       Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm
                       Where all things else are still and motionless.
                       And yet, even now, a little breeze, perchance
                       Escaped from boisterous winds that rage without,
                       Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt,                                  10
                       But to its gentle touch how sensitive
                       Is the light ash! that, pendent from the brow
                       Of yon dim cave, in seeming silence makes
                       A soft eye-music of slow-waving boughs,
                       Powerful almost as vocal harmony                                         15
                       To stay the wanderer‘s steps and soothe his thoughts.
Lucy Gray; or, Solitude
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:                 The wretched parents all that night
And, when I crossed the wild,                 Went shouting far and wide;
I chanced to see at break of day              But there was neither sound nor sight          35
The solitary child.                           To serve them for a guide.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;           5    At day-break on a hill they stood
She dwelt on a wide moor,                     That overlooked the moor;
—The sweetest thing that ever grew            And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
Beside a human door!                          A furlong from their door.                     40

You yet may spy the fawn at play,             They wept—and, turning homeward, cried,
The hare upon the green;                 10   ―In heaven we all shall meet;‖
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray               —When in the snow the mother spied
Will never more be seen.                      The print of Lucy‘s feet.

―To-night will be a stormy night—             Then downwards from the steep hill‘s edge      45
You to the town must go;                      They tracked the footmarks small;
And take a lantern, Child, to light      15   And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
Your mother through the snow.‖                And by the long stone-wall;

―That, Father! will I gladly do:              And then an open field they crossed:
‘Tis scarcely afternoon—                      The marks were still the same;                 50
The minster-clock has just struck two,        They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And yonder is the moon!‖                 20   And to the bridge they came.

At this the Father raised his hook,           They followed from the snowy bank
And snapped a faggot-band;                    Those footmarks, one by one,
He plied his work;—and Lucy took              Into the middle of the plank;                  55
The lantern in her hand.                      And further there were none!

Not blither is the mountain roe:         25   —Yet some maintain that to this day
With many a wanton stroke                     She is a living child;
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,           That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
That rises up like smoke.                     Upon the lonesome wild.                        60

The storm came on before its time:            O‘er rough and smooth she trips along,
She wandered up and down;                30   And never looks behind;
And many a hill did Lucy climb:               And sings a solitary song
But never reached the town.                   That whistles in the wind.

“Strange fits of passion I have known”
Strange fits of passion have I known:         Upon the moon I fixed my eye,
And I will dare to tell,                      All over the wide lea;                         10
But in the Lover‘s ear alone,                 With quickening pace my horse drew nigh
What once to me befel.                        Those paths so dear to me.

When she I loved looked every day        5    And now we reached the orchard-plot;
Fresh as a rose in June,                      And, as we climbed the hill,
I to her cottage bent my way,                 The sinking moon to Lucy‘s cot                 15
Beneath an evening moon.                      Came near, and nearer still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept,                     When down behind the cottage roof,
Kind Nature‘s gentlest boon!                              At once, the bright moon dropped.
And all the while my eyes I kept
On the descending moon.                        20         What fond and wayward thoughts will slide      25
                                                          Into a Lover‘s head!
My horse moved on; hoof after hoof                        ―O mercy!‖ to myself I cried,
He raised, and never stopped:                             ―If Lucy should be dead!‖

“She dwelt among the untrodden ways”
She dwelt among the untrodden ways                        —Fair as a star, when only one
 Beside the springs of Dove,                               Is shining in the sky.
A Maid whom there were none to praise
 And very few to love:                                    She lived unknown, and few could know
                                                           When Lucy ceased to be;                       10
A violet by a mossy stone                      5          But she is in her grave, and, oh,
 Half hidden from the eye!                                 The difference to me!

Lines Written in Early Spring
I heard a thousand blended notes,                         The birds around me hopped and played,
While in a grove I sate reclined,                         Their thoughts I cannot measure:—
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts                 But the least motion which they made           15
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.                           It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

To her fair works did Nature link              5          The budding twigs spread out their fan,
The human soul that through me ran;                       To catch the breezy air;
And much it grieved my heart to think                     And I must think, do all I can,
What man has made of man.                                 That there was pleasure there.                 20

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,              If this belief from heaven be sent,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;            10         If such be Nature‘s holy plan,
And ‘tis my faith that every flower                       Have I not reason to lament
Enjoys the air it breathes.                               What man has made of man?

                        “I Grieved for Buonaparte”
                        I grieved for Buonaparté, with a vain
                        And an unthinking grief! The tenderest mood
                        Of that Man‘s mind—what can it be? what food
                        Fed his first hopes? what knowledge could he gain?
                        ‘Tis not in battles that from youth we train                            5
                        The Governor who must be wise and good,
                        And temper with the sternness of the brain
                        Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
                        Wisdom doth live with children round her knees:
                        Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk                           10
                        Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk
                        Of the mind‘s business: these are the degrees
                        By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk
                        True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these.
“It is a beauteous evening, calm and free”
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven broods o‘er the Sea:            5
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder—everlastingly.
Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,              10
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham‘s bosom all the year:
And worshipp‘st at the Temple‘s inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.

To Toussaint L’Ouverture
Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men!
Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillowed in some deep dungeon‘s earless den;—
O miserable Chieftain! where and when                    5
Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies;   10
There‘s not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and man‘s unconquerable mind.

“We had a female Passenger who came”
We had a female Passenger who came
From Calais with us, spotless in array,—
A white-robed Negro, like a lady gay,
Yet downcast as a woman fearing blame;
Meek, destitute, as seemed, of hope or aim               5
She sate, from notice turning not away,
But on all proffered intercourse did lay
A weight of languid speech, or to the same
No sign of answer made by word or face:
Yet still her eyes retained their tropic fire,           10
That, burning independent of the mind,
Joined with the lustre of her rich attire
To mock the Outcast—O ye Heavens, be kind!
And feel, thou Earth, for this afflicted Race!

September, 1802. Near Dover
Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood;
And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear,
The coast of France—the coast of France how near!
Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood..
I shrunk; for verily the barrier flood                  5
Was like a lake, or river bright and fair,
A span of waters; yet what power is there!
What mightiness for evil and for good!
Even so doth God protect us if we be
Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll,         10
Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity;
Yet in themselves are nothing! One decree
Spake laws to them , and said that by the soul
Only, the Nations shall be great and free.

Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland
Two Voices are there; one is of the sea,
One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice:
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee                 5
Thou fought‘st against him; but hast vainly striven:
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft:
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left;      10
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be
That Mountain floods should thunder as before,
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful Voice be heard by thee!

London, 1802
Milton! thou should‘st be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower              5
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:        10
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life‘s common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

Calais, August 1802
Is it a reed that‘s shaken by the wind,
Or what is it that ye go forth to see?
Lords, lawyers, statesmen, squires of low degree,
Men known, and men unknown, sick, lame, and blind,
Post forward all, like creatures of one kind,          5
With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend the knee
In France, before the new-born Majesty.
‘Tis ever thus. Ye men of prostrate mind,
A seemly reverence may be paid to power;
But that‘s a loyal virtue, never sown                  10
 In haste, nor springing with a transient shower:
When truth, when sense, when liberty were flown,
What hardship had it been to wait an hour?
Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery prone!

October, 1803
When, looking on the present face of things,
I see one Man, of men the meanest too!
Raised up to sway the world, to do, undo,
With mighty Nations for his underlings,
The great events with which old story rings            5
Seem vain and hollow; I find nothing great:
Nothing is left which I can venerate;
So that a doubt almost within me springs
Of Providence, such emptiness at length
Seems at the heart of all things. But, great God!      10
I measure back the steps which I have trod:
And tremble, seeing whence proceeds the strength
Of such poor Instruments, with thoughts sublime
I tremble at the sorrow of the time.

“There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear”
There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear
Than his who breathes, by roof, and floor, and wall,
Pent in, a Tyrant‘s solitary Thrall:
‘Tis his who walks about in the open air,
One of a Nation who, henceforth, must wear             5
Their fetters in their souls. For who could be,
Who, even the best, in such condition, free
From self-reproach, reproach that he must share
With Human-nature? Never be it ours
To see the sun how brightly it will shine,             10
And know that noble feelings, manly powers,
Instead of gathering strength, must droop and pine;
And earth with all her pleasant fruits and flowers
Fade, and participate in man‘s decline.

                        “What if our numbers barely could defy”
                        What if our numbers barely could defy
                        The arithmetic of babes, must foreign hordes,
                        Slaves, vile as ever were befooled by words,
                        Striking through English breasts the anarchy
                        Of Terror, bear us to the ground, and tie                               5
                        Our hands behind our backs with felon cords?
                        Yields every thing to discipline of swords?
                        Is man as good as man, none low, none high?—
                        Nor discipline nor valour can withstand
                        The shock, nor quell the inevitable rout,                               10
                        When in some great extremity breaks out
                        A people, on their own beloved Land
                        Risen, like one man, to combat in the sight
                        Of a just God for liberty and right.

                        Lines on the Expected Invasion, 1803
                        Come ye—who, if (which Heaven avert!) the Land
                        Were with herself at strife, would take your stand,
                        Like gallant Falkland, by the Monarch‘s side,
                        And, like Montrose, make Loyalty your pride—
                        Come ye—who, not less zealous, might display                            5
                        Banners at enmity with regal sway,
                        And, like the Pyms and Miltons of that day,
                        Think that a State would live in sounder health
                        If Kingship bowed its head to Commonwealth—
                        Ye too—whom no discreditable fear                                       10
                        Would keep, perhaps with many a fruitless tear,
                        Uncertain what to choose and how to steer—
                        And ye—who might mistake for sober sense
                        And wise reserve the plea of indolence—
                        Come ye—whate‘er your creed—O waken all,                                15
                        Whate‘er your temper, at your Country‘s call;
                        Resolving (this a free-born Nation can)
                        To have one Soul, and perish to a man,
                        Or save this honoured Land from every Lord
                        But British reason and the British sword.                               20

Ode: Intimations of Immortality
„The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.‟
                  I                                          Turn wheresoe‘er I may,
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,              By night or day,
The earth, and every common sight,                         The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
     To me did seem                                                         II
    Apparelled in celestial light,
                                                               The Rainbow comes and goes,                 10
The glory and the freshness of a dream.       5
                                                               And lovely is the Rose,
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
                                                               The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare;               And not in utter nakedness,
  Waters on a starry night                             But trailing clouds of glory do we come            65
  Are beautiful and fair;                         15    From God, who is our home:
 The sunshine is a glorious birth;                     Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
 But yet I know, where‘er I go,                        Shades of the prison-house begin to close
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.       Upon the growing Boy,
                                                       But He beholds the light, and whence it flows,     70
                                                        He sees it in his joy;
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
                                                       The Youth, who daily farther from the east
  And while the young lambs bound                 20
                                                        Must travel, still is Nature‘s Priest,
   As to the tabor‘s sound,
                                                        And by the vision splendid
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
                                                        Is on his way attended;                           75
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
                                                       At length the Man perceives it die away,
   And I again am strong:
                                                       And fade into the light of common day.
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;                            VI
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,        Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,         Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
   And all the earth is gay;                           And, even with something of a Mother‘s mind, 80
   Land and sea                                   30    And no unworthy aim,
  Give themselves up to jollity,                        The homely Nurse doth all she can
   And with the heart of May                           To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,
  Doth every Beast keep holiday;—                       Forget the glories he hath known,
   Thou Child of Joy,                                  And that imperial palace whence he came.       85
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
                                                       Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
                 IV                                    A six years‘ Darling of a pigmy size!
Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call            See, where ‘mid work of his own hand he lies,
 Ye to each other make; I see                          Fretted by sallies of his mother‘s kisses,
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;            With light upon him from his father‘s eyes!        90
 My heart is at your festival,                   40    See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
 My head hath its coronal,                             Some fragment from his dream of human life,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.       Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;
 Oh evil day! if I were sullen                           A wedding or a festival,
 While the Earth herself is adorning,                    A mourning or a funeral;                         95
   This sweet May-morning,                       45        And this hath now his heart,
 And the Children are culling                            And unto this he frames his song:
   On every side,                                          Then will he fit his tongue
 In a thousand valleys far and wide,                   To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
 Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,               But it will not be long                          100
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother‘s arm:— 50           Ere this be thrown aside,
 I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!                        And with new joy and pride
 —But there‘s a Tree, of many, one,                    The little Actor cons another part;
A single Field which I have looked upon,               Filling from time to time his ―humorous stage‖
Both of them speak of something that is gone:          With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,         105
 The Pansy at my feet                            55    That Life brings with her in her equipage;
 Doth the same tale repeat:                              As if his whole vocation
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?                     Were endless imitation.
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
                 V                                     Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:              Thy Soul‘s immensity;                             110
The Soul that rises with us, our life‘s Star,    60    Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep
 Hath had elsewhere its setting,                       Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,
  And cometh from afar:                                That, deaf and silent, read‘st the eternal deep,
 Not in entire forgetfulness,                          Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,—
  Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!                      115    Nor Man nor Boy,
  On whom those truths do rest,                           Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,               Can utterly abolish or destroy!                   165
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;               Hence in a season of calm weather
Thou, over whom thy Immortality                             Though inland far we be,
Broods like the Day, a Master o‘er a Slave,        120    Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea
A Presence which is not to be put by;                       Which brought us hither,
  To whom the grave                                        Can in a moment travel thither,                  170
Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight            And see the Children sport upon the shore,
  Of day or the warm light,                               And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
A place of thought where we in waiting lie;        125
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
                                                          Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being‘s height,
                                                             And let the young Lambs bound
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
                                                             As to the tabor‘s sound!                        175
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
                                                          We in thought will join your throng,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?       130
                                                             Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,
                                                             Ye that through your hearts today
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
                                                             Feel the gladness of the May!
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
                                                          What though the radiance which was once so bright
                 IX                                       Be now for ever taken from my sight,
  O joy! that in our embers                                Though nothing can bring back the hour
  Is something that doth live,                      135   Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
  That nature yet remembers                                  We will grieve not, rather find
  What was so fugitive!                                      Strength in what remains behind;                185
The thought of our past years in me doth breed               In the primal sympathy
Perpetual benediction: not indeed                            Which having been must ever be;
For that which is most worthy to be blest;          140      In the soothing thoughts that spring
Delight and liberty, the simple creed                        Out of human suffering;
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,                       In the faith that looks through death,          190
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—    In years that bring the philosophic mind.
  Not for these I raise
  The song of thanks and praise;                    145
                                                          And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
 But for those obstinate questionings
                                                          Forebode not any severing of our loves!
 Of sense and outward things,
                                                          Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
 Fallings from us, vanishings;
                                                          I only have relinquished one delight              195
 Blank misgivings of a Creature
                                                          To live beneath your more habitual sway.
Moving about in worlds not realised,                150
                                                          I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
                                                          Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised:
                                                          The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
  But for those first affections,
                                                              Is lovely yet;                                200
  Those shadowy recollections,
                                                          The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
 Which, be they what they may,                      155
                                                          Do take a sober colouring from an eye
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
                                                          That hath kept watch o‘er man‘s mortality;
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;
                                                          Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
 Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
                                                          Thanks to the human heart by which we live,       205
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
                                                          Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,           160
                                                          To me the meanest flower that blows can give
  To perish never;
                                                          Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor,

“I wandered lonely as a cloud”
I wandered lonely as a cloud                               The waves beside them danced, but they
That floats on high o‘er vales and hills,                  Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
When all at once I saw a crowd,                            A poet could not be but gay,                      15
A host, of golden daffodils;                               In such a jocund company!
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,             5          I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.                      What wealth the show to me had brought:

Continuous as the stars that shine                         For oft, when on my couch I lie
And twinkle on the milky way,                              In vacant or in pensive mood,                     20
They stretched in never-ending line                        They flash upon that inward eye
Along the margin of a bay:                      10         Which is the bliss of solitude;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,                            And then my heart with pleasure fills,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.                    And dances with the daffodils.

French Revolution
As It Appeared to Enthusiasts at Its Commencement
Oh! pleasant exercise of hope and joy!                     They who had fed their childhood upon dreams,
For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood             The playfellows of fancy, who had made
Upon our side, we who were strong in love!                 All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and strength
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,                     Their ministers,—who in lordly wise had stirred
But to be young was very heaven!—Oh! times, 5              Among the grandest objects of the sense,           25
In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways                And dealt with whatsoever they found there
Of custom, law, and statute, took at once                  As if they had within some lurking right
The attraction of a country in romance!                    To wield it;—they, too, who, of gentle mood,
When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights,          Had watched all gentle motions, and to these
When most intent on making of herself          10          Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild,
A prime Enchantress—to assist the work,                    And in the region of their peaceful selves;—
Which then was going forward in her name!                  Now was it that both found, the meek and lofty
Not favoured spots alone, but the whole earth,             Did both find, helpers to their heart‘s desire,
The beauty wore of promise, that which sets                And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish;
(As at some moment might not be unfelt         15          Were called upon to exercise their skill,          35
Among the bowers of paradise itself)                       Not in Utopia, subterranean fields,
The budding rose above the rose full blown.                Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where!
What temper at the prospect did not wake                   But in the very world, which is the world
To happiness unthought of? The inert                       Of all of us,—the place where in the end
Were roused, and lively natures rapt away!     20          We find our happiness, or not at all!              40

                         November, 1806
                         Another year!—another deadly blow!
                         Another mighty Empire overthrown!
                         And we are left, or shall be left, alone;
                         The last that dare to struggle with the Foe.
                         ‘Tis well! from this day forward we shall know                          5
                         That in ourselves our safety must be sought;
                         That by our own right hands it must be wrought;
                         That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low.
                         O dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer!
                         We shall exult, if they who rule the land                               10
                         Be men who hold its many blessings dear,
                         Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile band,
                   Who are to judge of danger which they fear,
                   And honour which they do not understand.

                   “The world is too much with us; late and soon”
                   The world is too much with us; late and soon,
                   Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
                   Little we see in Nature that is ours;
                   We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
                   This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,                 5
                   The winds that will be howling at all hours,
                   And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
                   For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
                   It moves us not.—Great God! I‘d rather be
                   A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;                        10
                   So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
                   Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
                   Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
                   Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

                   Composed by the Side of Grasmere Lake. 1807
                   Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars
                   Through the grey west; and lo! these waters, steeled
                   By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield
                   A vivid repetition of the stars;
                   Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars                   5
                   Amid his fellows beauteously revealed
                   At happy distance from earth‘s groaning field,
                   Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars.
                   Is it a mirror?—or the nether Sphere
                   Opening to view the abyss in which she feeds               10
                   Her own calm fires?—But list! a voice is near;
                   Great Pan himself low-whispering through the reeds,
                   ―Be thankful, thou; for, if unholy deeds
                   Ravage the world, tranquillity is here!‖

Composed While the Author Was Engaged in Writing a Tract, Occasioned by the Convention of
                   Not ‘mid the World‘s vain objects that enslave
                   The free-born Soul—that World whose vaunted skill
                   In selfish interest perverts the will,
                   Whose factions lead astray the wise and brave—
                   Not there; but in dark wood and rocky cave,                5
                   And hollow vale which foaming torrents fill
                   With omnipresent murmur as they rave
                   Down their steep beds, that never shall be still:
                   Here, mighty Nature! in this school sublime
                   I weigh the hopes and fears of suffering Spain;            10
                   For her consult the auguries of time,
                   And through the human heart explore my way;
                   And look and listen—gathering, whence I may,
                   Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can restrain.
Of mortal parents is the Hero born
By whom the undaunted Tyrolese are led?
Or is it Tell‘s great Spirit, from the dead
Returned to animate an age forlorn?
He comes like Phoebus through the gates of morn             5
When dreary darkness is discomfited,
Yet mark his modest state! upon his head,
That simple crest, a heron‘s plume, is worn.
O Liberty! they stagger at the shock
From van to rear—and with one mind would flee,              10
But half their host is buried:—rock on rock
Descends:—beneath this godlike Warrior, see!
Hills, torrents, woods, embodied to bemock
The Tyrant, and confound his cruelty . . .

“Advance—come forth from thy Tyrolean ground”
Advance —come forth from thy Tyrolean ground,
Dear Liberty! stern Nymph of soul untamed;
Sweet Nymph, O rightly of the mountains named!
Through the long chain of Alps from mound to mound
And o‘er the eternal snows, like Echo, bound;               5
Like Echo, when the hunter train at dawn
Have roused her from her sleep: and forest-lawn,
Cliffs, woods and caves, her viewless steps resound
And babble of her pastime!—On, dread Power!
With such invisible motion speed thy flight,                10
Through hanging clouds, from craggy height to height,
Through the green vales and through the herdsman‘s bower—
That all the Alps may gladden in thy might,
Here, there, and in all places at one hour.

Feelings of the Tyrolese
The Land we from our fathers had in trust,
And to our children will transmit, or die:
This is our maxim, this our piety;
And God and Nature say that it is just.
That which we would perform in arms—we must!                5
We read the dictate in the infant‘s eye;
In the wife‘s smile; and in the placid sky;
And, at our feet, amid the silent dust
Of them that were before us.—Sing aloud
Old songs, the precious music of the heart!                 10
Give, herds and flocks, your voices to the wind!
While we go forth, a self-devoted crowd,
With weapons grasped in fearless hands, to assert
Our virtue, and to vindicate mankind.

“O’er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain”
O‘er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain,
Dwells in the affections and the soul of man
A Godhead, like the universal Pan ;
But more exalted, with a brighter train:
And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain,            5
Showered equally on city and on field,
And neither hope nor stedfast promise yield
In these usurping times of fear and pain?
Such doom awaits us. Nay, forbid it Heaven!
We know the arduous strife, the eternal laws          10
To which the triumph of all good is given,
High sacrifice, and labour without pause,
Even to the death:—else wherefore should the eye
Of man converse with immortality?

On the Final Submission of the Tyrolese
It was a moral end for which they fought;
Else how, when mighty Thrones were put to shame,
Could they, poor Shepherds, have preserved an aim,
A resolution, or enlivening thought?
Nor hath that moral good been vainly sought;          5
For in their magnanimity and fame
Powers have they left, an impulse, and a claim
Which neither can be overturned nor bought.
Sleep, Warriors, sleep! among your hills repose!
We know that ye, beneath the stern control            10
Of awful prudence, keep the unvanquished soul:
And when, impatient of her guilt and woes,
Europe breaks forth; then, Shepherds! shall ye rise
For perfect triumph o‘er your Enemies.

“Brave Schill! by death delivered, take thy flight”
Brave Schill! by death delivered, take thy flight
From Prussia‘s timid region. Go, and rest
With heroes, ‘mid the islands of the Blest,
Or in the fields of empyrean light.
A meteor wert thou crossing a dark night:             5
Yet shall thy name, conspicuous and sublime,
Stand in the spacious firmament of time,
Fixed as a star: such glory is thy right.
Alas! it may not be: for earthly fame
Is Fortune‘s frail dependant; yet there lives         10
A Judge, who, as man claims by merit, gives;
To whose all-pondering mind a noble aim,
Faithfully kept, is as a noble deed;
In whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed.

“Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid”
Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid
His vows to Fortune; who, in cruel slight
Of virtuous hope, of liberty, and right,
Hath followed wheresoe‘er a way was made
By the blind Goddess,—ruthless, undismayed;          5
And so hath gained at length a prosperous height,
Round which the elements of worldly might
Beneath his haughty feet, like clouds, are laid.
O joyless power that stands by lawless force!
Curses are his dire portion, scorn, and hate,        10
Internal darkness and unquiet breath;
And, if old judgments keep their sacred course,
Him from that height shall Heaven precipitate
By violent and ignominious death.

The French and the Spanish Guerillas
Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast
From bleak hill-top, and length of march by night
Through heavy swamp, or over snow-height—
These hardships ill-sustained, these dangers past,
The roving Spanish Bands are reached at last,        5
Charged, and dispersed like foam: but as a flight
Of scattered quails by signs do reunite,
So these,—and, heard of once again, are chased
With combinations of long-practised art
And newly-kindled hope; but they are fled—           10
Gone are they, viewless as the buried dead:
Where now?—Their sword is at the Foeman‘s heart!
And thus from year to year his walk they thwart,
And hang like dreams around his guilty bed.

Spanish Guerillas
They seek, are sought; to daily battle led,
Shrink not, though far outnumbered by their Foes,
For they have learnt to open and to close
The ridges of grim war; and at their head
Are captains such as erst their country bred         5
Or fostered, self-supported chiefs,—like those
Whom hardy Rome was fearful to oppose;
Whose desperate shock the Carthaginian fled.
In One who lived unknown a shepherd‘s life
Redoubted Viriatus breathes again;                   10
And Mina, nourished in the studious shade,
With that great Leader vies, who, sick of strife
And bloodshed, longed in quiet to be laid
In some green island of the western main.

The French Army in Russia
Humanity, delighting to behold
A fond reflection of her own decay,
Hath painted Winter like a traveller old,
Propped on a staff, and, through the sullen day,
In hooded mantle, limping o‘er the plain,           5
As though his weakness were disturbed by pain:
Or, if a juster fancy should allow
An undisputed symbol of command,
The chosen sceptre is a withered bough,
Infirmly grasped within a palsied hand.             10
These emblems suit the helpless and forlorn;
But mighty Winter the device shall scorn.

For he it was—dread Winter! who beset,
Flinging round van and rear his ghastly net,
That host, when from the regions of the Pole        15
They shrunk, insane ambition‘s barren goal—
That host, as huge and strong as e‘er defied
Their God, and placed their trust in human pride!
As fathers persecute rebellious sons,
He smote the blossoms of their warrior youth;       20
He called on Frost‘s inexorable tooth
Life to consume in Manhood‘s firmest hold;
Nor spared the reverend blood that feebly runs;
For why—unless for liberty enrolled
And sacred home—ah! why should hoary Age be bold?   25
  Fleet the Tartar‘s reinless steed,
But fleeter far the pinions of the Wind,
Which from Siberian caves the Monarch freed,
And sent him forth, with squadrons of his kind,
And bade the Snow their ample backs bestride,       30
    And to the battle ride.
No pitying voice commands a halt,
No courage can repel the dire assault;
Distracted, spiritless, benumbed, and blind,
Whole legions sink—and, in one instant, find        35
Burial and death: look for them—and descry,
When morn returns, beneath the clear blue sky,
A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy!

“By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze”
By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze
Of dreadful sacrifice; by Russian blood
Lavished in fight with desperate hardihood;
The unfeeling Elements no claim shall raise
To rob our Human-nature of just praise              5
For what she did and suffered. Pledges sure
Of a deliverance absolute and pure
She gave, if Faith might tread the beaten ways
Of Providence. But now did the Most High
Exalt his still small voice;—to quell that Host     10

                         Gathered his power, a manifest ally;
                         He, whose heaped waves confounded the proud boast
                         Of Pharaoh, said to Famine, Snow, and Frost,
                         ―Finish the strife by deadliest victory!‖

                         Occasioned by the Battle of Waterloo
                         Intrepid sons of Albion! not by you
                         Is life despised; ah no, the spacious earth
                         Ne‘er saw a race who held, by right of birth,
                         So many objects to which love is due:
                         Ye slight not life—to God and Nature true;                              5
                         But death, becoming death, is dearer far,
                         When duty bids you bleed in open war:
                         Hence hath your prowess quelled that impious crew.
                         Heroes!—for instant sacrifice prepared;
                         Yet filled with ardour and on triumph bent                              10
                         ‘Mid direst shocks of mortal accident—
                         To you who fell, and you whom slaughter spared
                         To guard the fallen, and consummate the event,
                         Your Country rears this sacred Monument!

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832; Scotland)
Oh young Lochinvar is come out of the west,                That would gladly be bride to the young
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;        Lochinvar.‘
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none—
He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone.                 The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up—
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,   5          He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!           She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
                                                           With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,     He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar—
He swam the Esk river where ford there was none;           ‗Now tread we a measure!‘ said young Lochinvar.
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented—the gallant came late! 10          So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,               That never a hall such a galliard did grace—
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.              While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
                                                           And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and
So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,                    plume;
Among bride‘s-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all;     And the bride-maidens whispered, ‗‘Twere better by far
Then spoke the bride‘s father, his hand on his sword       To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.‘
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),
‗Oh come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,              One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?‘          When they reached the hall-door, and the charger
                                                              stood near;
‗I long wooed your daughter—my suit you denied—            So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide,       So light to the saddle before her he sprung!      40
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine             ‗She is won! We are gone, over bank, bush, and scar—
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.            They‘ll have fleet steeds that follow!‘ quoth young
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,             Lochinvar.

There was mounting ‘mong Graemes of the                  There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, 45
   Netherby clan;                                        But the lost bride of Netherby ne‘er did they see—
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and          So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
   they ran;                                             Have ye e‘er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

From a rude isle, his ruder lineage came.                To war beneath the Youth of Macedon:               25
  The spark, that, from a suburb hovel‘s hearth            No seemly veil her modern minion ask‘d,
Ascending, wraps some capital in flame,                  He saw her hideous face, and lov‘d the fiend unmask‘d.
  Hath not a meaner or more sordid birth.
And for the soul that bade him waste the earth— 5        That Prelate mark‘d his march—On banners blaz‘d
  The sable land-flood from some swamp obscure,            With battles won in many a distant land.
That poisons the glad husband-field with dearth,         On eagle standards and on arms he gaz‘d;           30
  And by destruction bids its fame endure,                 ―And hop‘st thou, then,‖ he said, ―thy power
Hath not a source more sullen, stagnant, and impure.     shall stand?
                                                         O! thou hast builded on the shifting sand,
Before that Leader strode a shadowy form,          10      And thou hast temper‘d it with slaughter‘s flood;
  Her limbs like mist, her torch like meteor shew‘d;     And know, fell scourge in the Almighty‘s hand,
With which she beckon‘d him through fight and storm,       Gore-moisten‘d trees shall perish in the bud, 35
  And all he crush‘d that cross‘d his desp‘rate road,    And, by a bloody death, shall die the Man of Blood.‖
Nor thought, nor fear‘d, nor look‘d on what he trode;
  Realms could not glut his pride, blood not slake,      The ruthless Leader beckon‘d from his train
So oft as e‘er she shook her torch abroad—                 A wan, paternal shade, and bade him kneel,
  It was Ambition bade his terrors wake;                 And pale his temples with the Crown of Spain,
Nor deign‘d she, as of yore, a milder form to take.        While trumpets rang, and Heralds cried,
No longer now she spurn‘d at mean revenge,               Not that he lov‘d him—No!—in no man‘s weal,
  Or stay‘d her hand for conquer‘d freeman‘s moan,         Scarce in his own, e‘er joy‘d that sullen heart;
As when, the fates of aged Rome to change,               Yet round that throne he bade his warriors wheel,
  By Caesar‘s side she cross‘d the Rubicon;                That the poor puppet might perform his part,
Nor joy‘d she to bestow the spoils she won,              And be a scepter‘d slave, at his stern beck to start.
  As when the banded Powers of Greece were task‘d                                                        (1811)

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834; England)
                        Sonnet: To the River Otter
                        Dear native brook! wild streamlet of the West!
                          How many various-fated years have past,
                          What happy, and what mournful hours, since last
                        I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
                        Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest                          5
                        Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
                          I never shut amid the sunny ray,
                        But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,
                          Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey,
                        And bedded sand that, veined with various dyes,                         10
                        Gleamed through thy bright transparence! On my way,
                          Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled
                        Lone manhood‘s cares, yet waking fondest sighs:
                          Ah! that once more I were a careless child!
Kubla Khan1
          The following fragment is here published at the request of a poet of great and deserved celebrity [Lord Byron],
and, as far as the Author‟s own opinions are concerned, rather as a psychological curiosity, than on the ground of any
supposed poetic merits.
          In the summer of the year 1797, the Author, then in ill health, had retired to a lonely farm-house between Porlock
and Linton, on the Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devonshire. In consequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne had
been prescribed, from the effects of which he fell asleep in his chair at the moment that he was reading the following
sentence, or words of the same substance, in Purchas‟s Pilgrimage: ``Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be
built, and a stately garden thereunto. And thus ten miles of fertile ground were inclosed with a wall.‟‟ The Author continued
for about three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during which time he has the most vivid
confidence, that he could not have composed less than from two to three hundred lines; if that indeed can be called
composition in which all the images rose up before him as things, with a parallel production of the correspondent
expressions, without any sensation or consciousness of effort. On awakening he appeared to himself to have a distinct
recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here
preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him
above an hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained
some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered
lines and images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone has been cast,
but, alas! without the after restoration of the latter!

                  Then all the charm
Is broken—all that phantom-world so fair
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread,
And each mis-shape the other. Stay awile,
Poor youth! who scarcely dar‘st lift up thine eyes—
The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon
The visions will return! And lo, he stays,
And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms
Come trembling back, unite, and now once more
The pool becomes a mirror.

        Yet from the stills surviving recollections in his mind, the Author has frequently proposed to finish for himself what
had been originally, as it were, given to him; but the to-morrow is yet to come.
        As a contrast to this vision, I have annexed a fragment of a very different character, describing with equal fidelity
the dream of pain and disease.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
   Down to a sunless sea.                                                                                    5
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,                                                                  10
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e‘er beneath a waning moon was haunted                                                                    15
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

    See appendix for source materials.
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst                                                                        20
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher‘s flail:
And ‘mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion                                                                       25
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And ‘mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!                                                                              30

   The shadow of the dome of pleasure
   Floated midway on the waves ;
   Where was heard the mingled measure
   From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,                                                                               35
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

   A damsel with a dulcimer
   In a vision once I saw:
   It was an Abyssinian maid,
   And on her dulcimer she played,                                                                             40
   Singing of Mount Abora.
   Could I revive within me
   Her symphony and song,
   To such a deep delight ‘twould win me,
That with music loud and long,                                                                                 45
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!                                                                          50
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

        This fragment with a good deal more, not recoverable, composed, in a sort of Reverie brought on by two
grains of Opium taken to check a dysentery, at a Farm House between Porlock & Linton, a quarter of a mile
from Culbone Church, in the fall of the year, 1797.

France: An Ode
First Stanza. An invocation to those objects in Nature the contemplation of which had inspired the Poet with a devotional
love of Liberty. Second Stanza. The exultation of the Poet at the commencement of the French Revolution, and his
unqualified abhorrence of the Alliance against the Republic. Third Stanza. The blasphemies and horrors during the
domination of the Terrorists regarded by the Poet as a transient storm, and as the natural consequence of the former
despotism and of the foul superstitions of Popery. Reason, indeed, began to suggest many apprehensions; yet still the Poet
struggled to retain the hope that France would make conquests by no other means than by presenting to the observation of
Europe a people more happy and better instructed than under other forms of Government. Fourth Stanza. Switzerland, and
the Poet‘s recantation. Fifth Stanza. And address to Liberty, in which the Poet expresses his conviction that those feelings
and that grand ideal of Freedom which the mind attains by its contemplation of its individual nature, and of the sublime
surrounding objects (see Stanza the First) do not belong to men, as a society, nor can possibly be either gratified or realized,
under any form of human government; but belong to the individual man, so far as he is pure, and inflamed with the love
and adoration of God in Nature.

                          I                                      Ye storms, that round the dawning East assembled,
                                                               The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light!‘
Ye clouds! that far above me float and pause,
                                                                 And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled,
 Whose pathless march no mortal may control!
                                                               The dissonance ceased, and all that seemed calm
 Ye Ocean-Waves! that, whereso‘er ye roll,
                                                               and bright;                                         50
Yield homage only to eternal laws!
                                                                 When France her front deep-scarr‘d and gory
Ye Woods! that listen to the night-birds singing, 5
                                                                 Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory;
 Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined,
                                                                   When, unsupportably advancing,
Save when your own imperious branches swinging,
                                                                 Her arm made mockery of the warrior‘s ramp;
 Have made a solemn music of the wind!
                                                                   While timid looks of fury glancing,             55
Where, like a man beloved of God,
                                                                 Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp,
Through glooms, which never woodman trod, 10
                                                               Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore;
   How oft, pursuing fancies holy,
                                                                 Then I reproached my fears that would not flee;
My moonlight way o‘er flowering weeds I wound,
                                                               ‗And soon,‘ I said, ‗shall Wisdom teach her lore
   Inspired, beyond the guess of folly,
                                                               In the low huts of them that toil and groan!        60
By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound!
                                                               And, conquering by her happiness alone,
O ye loud Waves! and O ye Forests high!           15
                                                                 Shall France compel the nations to be free,
 And O ye Clouds that far above me soared!
                                                               Till love and Joy look round, and call the Earth
Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky!
                                                               their own.‘
 Yea! every thing that is and will be free!
 Bear witness for me, whereso‘er ye be,
 With what deep worship I have still adored       20
   The spirit of divinest Liberty.
                                                               Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams!
                          II                                     I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament,       65
                                                                 From bleak Helvetia‘s icy caverns sent—
When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared,
                                                               I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams!
  And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea,
                                                                 Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished,
  Stamped her strong foot and said she would be free,
                                                               And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows
Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared! 25
                                                                 With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I
With what a joy my lofty gratulation
  Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band:
                                                               One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes!
And when to whelm the disenchanted nation,
                                                                 To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt,
  Like fiends embattled by a wizard‘s wand,
                                                                 Where Peace her jealous home had built;
    The Monarchs marched in evil day,                30
                                                                   A patriot-race to disinherit
    And Britain joined the dire array;
                                                               Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear;      75
  Though dear her shores and circling ocean,
                                                                   And with inexpiable spirit
Though many friendships, many youthful loves
                                                               To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer—
  Had swoln the patriot emotion
                                                               O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind,
And flung a magic light o‘er all the hills and groves;
                                                                 A patriot only in pernicious toils!
Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat
                                                               Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind? 80
  To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance,
                                                                 To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway,
And shame too long delayed and vain retreat!
                                                               Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey;
For ne‘er, O Liberty! with partial aim
                                                               To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils
I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame; 40
                                                                 From freemen torn; to tempt and to betray?
  But blessed the paeans of delivered France,
And hung my head and wept at Britain‘s name.
                          III                                     The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain,   85
                                                                Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game
‗And what,‘ I said, ‗though Blasphemy‘s loud scream
                                                                They burst their manacles and wear the name
  With that sweet music of deliverance strove!
                                                                  Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain!
  Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove
                                                                O Liberty! with profitless endeavour
A dance more wild than e‘er was maniac‘s dream!
                                                               Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour;      90
 But thou nor swell‘st the victor‘s strain, nor ever      And there I felt thee!—on that sea-cliff‘s verge,
Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power.            Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above,
 Alike from all, howe‘er they praise thee,                Had made one murmur with the distant surge!
 (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee)              Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare,
   Alike from Priestcraft‘s harpy minions,          95    And shot my being through earth, sea, and air,
 And factious Blasphemy‘s obscener slaves,                 Possessing all things with intensest love,
   Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions,                    O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there.            105
The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves!
                                                                                               (April 16, 1798)

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,                 She listened with a flitting blush,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,                         With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
All are but ministers of Love,                            And she forgave me, that I gazed
 And feed his sacred flame.                                Too fondly on her face!                         40

Oft in my waking dreams do I                       5      But when I told the cruel scorn
Live o‘er again that happy hour,                          That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
When midway on the mount I lay,                           And that he crossed the mountain-woods,
  Beside the ruined tower.                                 Nor rested day nor night;

The moonshine, stealing o‘er the scene                    That sometimes from the savage den,              45
Had blended with the lights of eve;                10     And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And she was there, my hope, my joy,                       And sometimes starting up at once
 My own dear Genevieve!                                    In green and sunny glade,—

She leant against the arméd man,                          There came and looked him in the face
The statue of the arméd knight;                           An angel beautiful and bright;                   50
She stood and listened to my lay,                  15     And that he knew it was a Fiend,
 Amid the lingering light.                                 This miserable Knight!

Few sorrows hath she of her own,                          And that unknowing what he did,
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!                            He leaped amid a murderous band,
She loves me best, whene‘er I sing                        And saved from outrage worse than death          55
 The songs that make her grieve.                   20      The Lady of the Land!

I played a soft and doleful air,                          And how she wept, and clasped his knees;
I sang an old and moving story—                           And how she tended him in vain—
An old rude song, that suited well                        And ever strove to expiate
  That ruin wild and hoary.                                The scorn that crazed his brain;—               60

She listened with a flitting blush,                25     And that she nursed him in a cave;
With downcast eyes and modest grace;                      And how his madness went away,
For well she knew, I could not choose                     When on the yellow forest-leaves
 But gaze upon her face.                                   A dying man he lay;—

I told her of the Knight that wore                        His dying words—but when I reached               65
Upon his shield a burning brand;                   30     That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
And that for ten long years he wooed                      My faultering voice and pausing harp
   The Lady of the Land.                                   Disturbed her soul with pity!

I told her how he pined: and ah!                          All impulses of soul and sense
The deep, the low, the pleading tone                      Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;             70
With which I sang another‘s love,                  35     The music and the doleful tale,
   Interpreted my own.                                     The rich and balmy eve;
And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,                      She half enclosed me with her arms,               85
An undistinguishable throng,                                She pressed me with a meek embrace;
And gentle wishes long subdued,                  75         And bending back her head, looked up,
 Subdued and cherished long!                                 And gazed upon my face.

She wept with pity and delight,                             ‘Twas partly love, and partly fear,
She blushed with love, and virgin-shame;                    And partly ‘twas a bashful art,                   90
And like the murmur of a dream,                             That I might rather feel, than see,
 I heard her breathe my name.                    80           The swelling of her heart.

Her bosom heaved—she stepped aside,                         I calmed her fears, and she was calm,
As conscious of my look she stepped—                        And told her love with virgin pride;
Then suddenly, with timorous eye                            And so I won my Genevieve,                        95
 She fled to me and wept.                                     My bright and beauteous Bride.

Lines Written in the Album at Elbingerode, in the Hartz Forest
I stood on Brocken‘s sovran height, and saw                 Or gentle maid, our first and early love,
Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills,                Or father, or the venerable name
A surging scene, and only limited                           Of our adoréd country! O thou Queen,
By the blue distance. Heavily my way                        Thou delegated Deity of Earth,                25
Downward I dragged through fir groves evermore, 5           O dear, dear England! how my longing eye
Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms          Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds
Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard,              Thy sands and high white cliffs!
The sweet bird‘s song became a hollow sound;
And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly,                                                 My native Land!
Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct        10         Filled with the thought of thee this heart was proud,
From many a note of many a waterfall,                       Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all the view 30
And the brook‘s chatter; ‘mid whose islet-stones            From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills,
The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell                    Floated away, like a departing dream,
Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat                     Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses
Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on 15             Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane,
In low and languid mood: for I had found                    With hasty judgment or injurious doubt,           35
That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive             That man‘s sublimer spirit, who can feel
Their finer influence from the Life within;—                That God is everywhere! the God who framed
Fair cyphers else: fair, but of import vague                Mankind to be one mighty family,
Or unconcerning, where the heart not finds       20         Himself our Father, and the World our Home.
History or prophecy of friend, or child,
                                                                                                    May 17, 1799

Hymn before Sun-Rise, in the Vale of Chamouni
Besides the Rivers, Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous
torrents rush down its sides; and within a few paces of the Glaciers, the Gentiana Major grows in immense
numbers, with its “flowers of loveliest blue.”

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star                  An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,
In his steep course? So long he seems to pause              As with a wedge! But when I look again,        10
On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc,                     It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base                           Thy habitation from eternity!
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form!     5          O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,                  Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
How silently! Around thee and above                         Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,               I worshipped the Invisible alone.
 Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,                    Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it:              And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought,        Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!
Yea, with my Life and Life‘s own secret joy:    20         Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven
Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused,                Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun 55
Into the mighty vision passing—there                       Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven!            Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?—
                                                           God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Awake, my soul! not only passive praise                    Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,   25           God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake                      Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!               And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.              And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale!          Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!
O struggling with the darkness all the night,     30       Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle‘s nest!     65
And visited all night by troops of stars,                  Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm!
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink:              Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
Companion of the morning-star at dawn,                     Ye signs and wonders of the element!
Thyself Earth‘s rosy star, and of the dawn                 Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!
Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!        35
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?                Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?                Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?                 Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene
                                                           Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast—
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!              Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou
Who called you forth from night and utter death, 40        That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low         75
From dark and icy caverns called you forth,                In adoration, upward from thy base
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,               Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,
For ever shattered and the same for ever?                  Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,
Who gave you your invulnerable life,                       To rise before me—Rise, O ever rise,
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,        Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth!      80
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?                        Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,
And who commanded (and the silence came),                  Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?               Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
                                                           And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun
Ye Ice-falls! ye that from the mountain‘s brow             Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 85
Adown enormous ravines slope amain—            50                                                         (1802)

                        To Nature
                        It may indeed be phantasy, when I
                           Essay to draw from all created things
                           Deep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely clings;
                        And trace in leaves and flowers that round me lie
                        Lessons of love and earnest piety.                                        5
                           So let it be; and if the wide world rings
                           In mock of this belief, it brings
                        Nor fear, nor grief, nor vain perplexity.
                        So will I build my altar in the fields,
                           And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be,                             10
                        And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yields
                           Shall be the incense I will yield to Thee,
                        Thee only God! and thou shalt not despise
                        Even me, the priest of this poor sacrifice.                                       (1820)
                 Work without Hope
                 All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—
                 The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—
                 And Winter slumbering in the open air,
                 Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
                 And I the while, the sole unbusy thing,                     5
                 Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

                 Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,
                 Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.
                 Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,
                 For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!             10
                 With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:
                 And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
                 Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,
                 And Hope without an object cannot live.

Robert Southey (1774-1843; England)
                 Poems on the Slave Trade

                 Sonnet I

                 Hold your mad hands! for ever on your plain
                 Must the gorged vulture clog his beak with blood?
                 For ever must your Nigers tainted flood
                 Roll to the ravenous shark his banquet slain?
                 Hold your mad hands! what daemon prompts to rear       5
                 The arm of Slaughter? on your savage shore
                 Can hell-sprung Glory claim the feast of gore,
                 With laurels water‘d by the widow‘s tear
                 Wreathing his helmet crown? lift high the spear!
                 And like the desolating whirlwinds sweep,              10
                 Plunge ye yon bark of anguish in the deep;
                 For the pale fiend, cold-hearted Commerce there
                 Breathes his gold-gender‘d pestilence afar,
                 And calls to share the prey his kindred Daemon War.

                 Sonnet II

                 Why dost thou beat thy breast and rend thine hair,
                 And to the deaf sea pour thy frantic cries?
                 Before the gale the laden vessel flies;
                 The Heavens all-favoring smile, the breeze is fair;
                 Hark to the clamors of the exulting crew!                   5
                 Hark how their thunders mock the patient skies!
                 Why dost thou shriek and strain thy red-swoln eyes
                 As the white sail dim lessens from thy view?
                 Go pine in want and anguish and despair,
                 There is no mercy found in human-kind—                      10
                 Go Widow to thy grave and rest thee there!
                 But may the God of Justice bid the wind
Whelm that curst bark beneath the mountain wave,
And bless with Liberty and Death the Slave!

Sonnet III

Oh he is worn with toil! the big drops run
Down his dark cheek; hold--hold thy merciless hand,
Pale tyrant! for beneath thy hard command
O‘erwearied Nature sinks. The scorching Sun,
As pityless as proud Prosperity,                        5
Darts on him his full beams; gasping he lies
Arraigning with his looks the patient skies,
While that inhuman trader lifts on high
The mangling scourge. Oh ye who at your ease
Sip the blood-sweeten‘d beverage! thoughts like these   10
Haply ye scorn: I thank thee Gracious God!
That I do feel upon my cheek the glow
Of indignation, when beneath the rod
A sable brother writhes in silent woe.

Sonnet IV

‘Tis night; the mercenary tyrants sleep
As undisturb‘d as Justice! but no more
The wretched Slave, as on his native shore,
Rests on his reedy couch: he wakes to weep!
Tho‘ thro‘ the toil and anguish of the day              5
No tear escap‘d him, not one suffering groan
Beneath the twisted thong, he weeps alone
In bitterness; thinking that far away
Tho‘ the gay negroes join the midnight song,
Tho‘ merriment resounds on Niger‘s shore,               10
She whom he loves far from the chearful throng
Stands sad, and gazes from her lowly door
With dim grown eye, silent and woe-begone,
And weeps for him who will return no more.

Sonnet V

Did then the bold Slave rear at last the Sword
Of Vengeance? drench‘d he deep its thirsty blade
In the cold bosom of his tyrant lord?
Oh! who shall blame him? thro‘ the midnight shade
Still o‘er his tortur‘d memory rush‘d the thought       5
Of every past delight; his native grove,
Friendship‘s best joys, and Liberty and Love,
All lost for ever! then Remembrance wrought
His soul to madness; round his restless bed
Freedom‘s pale spectre stalk‘d, with a stern smile      10
Pointing the wounds of slavery, the while
She shook her chains and hung her sullen head:
No more on Heaven he calls with fruitless breath,
But sweetens with revenge, the draught of death.
                        Sonnet VI

                        High in the air expos‘d the Slave is hung
                        To all the birds of Heaven, their living food!
                        He groans not, tho‘ awaked by that fierce Sun
                        New torturers live to drink their parent blood!
                        He groans not, tho‘ the gorging Vulture tear                              5
                        The quivering fibre! hither gaze O ye
                        Who tore this Man from Peace and Liberty!
                        Gaze hither ye who weigh with scrupulous care
                        The right and prudent; for beyond the grave
                        There is another world! and call to mind,                                 10
                        Ere your decrees proclaim to all mankind
                        Murder is legalized, that there the Slave
                        Before the Eternal, ―thunder-tongued shall plead
                        Against the deep damnation of your deed.‖

The Inchape Rock
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,                    His eye was on the Inchcape Float;
The Ship was still as she could be;                        Quoth he, ―My men, put out the boat,              30
Her sails from heaven received no motion,                  And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.                          And I‘ll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok.‖

Without either sign or sound of their shock,    5          The boat is lower‘d, the boatmen row,
The waves flow‘d over the Inchcape Rock;                   And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
So little they rose, so little they fell,                  Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,                35
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.                       And he cut the bell from the Inchcape Float.

The Abbot of Aberbrothok                                   Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound,
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;      10         The bubbles rose and burst around;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,               Quoth Sir Ralph, ―The next who comes to the Rock,
And over the waves its warning rung.                       Won‘t bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.‖        40

When the Rock was hid by the surge‘s swell,                Sir ralph the Rover sail‘d away,
The Mariners heard the warning Bell;                       He scour‘d the seas for many a day;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,           15         And now grown rich with plunder‘d store,
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok                         He steers his course for Scotland‘s shore.

The Sun in the heaven was shining gay,                     So thick a haze o‘erspreads the sky,              45
All things were joyful on that day;                        They cannot see the sun on high;
The sea-birds scream‘d as they wheel‘d round,              The wind hath blown a gale all day,
And there was joyaunce in their sound.        20           At evening it hath died away.

The buoy of the Inchcpe Bell was seen                      On the deck the Rover takes his stand,
A darker speck on the ocean green;                         So dark it is they see no land.                   50
Sir Ralph the Rover walk‘d his deck,                       Quoth Sir Ralph, ―It will be lighter soon,
And fix‘d his eye on the darker speck.                     For there is the dawn of the rising Moon.‖

He felt the cheering power of spring,           25         ―Canst hear,‖ said one, ―the breakers roar?
It made him whistle, it made him sing;                     For methinks we should be near the shore.‖
His heart was mirthful to excess,                          ―Now, where we are I cannot tell,                 55
But the Rover‘s mirth was wickedness.                      But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell.‖

They hear no sound, the swell is strong,               The waves rush in on every side,
Though the wind hath fallen they drift along;          The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,
―Oh Christ! It is the Inchcape Rock!‖             60   But even is his dying fear,                      65
                                                       One dreadful sound could the Rover hear;
Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,                     A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell,
He curst himself in his despair;                       The Devil below was ringing his knell.

The Cataract of Lodore
        ―How does the water                                 And there it lies darkling;
   Come down at Lodore?‖                                    Now smoking and frothing                    45
        My little boy asked me                                Its tumult and wrath in,
        Thus, once on a time;                                 Till, in this rapid race
 And moreover he tasked me                        5           On which it is bent,
        To tell him in rhyme.                                 It reaches the place
        Anon, at the word,                                    Of its steep descent.                     50
There first came one daughter,
   And then came another,                                      The cataract strong
        To second and third                       10           Then plunges along,
The request of their brother,                                  Striking and raging
 And to hear how the water                                     As if a war waging
   Comes down at Lodore,                                Its caverns and rocks among;                    55
 With its rush and its roar,                                   Rising and leaping,
        As many a time                            15         Sinking and creeping,
   They had seen it before.                                  Swelling and sweeping,
   So I told them in rhyme,                               Showering and springing,
For of rhymes I had store;                                     Flying and flinging,                     60
 And ‘twas in my vocation                                    Writhing and ringing,
        For their recreation                      20         Eddying and whisking,
     That so I should sing;                                  Spouting and frisking,
   Because I was Laureate                                    Turning and twisting,
   To them and the King.                                       Around and around                        65
                                                          With endless rebound:
       From its sources which well                           Smiting and fighting,
       In the tarn on the fell;                   25         A sight to delight in;
       From its fountains                               Confounding, astounding,
       In the mountains,                               Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.   70
       Its rills and its gills;
Through moss and through brake,                        Collecting, projecting,
       It runs and it creeps                      30   Receding and speeding,
       For a while, till it sleeps                     And shocking and rocking,
       In its own little lake.                         And darting and parting,
       And thence at departing,                        And threading and spreading,                     75
       Awakening and starting,                         And whizzing and hissing,
       It runs through the reeds,                 35   And dripping and skipping,
       And away it proceeds,                           And hitting and splitting,
     Through meadow and glade,                         And shining and twining,
       In sun and in shade,                            And rattling and battling,                       80
   And through the wood-shelter,                       And shaking and quaking,
       Among crags in its flurry,                 40   And pouring and roaring,
       Helter-skelter,                                 And waving and raving,
       Hurry-skurry.                                   And tossing and crossing,
       Here it comes sparkling,                        And flowing and going,                           85

And running and stunning,                               And quivering and shivering,
And foaming and roaming,                                And hurrying and skurrying,
And dinning and spinning,                               And thundering and floundering;
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,                      90        Dividing and gliding and sliding,                 100
And guggling and struggling,                            And falling and brawling and sprawling,
And heaving and cleaving,                               And driving and riving and striving,
And moaning and groaning;                               And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
                                                        And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And glittering and frittering,                          And bubbling and troubling and doubling,          105
And gathering and feathering,                 95        And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And whitening and brightening,                          And clattering and battering and shattering;

                        Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
                        Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
                        Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,                      110
                        Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,
                        And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
                        And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
                        And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
                        And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,                    115
                        And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,
                        And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
                        And so never ending, but always descending,
                        Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending
                        All at once and all o‘er, with a mighty uproar,—                      120
                        And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

Thomas Campbell (1777-1844; Scotland)
On Linden, when the sun was low,                        And redder yet those fires shall glow
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,                   On Linden‘s hills of blood-stained snow,
And dark as winter was the flow                         And darker yet shall be the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.                               Of Iser, rolling rapidly.                         20

But Linden saw another sight                  5         ‘Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sun
When the drum beat, at dead of night,                   Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Commanding fires of death to light                      Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
The darkness of her scenery.                            Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed                       The combat deepens. On, ye brave,                 25
Each horseman drew his battle blade,          10        Who rush to glory, or the grave!
And furious every charger neighed,                      Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!
To join the dreadful revelry.                           And charge with all thy chivalry!

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,                Ah! few shall part where many meet!
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,                 The snow shall be their winding-sheet,            30
And louder than the bolts of heaven           15
                                                        And every turf beneath their feet
Far flashed the red artillery.                          Shall be a soldier‘s sepulchre.

The Last Man
All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,            ―Go, let oblivion‘s curtain fall
  The Sun himself must die,                          Upon the stage of men,
Before this mortal shall assume                    Nor with thy rising beams recall
  Its Immortality!                                   Life‘s tragedy again.
I saw a vision in my sleep                    5    Its piteous pageants bring not back,      45
That gave my spirit strength to sweep              Nor waken flesh, upon the rack
  Adown the gulf of Time!                            Of pain anew to writhe;
I saw the last of human mould,                     Stretched in disease‘s shapes abhorred,
That shall Creation‘s death behold,                Or mown in battle by the sword,
  As Adam saw her prime!                      10     Like grass beneath the scythe.          50
The Sun‘s eye had a sickly glare,
  The Earth with age was wan,                      ―Ee‘n I am weary in yon skies
The skeletons of nations were                       To watch thy fading fire;
  Around that lonely man!                          Test of all sumless agonies
Some had expired in fight,—the brands         15    Behold not me expire.
Still rested in their bony hands;                  My lips that speak thy dirge of death—    55
  In plague and famine some!                       Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
Earth‘s cities had no sound nor tread;              To see thou shalt not boast.
And ships were drifting with the dead              The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,—
  To shores where all was dumb!               20   The majesty of Darkness shall
                                                    Receive my parting ghost!                60
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood
 With dauntless words and high,                    ―This spirit shall return to Him
That shook the sere leaves from the wood             That gave its heavenly spark;
 As if a storm passed by,                          Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
Saying, ―We are twins in death, proud Sun,    25     When thou thyself art dark!
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,                 No! it shall live again, and shine        65
 ‘Tis Mercy bids thee go.                          In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
For thou ten thousand thousand years                 By Him recalled to breath,
Hast seen the tide of human tears,                 Who captive led captivity.
 That shall no longer flow.                   30   Who robbed the grave of Victory,—
                                                     And took the sting from Death!          70
―What though beneath thee man put forth
 His pomp, his pride, his skill;                   ―Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up
And arts that made fire, floods, and earth,         On Nature‘s awful waste
 The vassals of his will;—                         To drink this last and bitter cup
Yet mourn not I thy parted sway,              35    Of grief that man shall taste—
Thou dim discrowned king of day:                   Go, tell the night that hides thy face,   75
 For all those trophied arts                       Thou saw‘st the last of Adam‘s race,
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,              On Earth‘s sepulchral clod,
Healed not a passion or a pang                     The darkening universe defy
 Entailed on human hearts.                    40   To quench his Immortality,
                                                    Or shake his trust in God!‖              80

George Gordon, Lord Byron (17881824; England / Scotland)
The Tear
        O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
        Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater
         Felix! in imo qui scatentem
            Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit.
        Gray, Alcaic Fragment.
 When Friendship or Love                       7
 Our sympathies move;                           Sweet scene of my youth!
When Truth, in a glance, should appear,         Seat of Friendship and Truth,
 The lips may beguile,                         Where Love chas‘d each fast-fleeting year;
 With a dimple or smile,                  5     Loth to leave thee, I mourn‘d,                  40
But the test of affection‘s a Tear.             For a last look I turn‘d,
                                               But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear.
  Too oft is a smile                           8
  But the hypocrite‘s wile,                     Though my vows I can pour,
To mask detestation, or fear;                   To my Mary no more,
  Give me the soft sigh,                  10   My Mary, to Love once so dear,                   45
  Whilst the soul-telling eye                   In the shade of her bow‘r,
Is dimm‘d, for a time, with a Tear.             I remember the hour,
                                               She rewarded those vows with a Tear.
 Mild Charity‘s glow,                          9
 To us mortals below,                           By another possest,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;      15    May she live ever blest!                        50
 Compassion will melt,                         Her name still my heart must revere:
 Where this virtue is felt,                     With a sigh I resign,
And its dew is diffused in a Tear.              What I once thought was mine,
                                               And forgive her deceit with a Tear.
 The man, doom‘d to sail                       10
 With the blast of the gale,              20    Ye friends of my heart,                         55
Through billows Atlantic to steer,              Ere from you I depart,
 As he bends o‘er the wave                     This hope to my breast is most near:
 Which may soon be his grave,                   If again we shall meet,
The green sparkles bright with a Tear.          In this rural retreat,
                                               May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.            60
  The Soldier braves death                25
  For a fanciful wreath                         When my soul wings her flight
In Glory‘s romantic career;                     To the regions of night,
  But he raises the foe                        And my corse shall recline on its bier;
  When in battle laid low,                      As ye pass by the tomb,
And bathes every wound with a Tear.       30    Where my ashes consume,                         65
                                               Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear .
  If, with high-bounding pride,                12
  He return to his bride!                       May no marble bestow
Renouncing the gore-crimson‘d spear;            The splendour of woe,
  All his toils are repaid                     Which the children of Vanity rear;
  When, embracing the maid,               35    No fiction of fame                              70
From her eyelid he kisses the Tear.             Shall blazon my name,
                                               All I ask, all I wish, is a Tear.

                                                                                    October 26, 1806

The Prayer of Nature

1                                                 9
Father of Light! great God of Heaven!             Shall those, who live for self alone,
Hear‘st thou the accents of despair?              Whose years float on in daily crime—
Can guilt like man‘s be e‘er forgiven?            Shall they, by Faith, for guilt atone,           35
Can vice atone for crimes by prayer?              And live beyond the bounds of Time?

2                                                 10
Father of Light, on thee I call!             5
Thou see‘st my soul is dark within;               Father! no prophet‘s laws I seek,—
Thou, who canst mark the sparrow‘s fall,          Thy laws in Nature‘s works appear;—
Avert from me the death of sin.                   I own myself corrupt and weak,
                                                  Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear!             40
No shrine I seek, to sects unknown;
Oh, point to me the path of truth!           10
                                                  Thou, who canst guide the wandering star,
Thy dread Omnipotence I own;                      Through trackless realms of æther‘s space;
Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth.            Who calm‘st the elemental war,
                                                  Whose hand from pole to pole I trace:
Let bigots rear a gloomy fane,
Let Superstition hail the pile,                   Thou, who in wisdom plac‘d me here,              45
Let priests, to spread their sable reign,    15
                                                  Who, when thou wilt, canst take me hence,
With tales of mystic rites beguile.               Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere,
                                                  Extend to me thy wide defence.
Shall man confine his Maker‘s sway
To Gothic domes of mouldering stone?              To Thee, my God, to thee I call!
Thy temple is the face of day;                    Whatever weal or woe betide,                     50
Earth, Ocean, Heaven thy boundless throne.   20
                                                  By thy command I rise or fall,
                                                  In thy protection I confide.
Shall man condemn his race to Hell,
Unless they bend in pompous form?                 If, when this dust to dust‘s restor‘d,
Tell us that all, for one who fell,               My soul shall float on airy wing,
Must perish in the mingling storm?                How shall thy glorious Name ador‘d               55
                                                  Inspire her feeble voice to sing!
7                                                 15
Shall each pretend to reach the skies,       25
                                                  But, if this fleeting spirit share
Yet doom his brother to expire,                   With clay the Grave‘s eternal bed,
Whose soul a different hope supplies,             While Life yet throbs I raise my prayer,
Or doctrines less severe inspire?                 Though doom‘d no more to quit the dead.          60
Shall these, by creeds they can‘t expound,
Prepare a fancied bliss or woe?              30
                                                  To Thee I breathe my humble strain,
Shall reptiles, groveling on the ground,          Grateful for all thy mercies past,
Their great Creator‘s purpose know?               And hope, my God, to thee again
                                                  This erring life may fly at last.
                                                                                     December 29, 1806

She Walks in Beauty
She walks in beauty, like the night                Or softly lightens o‘er her face;             10
  Of cloudless climes and starry skies;          Where thoughts serenely sweet express
And all that‘s best of dark and bright             How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
  Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow‘d to that tender light          5    And on that cheek, and o‘er that brow,
  Which heaven to gaudy day denies.                So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
                                                 The smiles that win, the tints that glow,       15
One shade the more, one ray the less,              But tell of days in goodness spent,
  Had half impair‘d the nameless grace           A mind at peace with all below,
Which waves in every raven tress,                  A heart whose love is innocent!

Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte
I                                                Which man seem‘d made but to obey,
‘Tis done—but yesterday a King!                   Wherewith renown was rife—
  And arm‘d with Kings to strive—                All quell‘d!—Dark Spirit! what must be          35
And now thou art a nameless thing:               The madness of thy memory!
  So abject—yet alive!
Is this the man of thousand thrones,        5    V
Who strew‘d our earth with hostile bones,        The Desolator desolate!
  And can he thus survive?                         The Victor overthrown!
Since he, miscall‘d the Morning Star,            The Arbiter of others‘ fate
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.              A Suppliant for his own!                      40
                                                 Is it some yet imperial hope
II                                               That with such change can calmly cope?
Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind        10     Or dread of death alone?
   Who bow‘d so low the knee?                    To die a prince—or live a slave—
By gazing on thyself grown blind,                Thy choice is most ignobly brave!               45
   Thou taught‘st the rest to see.
With might unquestion‘d,—power to save,—         VI
Thine only gift hath been the grave,        15   He who of old would rend the oak,
   To those that worshipp‘d thee;                 Dream‘d not of the rebound:
   Nor till thy fall could mortals guess         Chain‘d by the trunk he vainly broke—
Ambition‘s less than littleness!                  Alone—how look‘d he round?
                                                 Thou, in the sternness of thy strength,         50
III                                              An equal deed hast done at length,
Thanks for that lesson—It will teach              And darker fate hast found:
  To after-warriors more,                   20   He fell, the forest prowler‘s prey;
Than high Philosophy can preach,                 But thou must eat thy heart away!
  And vainly preach‘d before.
That spell upon the minds of men                 VII
Breaks never to unite again,                     The Roman, when his burning heart               55
  That led them to adore                    25    Was slaked with blood of Rome,
Those Pagod things of sabre sway                 Threw down the dagger—dared depart,
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay.           In savage grandeur, home—
                                                 He dared depart in utter scorn
IV                                               Of men that such a yoke had borne,              60
The triumph and the vanity,                       Yet left him such a doom!
 The rapture of the strife—                      His only glory was that hour
The earthquake voice of Victory,            30   Of self-upheld abandon‘d power.
 To thee the breath of life;
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway
VIII                                              XIII
The Spaniard, when the lust of sway               And she, proud Austria‘s mournful flower,
 Had lost its quickening spell,             65      Thy still imperial bride;                 110
Cast crowns for rosaries away,                    How bears her breast the torturing hour?
 An empire for a cell;                              Still clings she to thy side?
A strict accountant of his beads,                 Must she too bend, must she too share
A subtle disputant on creeds,                     Thy late repentance, long despair,
 His dotage trifled well:                   70      Thou throneless Homicide?                 115
Yet better had he neither known                   If still she loves thee, hoard that gem,—
A bigot‘s shrine, nor despot‘s throne.            ‘Tis worth thy vanish‘d diadem!

IX                                                XIV
But thou—from thy reluctant hand                  Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,
   The thunderbolt is wrung—                        And gaze upon the sea;
Too late thou leav‘st the high command      75    That element may meet thy smile—            120
   To which thy weakness clung;                     It ne‘er was ruled by thee!
All Evil Spirit as thou art,                      Or trace with thine all idle hand
It is enough to grieve the heart                  In loitering mood upon the sand
   To see thine own unstrung;                       That Earth is now as free!
To think that God‘s fair world hath been    80    That Corinth‘s pedagogue hath now           125
The footstool of a thing so mean;                 Transferr‘d his by-word to thy brow.

X                                                 XV
And Earth hath spilt her blood for him,           Thou Timour! in his captive‘s cage
  Who thus can hoard his own!                      What thought will there be thine,
And Monarchs bow‘d the trembling limb,            While brooding in thy prison‘d rage?
  And thank‘d him for a throne!             85     But one—―The word was mine!‖               130
Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear,              Unless, like he of Babylon,
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear           All sense is with thy sceptre gone,
  In humblest guise have shown.                    Life will not long confine
Oh! ne‘er may tyrant leave behind                 That spirit pour‘d so widely forth—
A brighter name to lure mankind!            90    So long obey‘d—so little worth!             135

XI                                                XVI
Thine evil deeds are writ in gore,                Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,
  Nor written thus in vain—                        Wilt thou withstand the shock?
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,                And share with him, the unforgiven,
  Or deepen every stain:                           His vulture and his rock!
If thou hadst died as honour dies,          95    Foredoom‘d by God—by man accurst,           140
Some new Napoleon might arise,                    And that last act, though not thy worst,
  To shame the world again—                        The very Fiend‘s arch mock;
But who would soar the solar height,              He in his fall preserved his pride,
To set in such a starless night?                  And, if a mortal, had as proudly died!

XII                                               XVII
Weigh‘d in the balance, hero dust           100   There was a day—there was an hour,          145
 Is vile as vulgar clay;                           While earth was Gaul‘s—Gaul thine—
Thy scales, Mortality! are just                   When that immeasurable power
 To all that pass away:                            Unsated to resign
But yet methought the living great                Had been an act of purer fame
Some higher sparks should animate,          105   Than gathers round Marengo‘s name,          150
 To dazzle and dismay:                             And gilded thy decline,
Nor deem‘d Contempt could thus make mirth         Through the long twilight of all time,
Of these, the Conquerors of the earth.            Despite some passing clouds of crime.

XVIII                                                        XIX
But thou forsooth must be a king,                            Where may the wearied eye repose
 And don the purple vest,                             155     When gazing on the Great;
As if that foolish robe could wring                          Where neither guilty glory glows,                   165
 Remembrance from thy breast.                                 Nor despicable state?
Where is that faded garment? where                           Yes—one—the first—the last--the best—
The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear,                          The Cincinnatus of the West,
 The star, the string, the crest?                     160     Whom envy dared not hate,
Vain froward child of empire! say,                           Bequeath‘d the name of Washington,                  170
Are all thy playthings snatched away?                        To make man blush there was but one!

If That High World
                  I                                                           II
If that high world, which lies beyond                        It must be so: ‘tis not for self
Our own, surviving Love endears;                             That we so tremble on the brink;                    10
If there the cherished heart be fond,                        And striving to o‘erleap the gulf,
The eye the same, except in tears—                           Yet cling to Being‘s severing link.
How welcome those untrodden spheres!                  5      Oh! in that future let us think
How sweet this very hour to die!                             To hold each heart the heart that shares,
To soar from earth and find all fears                        With them the immortal waters drink,                15
Lost in thy light—Eternity!                                  And soul in soul grow deathless theirs!

The Destruction of Sennacherib
I                                                            IV
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,            And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;            But through it there roll‘d not the breath of his pride;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,     And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,15
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.            And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

II                                                           V
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,          And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:            With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,        And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.             The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown.        20

III                                                          VI
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,        And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass‘d, 10         And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax‘d deadly and chill,         And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!   Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

To Romance
1                                                        5
Parent of golden dreams, Romance!                        Romance! disgusted with deceit,
Auspicious Queen of childish joys,                       Far from thy motley court I fly,
Who lead‘st along, in airy dance,                        Where Affectation holds her seat,         35
Thy votive train of girls and boys;                      And sickly Sensibility;
At length, in spells no longer bound,         5          Whose silly tears can never flow
I break the fetters of my youth;                         For any pangs excepting thine;
No more I tread thy mystic round,                        Who turns aside from real woe,
But leave thy realms for those of Truth.                 To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine.         40

2                                                        6
And yet ‘tis hard to quit the dreams                     Now join with sable Sympathy,
Which haunt the unsuspicious soul,            10         With cypress crown‘d, array‘d in weeds,
Where every nymph a goddess seems,                       Who heaves with thee her simple sigh,
Whose eyes through rays immortal roll;                   Whose breast for every bosom bleeds;
While Fancy holds her boundless reign,                   And call thy sylvan female choir,         45
And all assume a varied hue;                             To mourn a Swain for ever gone,
When Virgins seem no longer vain,             15         Who once could glow with equal fire,
And even Woman‘s smiles are true.                        But bends not now before thy throne.

3                                                        7
And must we own thee, but a name,                        Ye genial Nymphs, whose ready tears
And from thy hall of clouds descend?                     On all occasions swiftly flow;            50
Nor find a Sylph in every dame,                          Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,
A Pylades in every friend?                    20         With fancied flames and phrenzy glow
But leave, at once, thy realms of air                    Say, will you mourn my absent name,
To mingling bands of fairy elves;                        Apostate from your gentle train?
Confess that woman‘s false as fair,                      An infant Bard, at least, may claim       55
And friends have feeling for—themselves?                 From you a sympathetic strain.

4                                                        8
With shame, I own, I‘ve felt thy sway;        25         Adieu, fond race! a long adieu!
Repentant, now thy reign is o‘er;                        The hour of fate is hovering nigh;
No more thy precepts I obey,                             E‘en now the gulf appears in view,
No more on fancied pinions soar;                         Where unlamented you must lie:            60
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,                      Oblivion‘s blackening lake is seen,
And think that eye to truth was dear;         30         Convuls‘d by gales you cannot weather,
To trust a passing wanton‘s sigh,                        Where you, and eke your gentle queen,
And melt beneath a wanton‘s tear!                        Alas! must perish altogether.

                        Sonnet to Lake Leman
                        Rousseau—Voltaire—our Gibbon—and De Staël—
                        Leman! these names are worthy of thy shore,
                        Thy shore of names like these! wert thou no more
                        Their memory thy remembrance would recall:
                        To them thy banks were lovely as to all,                             5
                        But they have made them lovelier, for the lore
                        Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core
                        Of human hearts the ruin of a wall
                        Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by thee
                        How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel,                           10
                        In sweetly gliding o‘er thy crystal sea,
                        The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal,
                        Which of the heirs of immortality
                        Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real!

                        Sonnet on Chillon
                        Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!
                        Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art; —
                        For there thy habitation is the heart, —
                        The heart which love of thee alone can bind;
                        And when thy sons to fetters are consigned,                                5
                        To fetters, and the damp vault‘s dayless gloom,
                        Their country conquers with their martyrdom,
                        And Freedom‘s fame finds wings on every wind.
                        Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,
                        And thy sad floor an altar, for ‘twas trod,                                10
                        Until his very steps have left a trace,
                        Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
                        By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface!
                        For they appeal from tyranny to God.

Stanzas for Music
There be none of Beauty‘s daughters                         And the midnight-moon is weaving
    With a magic like to thee,                                   Her bright chain o‘er the deep,           10
And like music on the waters                                Whose breast is gently heaving
    Is thy sweet voice to me,                                    Like and infant‘s asleep—
When, as if its sound were causing              5           So the spirit bows before thee
The charméd ocean‘s pausing,                                To listen and adore thee,
The waves lie still and gleaming,                           With a full but soft emotion                   15
And the lulled winds seem dreaming,                         Like the swell of summer‘s ocean.

                I                                                           II
Titan! to whose immortal eyes                               Titan! to thee the strife was given            15
  The sufferings of mortality                                 Between the suffering and the will,
  Seen in their sad reality,                                  Which torture where they cannot kill;
Were not as things that gods despise;                       And the inexorable Heaven,
What was thy pity‘s recompense?                 5           And the deaf tyranny of Fate,
A silent suffering, and intense;                            The ruling principle of Hate.                  20
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,                       Which for its pleasure doth create
All that the proud can feel of pain,                        The things it may annihilate,
The agony they do not show,                                 Refused thee even the boon to die:
The suffocating sense of woe,                   10          The wretched gift eternity
  Which speaks but in its loneliness,                       Was thine—and thou hast borne it well.         25
And then is jealous lest the sky                            All that the Thunderer wrung from thee
Should have a listener, nor will sigh                       Was but the menace which flung back
  Until its voice is echoless.                              On him the torments of thy rack;
                                                            The fate thou didst so well foresee,
But would not to appease him tell;              30      A mighty lesson we inherit:
And in thy Silence was his Sentence,                  Thou art a symbol and a sign                      45
And in his Soul a vain repentance,                      To Mortals of their fate and force;
And evil dread so ill dissembled                      Like thee, Man is in part divine,
That in his hand the lightnings trembled.               A troubled stream from a pure source;
                                                      And Man in portions can foresee
                III                                   His own funereal destiny;                         50
                                                      His wretchedness, and his resistance,
Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,               35
                                                      And his sad unallied existence:
  To render with thy precepts less
                                                      To which his Spirit may oppose
  The sum of human wretchedness,
                                                      Itself—and equal to all woes,
And strengthen Man with his own mind;
                                                        And a firm will, and a deep sense,              55
But baffled as thou wert from high,
                                                      Which even in torture can descry
Still in thy patient energy,                    40
                                                        Its own concenter‘d recompense,
In the endurance, and repulse
                                                      Triumphant where it dares defy,
  Of thine impenetrable Spirit,
                                                      And making Death a Victory.
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse,
                                                                                      (Diodati, July, 1816)

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.             Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl‘d 35
The bright sun was extinguish‘d, and the stars        And twined themselves among the multitude,
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,             Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth              And War, which for a moment was no more,
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; 5     Did glut himself again;—a meal was bought
Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,      With blood, and each sate sullenly apart           40
And men forgot their passions in the dread            Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
Of this their desolation; and all hearts              All earth was but one thought—and that was death,
Were chill‘d into a selfish prayer for light:         Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,      Of famine fed upon all entrails—men
The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,                Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The habitations of all things which dwell,            The meagre by the meagre were devoured,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed,         Even dogs assail‘d their masters, all save one,
And men were gathered round their blazing homes       And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
To look once more into each other‘s face;        15   The birds and beasts and famish‘d men at bay,
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye             Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead       50
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:            Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
A fearful hope was all the world contain‘d;           But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour             And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks 20       Which answered not with a caress—he died.
Extinguish‘d with a crash—and all was black.          The crowd was famish‘d by degrees; but two         55
The brows of men by the despairing light              Of an enormous city did survive,
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits                  And they were enemies: they met beside
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down             The dying embers of an altar-place
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest 25     Where had been heap‘d a mass of holy things
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled;    For an unholy usage; they raked up,                60
And others hurried to and fro, and fed                And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands
Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up          The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,                 Blew for a little life, and made a flame
The pall of a past world; and then again         30   Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
With curses cast them down upon the dust,             Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld          65
And gnash‘d their teeth and howl‘d: the wild birds    Each other‘s aspects—saw, and shriek‘d, and died—
   shriek‘d,                                          Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,            Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes      Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful—was a lump, 70                They slept on the abyss without a surge—
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—          The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.                       The moon their mistress had expir‘d before;
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still,               The winds were withered in the stagnant air,     80
And nothing stirred within their silent depths;             And the clouds perish‘d; Darkness had no need
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,          75        Of aid from them—She was the Universe.
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp‘d
                                                                                           (Diodati, July, 1816)

                        When a Man Hath No Freedom to Fight for at Home
                        When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home,
                        Let him combat for that of his neighbours;
                        Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome,
                        And get knock‘d on the head for his labours,

                        To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan,                              5
                        And is always as nobly requited;
                        Then battle for freedom wherever you can,
                        And, if not shot or hang‘d, you‘ll get knighted.
                                                                                             (November, 1820)
The Isles of Greece
1                                                           5
The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!                   And where are they? and where art thou,         25
  Where burning Sappho loved and sung,                        My country? On thy voiceless shore
Where grew the arts of war and peace,—                      The heroic lay is tuneless now—
  Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung!                        The heroic bosom beats no more!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,                   5          And must thy lyre, so long divine,
But all, except their sun, is set.                          Degenerate into hands like mine?                30

2                                                           6
The Scian and the Teian muse,                               ‘Tis something, in the dearth of fame,
  The hero‘s harp, the lover‘s lute,                          Though link‘d among a fetter‘d race,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;                     To feel at least a patriot‘s shame,
  Their place of birth alone is mute             10           Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
To sounds which echo further west                           For what is left the poet here?                 35
Than your sires‘ ―Islands of the Blest.‖                    For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear.

3                                                           7
The mountains look on Marathon—                             Must we but weep o‘er days more blest?
   And Marathon looks on the sea;                             Must we but blush?—Our fathers bled.
And musing there an hour alone,                  15         Earth! render back from out thy breast
   I dream‘d that Greece might yet be free                    A remnant of our Spartan dead!                40
For, standing on the Persians‘ grave,                       Of the three hundred grant but three,
I could not deem myself a slave.                            To make a new Thermopylae.

4                                                           8
A king sate on the rocky brow                               What, silent still, and silent all?
  Which looks on sea-born Salamis;               20           Ah! no; the voices of the dead
And ships, by thousands, lay below,                         Sound like a distant torrent‘s fall,            45
  And men in nations;—all were his!                           And answer, ―Let one living head,
He counted them at break of day—                            But one arise,—we come, we come!‖
And when the sun set, where were they?                      ‘Tis but the living who are dumb.

9                                                 13
In vain—in vain: strike other chords;             Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
   Fill high the cup of Samian wine!         50      On Suli‘s rock, and Parga‘s shore,
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,              Exists the remnant of a line                    75
   And shed the blood of Scio‘s vine!                Such as the Doric mothers bore;
Hark! rising to the ignoble call—                 And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,
How answers each bold bacchanal!                  The Heracleidan blood might own.

10                                                14
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,           55   Trust not for freedom to the Franks—
   Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?                They have a king who buys and sells:         80
Of two such lessons, why forget                   In native swords and native ranks,
   The nobler and the manlier one?                   The only hope of courage dwells:
You have the letters Cadmus gave—                 But Turkish force and Latin fraud
Think ye he meant them for a slave?          60   Would break your shield, however broad.

11                                                15
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!              Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!            85
   We will not think of themes like these!           Our virgins dance beneath the shade—
It made Anacreon‘s song divine;                   I see their glorious black eyes shine;
   He served—but served Polycrates—                  But, gazing on each glowing maid,
A tyrant; but our masters then               65   My own the burning tear-drop laves,
Were still, at least, our countrymen.             To think such breasts must suckle slaves.       90

12                                                16
The tyrant of the Chersonese                      Place me on Sunium‘s marble steep—
   Was freedom‘s best and bravest friend;            Where nothing, save the waves and I,
That tyrant was Miltiades!                        May hear our mutual murmurs sweep:
   Oh! that the present hour would lend      70      There, swan-like, let me sing and die;
Another despot of the kind!                       A land of slaves shall ne‘er be mine—           95
Such chains as his were sure to bind.             Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

On This Day I Complete My Thirty-Sixth Year
1                                                 4
‘T is time this heart should be unmoved,          The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
  Since others it hath ceased to move:             The exalted portion of the pain
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,                  And power of love, I cannot share,              15
    Still let me love!                               But wear the chain.

2                                                 5
My days are in the yellow leaf;              5    But ‘t is not thus —and ‘t is not here—
 The flowers and fruits of Love are gone;          Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now
The worm, the canker, and the grief               Where Glory decks the hero‘s bier,
   Are mine alone!                                   Or binds his brow.                        20

3                                                 6
The fire that on my bosom preys                   The Sword, the Banner, and the Field,
 Is lone as some Volcanic isle;              10    Glory and Greece, around me see!
No torch is kindled at its blaze—                 The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
   A funeral pile.                                   Was not more free.

7                                                     9
Awake! (not Greece—she is awake!)                25   If thou regret‘st thy youth, why live?
 Awake, my spirit! Think through whom                   The land of honourable death
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,                Is here:—up to the Field, and give               35
   And then strike home!                                   Away thy breath!

8                                                     10
Tread those reviving passions down,                   Seek out—less often sought than found—
  Unworthy manhood!—unto thee                    30    A soldier‘s grave, for thee the best;
Indifferent should the smile or frown                 Then look around, and choose thy ground,
    Of Beauty be.                                        And take thy Rest.                            40

                                                                                Missolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822; England)
The Devil’s Walk: A Ballad
I                                                     Grinning applause, he just showed them his claws,
Once, early in the morning,                           And they shrunk with affright from his ugly sight,
 Beelzebub arose,                                      Whose work they delighted to do.
With care his sweet person adorning,
 He put on his Sunday clothes.
                                                      Satan poked his red nose into crannies so small
II                                                     One would think that the innocents fair,
He drew on a boot to hide his hoof,              5
                                                      Poor lambkins! were just doing nothing at all   30
 He drew on a glove to hide his claw,                 But settling some dress or arranging some ball,
His horns were concealed by a Bras Chapeau ,           But the Devil saw deeper there.
And the Devil went forth as natty a Beau
 As Bond-street ever saw.
                                                      A Priest, at whose elbow the Devil during prayer
III                                                    Sate familiarly, side by side,
He sate him down, in London town,                10
                                                      Declared that, if the Tempter were there,         35
 Before earth‘s morning ray;                           His presence he would not abide.
With a favourite imp he began to chat,                Ah! ah! thought Old Nick, that‘s a very stale trick,
On religion, and scandal, this and that,              For without the Devil, O favourite of Evil,
 Until the dawn of day.                                In your carriage you would not ride.

IV                                                    IX
And then to St. James‘s Court he went,           15
                                                      Satan next saw a brainless King,               40
 And St. Paul‘s Church he took on his way;             Whose house was as hot as his own;
He was mighty thick with every Saint,                 Many Imps in attendance were there on the wing,
 Though they were formal and he was gay.              They flapped the pennon and twisted the sting,
                                                       Close by the very Throne.
The Devil was an agriculturist,
  And as bad weeds quickly grow,                 20
                                                      Ah! ah! thought Satan, the pasture is good,     45
In looking over his farm, I wist,                      My Cattle will here thrive better than others;
  He wouldn‘t find cause for woe.                     They dine on news of human blood,
                                                      They sup on the groans of the dying and dead,
VI                                                    And supperless never will go to bed;
                                                         Which will make them fat as their brothers. 50
He peeped in each hole, to each chamber stole,
 His promising live-stock to view;
XI                                                      XIX
Fat as the Fiends that feed on blood,                   The wealthy yeoman, as he wanders
 Fresh and warm from the fields of Spain,                  His fertile fields among,
    Where Ruin ploughs her gory way,                    And on his thriving cattle ponders,            90
Where the shoots of earth are nipped in the bud,         Counts his sure gains, and hums a song;
    Where Hell is the Victor‘s prey,             55     Thus did the Devil, through earth walking,
 Its glory the meed of the slain.                          Hum low a hellish song.

XII                                                     XX
Fat—as the Death-birds on Erin‘s shore,                 For they thrive well whose garb of gore
That glutted themselves in her dearest gore,             Is Satan‘s choicest livery,                   95
 And flitted round Castlereagh,                         And they thrive well who from the poor
When they snatched the Patriot‘s heart, that his         Have snatched the bread of penury,
        grasp                                           And heap the houseless wanderer‘s store
Had torn from its widow‘s maniac clasp,                  On the rank pile of luxury.
 And fled at the dawn of day.
XIII                                                    The Bishops thrive, though they are big;       100
Fat—as the Reptiles of the tomb,                         The Lawyers thrive, though they are thin;
 That riot in corruption‘s spoil,                       For every gown, and every wig,
That fret their little hour in gloom,              65    Hides the safe thrift of Hell within.
   And creep, and live the while.
XIV                                                     Thus pigs were never counted clean,
Fat as that Prince‘s maudlin brain,                      Although they dine on finest corn;            105
  Which, addled by some gilded toy,                     And cormorants are sin-like lean,
Tired, gives his sweetmeat, and again                    Although they eat from night to morn.
  Cries for it, like a humoured boy.               70
XV                                                      Oh! why is the Father of Hell in such glee,
For he is fat,—his waistcoat gay,                        As he grins from ear to ear?
When strained upon a levee day,                         Why does he doff his clothes joyfully,         110
 Scarce meets across his princely paunch;                As he skips, and prances, and flaps his wing,
And pantaloons are like half-moons                       As he sidles, leers, and twirls his sting,
   Upon each brawny haunch.                        75      And dares, as he is, to appear?

XVI                                                     XXIV
How vast his stock of calf! when plenty                 A statesman passed-alone to him,
 Had filled his empty head and heart,                    The Devil dare his whole shape uncover,       115
Enough to satiate foplings twenty,                      To show each feature, every limb,
 Could make his pantaloon seams start.                   Secure of an unchanging lover.

XVII                                                    XXV
The Devil (who sometimes is called Nature),        80   At this known sign, a welcome sight,
 For men of power provides thus well,                    The watchful demons sought their King,
Whilst every change and every feature,                  And every Fiend of the Stygian night,          120
 Their great original can tell.                          Was in an instant on the wing.

XVIII                                                   XXVI
Satan saw a lawyer a viper slay,                        Pale Loyalty, his guilt-steeled brow,
   That crawled up the leg of his table,           85     With wreaths of gory laurel crowned:
It reminded him most marvellously                       The hell-hounds, Murder, Want and Woe,
   Of the story of Cain and Abel.                         Forever hungering, flocked around;           125
                                                        From Spain had Satan sought their food,
‘Twas human woe and human blood!
XXVII                                                       But were the Devil‘s sight as keen
Hark! the earthquake‘s crash I hear,—                        As Reason‘s penetrating eye,
 Kings turn pale, and Conquerors start,                     His sulphurous Majesty I ween,
Ruffians tremble in their fear,                  130         Would find but little cause for joy.
 For their Satan doth depart.
XXVIII                                                      For the sons of Reason see                          140
This day Fiends give to revelry                              That, ere fate consume the Pole,
 To celebrate their King‘s return,                          The false Tyrant‘s cheek shall be
And with delight its Sire to see                             Bloodless as his coward soul.
 Hell‘s adamantine limits burn.                  135

                        Feelings of a Republican on the Fall of Bonaparte
                        I hated thee, fallen tyrant! I did groan
                        To think that a most unambitious slave,
                        Like thou, shouldst dance and revel on the grave
                        Of Liberty. Thou mightst have built thy throne
                        Where it had stood even now: thou didst prefer                              5
                        A frail and bloody pomp which Time has swept
                        In fragments towards Oblivion. Massacre,
                        For this I prayed, would on thy sleep have crept,
                        Treason and Slavery, Rapine, Fear, and Lust,
                        And stifled thee, their minister. I know                                    10
                        Too late, since thou and France are in the dust,
                        That Virtue owns a more eternal foe
                        Than Force or Fraud: old Custom, legal Crime,
                        And bloody Faith the foulest birth of Time.

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty
                        I                                     Of human thought or form, where art thou gone?
The awful shadow of some unseen Power                       Why dost thou pass away and leave our state,
  Floats though unseen among us,—visiting                   This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate?
  This various world with as inconstant wing                    Ask why the sunlight not for ever
As summer winds that creep from flower to flower,—              Weaves rainbows o‘er yon mountain-river,
Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountain               Why aught should fail and fade that once is shown,
shower,                                                         Why fear and dream and death and birth
    It visits with inconstant glance                            Cast on the daylight of this earth
    Each human heart and countenance;                           Such gloom,—why man has such a scope
Like hues and harmonies of evening,—                        For love and hate, despondency and hope?
    Like clouds in starlight widely spread,—
    Like memory of music fled,—                  10
    Like aught that for its grace may be                    No voice from some sublimer world hath ever 25
Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery.                          To sage or poet these responses given—
                                                               Therefore the names of Demon, Ghost, and Heaven,
                        II                                  Remain the records of their vain endeavour,
Spirit of BEAUTY, that dost consecrate                      Frail spells—whose uttered charm might not avail
  With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon              to sever,
                                                                 From all we hear and all we see,           30

    Doubt, chance and mutability.                                  Sudden, thy shadow fell on me;
Thy light alone—like mist o‘er mountains driven,              I shrieked, and clasped my hands in ecstasy!      60
    Or music by the night-wind sent
    Through strings of some still instrument,                                         VI
    Or moonlight on a midnight stream,         35
                                                              I vowed that I would dedicate my powers
Gives grace and truth to life‘s unquiet dream.                   To thee and thine—have I not kept the vow?
                                                                 With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now
                          IV                                  I call the phantoms of a thousand hours
Love, Hope, and Self-esteem, like clouds depart               Each from his voiceless grave: they have in
  And come, for some uncertain moments lent.                  visioned bowers                                 65
  Man were immortal, and omnipotent,                               Of studious zeal or love‘s delight
Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art,           40            Outwatched with me the envious night—
Keep with thy glorious train firm state within his heart.     They know that never joy illumed my brow
    Thou messenger of sympathies,                                  Unlinked with hope that thou wouldst free
    That wax and wane in lovers‘ eyes—                             This world from its dark slavery,          70
Thou—that to human thought art nourishment,                        That thou, O awful LOVELINESS,
    Like darkness to a dying flame!                  45       Wouldst give whate‘er these words cannot express.
    Depart not as thy shadow came,
    Depart not—lest the grave should be,                                              VII
Like life and fear, a dark reality.                           The day becomes more solemn and serene
                                                                When noon is past—there is a harmony
                          V                                     In autumn, and a lustre in its sky,          75
While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped                 Which through the summer is not heard or seen,
   Through many a listening chamber, cave and ruin,           As if it could not be, as if it had not been!
   And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing                Thus let thy power, which like the truth
Hopes of high talk with the departed dead.                        Of nature on my passive youth
I called on poisonous names with which our youth is fed;      Descended, to my onward life supply            80
      I was not heard—I saw them not—                             Its calm—to one who worships thee,
      When musing deeply on the lot                  55           And every form containing thee,
Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing                 Whom, SPIRIT fair, thy spells did bind
      All vital things that wake to bring                     To fear himself, and love all human kind.
      News of buds and blossoming,—

                          I met a traveller from an antique land
                          Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
                          Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
                          Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
                          And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command                               5
                          Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
                          Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
                          The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
                          And on the pedestal these words appear:
                          ‗My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:                                   10
                          Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!‘
                          Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
                          Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
                          The lone and level sands stretch far away.

                         Sonnet: England in 1819
                         An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king,—
                         Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who
                         Through public scorn,—mud from a muddy spring,—
                         Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know,
                         But leech-like to their fainting country cling,                          5
                         Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow,—
                         A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field,—
                         An army, which liberticide and prey
                         Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield,—
                         Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;                           10
                         Religion Christless, Godless—a book sealed;
                         A Senate, Time‘s worst statute unrepealed,—
                         Are graves, from which a glorious Phantom may
                         Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day.

Ode to the West Wind
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn‘s being,           Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead           Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,                25
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,         Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,               Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,           5
                                                           Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear!
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,             Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
Each like a corpse within its grave, until                 The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,          30
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow                Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Her clarion o‘er the dreaming earth, and fill     10       Beside a pumice isle in Baiae‘s bay,
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)            And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
With living hues and odours plain and hill:                Quivering within the wave‘s intenser day,

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;                  All overgrown with azure moss and flowers       35
Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!                     So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
                                                           For whose path the Atlantic‘s level powers
Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky‘s commotion,       Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
Loose clouds like earth‘s decaying leaves are shed,        The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,         The sapless foliage of the ocean, know         40

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread             Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,                   And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head       20
Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge             If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
Of the horizon to the zenith‘s height                      If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge             A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share          45

The impulse of thy strength, only less free                        Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,       60
Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even                               Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
I were as in my boyhood, and could be                              My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,                         Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
As then, when to outstrip the skyey speed        50                Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth;
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne‘er have striven                 And, by the incantation of this verse,                 65

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.                       Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!                            Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!                           Be through my lips to unawakened earth

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed 55                   The trumpet of a prophecy! O, Wind,
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.                 If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?             70
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

The Tower of Famine
Amid the desolation of a city,                                     Of solitary wealth,—the tempest-proof
Which was the cradle, and is now the grave                         Pavilions of the dark Italian air,—
Of an extinguished people,—so that Pity                            Are by its presence dimmed—they stand aloof, 15

Weeps o‘er the shipwrecks of Oblivion‘s wave,                      And are withdrawn—so that the world is bare;
There stands the Tower of Famine. It is built 5                    As if a spectre wrapped in shapeless terror
Upon some prison-homes, whose dwellers rave                        Amid a company of ladies fair

For bread, and gold, and blood: Pain, linked to Guilt,             Should glide and glow, till it became a mirror
Agitates the light flame of their hours,                           Of all their beauty, and their hair and hue,           20
Until its vital oil is spent or spilt.                             The life of their sweet eyes, with all its error,
                                                                   Should be absorbed, till they to marble grew.
There stands the pile, a tower amid the towers        10                                                               (1820)
And sacred domes; each marble-ribbàd roof,
The brazen-gated temples, and the bowers

Felicia Hemans (1793-1835; England / Wales)
                           The Rock of Cader Idris2
                           I lay on that rock where the storms have their dwelling,
                             The birthplace of phantoms, the home of the cloud;
                           Around it for ever deep music is swelling,
                             The voice of the mountain-wind, solemn and loud.
                           ‘Twas a midnight of shadows all fitfully streaming,                              5
                             Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their moan;
                           Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulfs faintly gleaming;
                             And I met the dread gloom of its grandeur alone.
 It is an old tradition of the Welsh bards, that on the summit of the mountain Cader Idris is an excavation resembling a
couch; and that whoever should pass a night in that hollow, would be found in the morning either dead, in a state of frenzy,
or endowed with the highest poetical inspiration. [ed.]
                 I lay there in silence—a spirit came o‘er me;
                   Man‘s tongue hath no language to speak what I saw:             10
                 Things glorious, unearthly, pass‘d floating before me,
                   And my heart almost fainted with rapture and awe.
                 I view‘d the dread beings around us that hover,
                   Though veil‘d by the mists of mortality‘s breath;
                 And I call‘d upon darkness the vision to cover,                  15
                   For a strife was within me of madness and death.

                 I saw them–the powers of the wind and the ocean,
                   The rush of whose pinion bears onward the storms;
                 Like the sweep of the white-rolling wave was their motion,
                   I felt their dim presence,—but knew not their forms!           20
                 I saw them–the mighty of ages departed—
                   The dead were around me that night on the hill:
                 From their eyes, as they pass‘d, a cold radiance they darted,—
                   There was light on my soul, but my heart‘s blood was chill.

                 I saw what man looks on, and dies–but my spirit                  25
                   Was strong, and triumphantly lived through that hour;
                 And, as from the grave, I awoke to inherit
                   A flame all immortal, a voice, and a power!
                 Day burst on that rock with the purple cloud crested,
                   And high Cader Idris rejoiced in the sun;—                     30
                 But O! what new glory all nature invested,
                   When the sense which gives soul to her beauty was won!

John Keats (1795-1821; England)
                 To Sleep
                 O soft embalmer of the still midnight,
                    Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
                 Our gloom-pleas‘d eyes, embower‘d from the light,
                    Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:
                 O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close                    5
                    In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,
                 Or wait the ―Amen,‖ ere thy poppy throws
                    Around my bed its lulling charities.
                 Then save me, or the passed day will shine
                 Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,—                             10
                    Save me from curious conscience, that still lords
                 Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
                    Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
                 And seal the hushed casket of my Soul.

                 Great Spirits Now on Earth are Sojourning
                 Great spirits now on earth are sojourning—
                   He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake,
                   Who on Helvellyn‘s summit, wide awake,
                 Catches his freshness from Archangel‘s wing;
                 He of the rose, the violet, the spring,                          5
                   The social smile, the chain for freedom‘s sake;
                           And lo!—whose steadfastness would never take
                         A meaner sound than Raphael‘s whispering.
                         And other spirits there are, standing apart
                           Upon the forehead of the age to come.                                  10
                         These, these will give the world another heart
                           And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum
                         Of mighty workings?—
                           Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb!

                         When I have fears that I may cease to be
                         When I have fears that I may cease to be
                           Before my pen has glean‘d my teeming brain,
                         Before high piled books, in charact‘ry,
                           Hold like rich garners the full-ripen‘d grain;
                         When I behold, upon the night‘s starr‘d face,                            5
                           Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
                         And think that I may never live to trace
                           Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
                         And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
                           That I shall never look upon thee more,                                10
                         Never have relish in the faery power
                           Of unreflecting love!—then on the shore
                         Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
                         Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.

La Belle Dame sans Merci
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,                      I made a garland for her head,
 Alone and palely loitering;                                  And bracelets too, and fragrant zone:
The sedge is wither‘d from the lake,                        She look‘d at me as she did love,
 And no birds sing.                                           And made sweet moan.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,           5          She found me roots of relish sweet,             25
 So haggard and so woe-begone?                               And honey wild, and manna dew;
The squirrel‘s granary is full,                             And sure in language strange she said,
 And the harvest‘s done.                                     ―I love thee true.‖

I see a lily on thy brow,                                   She took me to her elfin grot,
  With anguish moist and fever dew;              10          And there she gaz‘d and sighed deep,           30
And on thy cheek a fading rose                              And there I shut her wild sad eyes—
  Fast withereth too.                                        So kiss‘d to sleep.

I met a lady in the meads
  Full beautiful, a fairy‘s child;                          And there we slumber‘d on the moss,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,           15          And there I dream‘d, ah woe betide,
  And her eyes were wild.                                   The latest dream I ever dream‘d                 35
                                                             On the cold hill side.

I set her on my pacing steed,                               I saw pale kings, and princes too,
  And nothing else saw all day long;                          Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
For sideways would she lean, and sing                       Who cry‘d—―La belle Dame sans merci
  A fairy‘s song.                                20           Hath thee in thrall!‖                         40
I saw their starv‘d lips in the gloom                  And this is why I sojourn here                   45
  With horrid warning gaped wide,                       Alone and palely loitering,
And I awoke, and found me here                         Though the sedge is wither‘d from the lake,
  On the cold hill side.                                And no birds sing.

Ode to a Nightingale
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains            I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
 My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,             Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains              But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet
 One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:              Wherewith the seasonable month endows
‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,          5     The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; 45
 But being too happy in thine happiness,                 White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
  That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,             Fast-fading violets cover‘d up in leaves;
      In some melodious plot                                  And mid-May‘s eldest child,
 Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,               The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
  Singest of summer in full-throated ease.       10       The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.50

O for a draught of vintage! that hath been             Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
 Cool‘d a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,            I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,                Call‘d him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,
 Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!         To take into the air my quiet breath;
O for a beaker full of the warm South!           15    Now more than ever seems it rich to die,          55
 Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,             To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
  With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,                While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
      And purple-stainèd mouth;                               In such an ecstasy!
 That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,        Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
  And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 20         To thy high requiem become a sod.              60

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget              Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
 What thou among the leaves hast never known,           No hungry generations tread thee down;
The weariness, the fever, and the fret                 The voice I hear this passing night was heard
 Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;         In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, 25     Perhaps the self-same song that found a path      65
 Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;    Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
  Where but to think is to be full of sorrow             She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
      And leaden-eyed despairs;                              The same that ofttimes hath
 Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,            Charm‘d magic casements, opening on the foam
  Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 30          Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.       70

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,                    Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
 Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,                To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,                    Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
 Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:           As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Already with thee! tender is the night,        35      Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades         75
 And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,             Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
  Cluster‘d around by all her starry Fays                Up the hill-side; and now ‘tis buried deep
      But here there is no light,                            In the next valley-glades:
 Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown        Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
  Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.       Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?        80


Ode on Melancholy
                         I                                   Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist                          Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
  Wolf‘s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;       Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss‘d                    Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
  By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;                      And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. 20
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,             5
  Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be                                          III
     Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl               She dwells with Beauty— Beauty that must die;
A partner in your sorrow‘s mysteries;                         And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
  For shade to shade will come too drowsily,               Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
     And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. 10            Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
                                                           Ay, in the very temple of Delight                 25
                        II                                    Veil‘d Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
But when the melancholy fit shall fall                          Though seen of none save him whose
  Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,                 strenuous tongue
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,                    Can burst Joy‘s grape against his palate fine;
  And hides the green hill in an April shroud;             His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,          15             And be among her cloudy trophies hung. 30

                        To Autumn
                        Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
                          Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
                        Conspiring with him how to load and bless
                          With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
                        To bend with apples the moss‘d cottage-trees,                            5
                          And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
                             To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
                          With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
                        And still more, later flowers for the bees,
                        Until they think warm days will never cease,                             10
                             For summer has o‘er-brimm‘d their clammy cells.

                        Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
                          Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
                        Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
                          Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;                            15
                        Or on a half-reap‘d furrow sound asleep,
                          Drows‘d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
                            Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
                        And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
                          Steady thy laden head across a brook;                                  20
                          Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
                            Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

                        Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?
                          Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
                        While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,                            25
                          And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
                        Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
                          Among the river sallows, borne aloft
                            Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
                        And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;                      30
                          Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
                          The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
                            And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

                        Ode on a Grecian Urn
Thou still unravished bride of quietness!
   Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flow‘ry tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape                5
   Of deities or mortals, or of both,
     In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
   What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
     What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?               10

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
   Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
   Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave            15
   Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
     Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
     She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
   For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!                   20

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
   Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
   For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!                       25
   For ever warm and still to be enjoyed,
     For ever panting and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
   That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
     A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.                30

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?                    O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
  To what green altar, O mysterious priest,                  Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
Lead‘st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,             With forest branches and the trodden weed;
  And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?             Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
What little town by river or sea-shore,          35       As doth eternity: Cold pastoral!                  45
   Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,                  When old age shall this generation waste,
    Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?                  Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
And, little town, thy streets for evermore                   Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou sayst,
  Will silent be; and not a soul to tell                  ―Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
    Why thou art desolate, can e‘er return.      40           Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.‖50


Letitia Elizabeth Landon (1802-1838)
                         Amelioration and the Future, Man’s Noble Tasks
                         Fall, fall, ye mighty temples to the ground:
                                 Not in your sculptured rise
                                 Is the real exercise
                         Of human nature‘s brightest power found.
                         ‘Tis in the lofty hope, the daily toil,                           5
                                 ‘Tis in the gifted line,
                                 In each far thought divine,
                         That brings down Heaven to light our common soil.

                         ‘Tis in the great, the lovely, and the true;
                                 ‘Tis in the generous thought,                             10
                                 Of all that man has wrought,
                         Of all that yet remains for man to do.

                         The Castle of Chillon
                         Fair lake, thy lovely and thy haunted shore
                           Hath only echoes for the poet‘s lute;
                           None may tread there save with unsandalled foot,
                         Submissive to the great who went before,
                         Filled with mighty memories of yore.                                        5
                           And yet how mournful are the records there—
                           Captivity, and exile, and despair,
                         Did they endure who now endure no more.
                           The patriot, the woman, and the bard,
                         Whose names thy winds and waters bear along;                                10
                           What did the world bestow for their reward
                         But suffering, sorrow, bitterness, and wrong?
                           Genius, a hard and weary lot is thine—
                           Thy heart thy fuel, and the grave thy shrine.

The Factory
There rests a shade above yon town,                            Such is the moral atmosphere
  A dark funereal shroud—                                        Around thy daily life:
‘Tis not the tempest hurrying down,                            Heavy with care and pale with fear,           15
  ‘Tis not a summer cloud.                                       With future tumult rife.

The smoke that rises on the air                    5           There rises on the morning wind
  Is as a type and sign,                                         A low appealing cry—
A shadow flung by the despair                                  A thousand children are resigned
  Within those streets of thine.                                 To sicken and to die!                       20

That smoke shuts out the cheerful day,                         We read of Moloch‘s sacrifice,
  The sunset‘s purple hues,                        10            We sicken at the name,
The moonlight‘s pure and purple ray,                           And seem to hear the infant cries—
  The morning‘s pearly dews.                                     And yet we do the same!

And worse—‘twas but a moment‘s pain          25   It mutters from its wretched bed,
  The heathen altar gave,                            ‗Oh let me sleep again!‘                      60
But we give years—our idol, Gain,
  Demands a living grave!                         Alas ‘tis time—the mother‘s eyes
                                                    Turn mournfully away—
How precious is the little one                    Alas, ‘tis time the child must rise,
  Before his mother‘s sight,                 30     And yet it is not day.
With bright hair dancing in the sun,
  And eyes of azure light.                        The lantern‘s lit—she hurries forth—             65
                                                    The spare cloak‘s scanty fold
He sleeps as rosy as the south                    Scare screens her from the snowy north;
  (For summer-days are long),                       The child is pale and cold.
A prayer upon the little mouth,              35
  Lulled by his nurse‘s song.                     And wearily the little hands
                                                    Their task accustomed ply,                     70
Love is around him, and his hours                 While daily some, mid those pale bands,
  Are innocent and free:                            Droop, sicken, pine, and die.
His mind essays its early powers
  Beside his mother‘s knee.                  40   Good god, to think upon a child
                                                    That has no childish days,
When after-years of trouble come,                 No careless play, no frolics wild,               75
  Such as await man‘s prime,                        No words of prayer and praise!
How will he think of that dear home
  And childhood‘s lovely time!                    Man from the cradle—‘tis too soon
                                                    To earn their daily bread,
And such should childhood ever be—           45   And heap the heat and toil of noon
  The fairy well—to bring                           Upon an infant‘s head.                         80
To life‘s worn, weary memory
  The freshness of its spring!                    To labour ere their strength be come,
                                                    Or starve—is such the doom
But here the order is reversed                    That makes of many an English home
  And infancy, like age,                     50     One long and living tomb?
Knows of existence but its worst—
  One dull and darkened page,                     Is there no pity from above—                     85
                                                     No mercy in those skies—
Written with tears, and stamped with toil,        Hath then the heart of man no love
 Crushed from its earliest hour,                     To spare such sacrifice?
Weeds darkening on the bitter soil           55
 That never knew a flower.                        Oh England, though thy tribute waves
                                                    Proclaim thee great and free,                  90
Look on yon child! It droops the head,            While those small children pine like slaves
  Its knees are bowed with pain;                    There is a curse on thee!

The Orphan
Alone, alone!—no other face                       I heard them name my father‘s death,
Wears kindred smile, kindred line;                His home and tomb alike the wave;                10
And yet they say my mother‘s eyes.                And I was early taught to weep,
They say my father‘s brow, is mine;               Beside my youthful mother‘s grave.
And either had rejected to see               5    I wish I could recall one look,—
The other‘s likeness in my face,                  But only one familiar tone;
But now it is a stranger‘s eye,                   If I had aught of memory,                        15
That finds some long forgotten trace.             I should not feel so all alone.

My heart is gone beyond the grave,                Dost thou pine for me, as I pine
In search of love I cannot find,                  Again a parent‘s love to share?                  30
Till I could fancy soothing words                 I often kneel beside thy grave,
Are whisper‘d by the ev‘ning wind:           20   And pray to be a sleeper there.
I gaze upon the watching stars,
So clear, so beautiful above,                     The vesper bell!—‘tis eventide,
Till I could dream they look on me                I will not weep, but I will pray:
With something of an answering love.              God of the fatherless, ‘tis Thou                 35
                                                  Alone canst be the orphan‘s stay!
My mother! does thy gentle eye               25   Earth‘s meanest flower, heaven‘s mightiest star,
Look from those distant stars on me?              Are equal to their Maker‘s love.
Or does the wind at ev‘ning bear                  And I can say, ―Thy will be done,‖
A message to thy child from thee?                 With eyes that fix their hopes above.            40

James Clarence Mangan (1803-1849; Ireland)
King Cahal Mór Of The Wine-Red Hand
I walked entranced                                And their thrilling chime
Through a land of Morn:                           Fell on mine ears
The sun, with wondrous excess of light,           As the heavenly hymn of an angel-band—
Shone down and glanced                            ―It is now the time
Over seas of corn                            5    These be the years,                              35
And lustrous gardens aleft and right.             Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.‖
Even in the clime
Of resplendent Spain,                             I sought the hall,
Beams no such sun upon such a land;               And behold!—a change
But it was the time,                         10   From light to darkness, from joy to woe!
‘Twas in the reign,                               Kings, nobles, all,                              40
Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.                Looked aghast and strange;
                                                  The minstrel group sate in dumbest show!
Anon stood nigh                                   Had some great crime
By my side a man                                  Wrought this dread amaze,
Of princely aspect and port sublime          15   This terror? None seemed to understand           45
Him queried I—                                    ‘Twas then the time,
―Oh, my Lord and Khan,                            We were in the days,
What clime is this, and what golden time?‖        Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.
When he—―The clime
Is a clime to praise,                        20   I again walked forth;
The clime is Erin‘s, the green and bland;         But lo! the sky                                  50
And it is the time,                               Showed flecked with blood, and an alien sun
These be the days,                                Glared from the north,
Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.‖               And there stood on high,
                                                  Amid his shorn beams, a skeleton!
Then saw I thrones                           25   It was by the stream                             55
And circling fires,                               Of the castled Maine,
And a Dome rose near me, as by a spell,           One Autumn eve, in the Teuton‘s land,
Whence flowed the tones                           That I dreamed this dream
Of silver lyres,                                  Of the time and reign
And many voices in wreathèd swell;           30   Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.               60

Dark Rosaleen
O my Dark Rosaleen,                                ‘Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,
 Do not sigh, do not weep!                           My Dark Rosaleen!
The priests are on the ocean green,                  My own Rosaleen!                              45
 They march along the deep.                        ‘Tis you shall have the golden throne,
There‘s wine from the royal Pope,             5    ‘Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,
 Upon the ocean green;                               My Dark Rosaleen!
And Spanish ale shall give you hope,
 My Dark Rosaleen!                                 Over dews, over sands,
 My own Rosaleen!                                   Will I fly, for your weal:                     50
Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,   10   Your holy delicate white hands
Shall give you health, and help, and hope,          Shall girdle me with steel.
 My Dark Rosaleen!                                 At home, in your emerald bowers,
                                                    From morning‘s dawn till e‘en,
Over hills, and thro‘ dales,                       You‘ll pray for me, my flower of flowers,       55
 Have I roam‘d for your sake;                       My Dark Rosaleen!
All yesterday I sail‘d with sails             15    My fond Rosaleen!
 On river and on lake.                             You‘ll think of me through daylight hours,
The Erne, at its highest flood,                    My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,
 I dash‘d across unseen,                            My Dark Rosaleen!                              60
For there was lightning in my blood,
 My Dark Rosaleen!                            20   I could scale the blue air,
 My own Rosaleen!                                    I could plough the high hills,
O, there was lightning in my blood,                O, I could kneel all night in prayer,
Red lightning lighten‘d thro‘ my blood,              To heal your many ills!
 My Dark Rosaleen!                                 And one beamy smile from you                    65
                                                     Would float like light between
All day long, in unrest,                      25   My toils and me, my own, my true,
 To and fro, do I move.                              My Dark Rosaleen!
The very soul within my breast                       My fond Rosaleen!
 Is wasted for you, love!                          Would give me life and soul anew,               70
The heart in my bosom faints                       A second life, a soul anew,
 To think of you, my Queen,                   30     My Dark Rosaleen!
My life of life, my saint of saints,
 My Dark Rosaleen!                                 O, the Erne shall run red,
 My own Rosaleen!                                   With redundance of blood,
To hear your sweet and sad complaints,             The earth shall rock beneath our tread,         75
My life, my love, my saint of saints,         35    And flames wrap hill and wood,
 My Dark Rosaleen!                                 And gun-peal and slogan-cry
                                                    Wake many a glen serene,
Woe and pain, pain and woe,                        Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,
 Are my lot, night and noon,                        My Dark Rosaleen!                              80
To see your bright face clouded so,                 My own Rosaleen!
 Like to the mournful moon.                   40   The Judgement Hour must first be nigh,
But yet will I rear your throne                    Ere you can fade, ere you can die,
 Again in golden sheen;                             My Dark Rosaleen!

A Lament for the Princes of Tyrone and Tyrconnel
O woman of the piercing wail,                      Thou would‘st not then from day to day          5
Who mournest o‘er yon mound of clay                Weep thus alone.
With sigh and groan,                               ‘Twere long before around a grave
Would God thou wert among the Gael!                In green Tyrconnel, one could find
This loneliness;                                  Resound anew!                                  60
Near where Beann-Boirche‘s banners wave,     10
Such grief as thine could ne‘er have pined        The youths whose relics moulder here
Companionless.                                    Were sprung from Hugh, high prince and lord
                                                  Of Aileach‘s lands;
Beside the wave in Donegal,                       Thy noble brothers, justly dear,
In Antrim‘s glens, or fair Dromore,               Thy nephew, long to be deplored                65
Or Killilee,                                 15   By Ulster‘s bands.
Or where the sunny waters fall                    Theirs were not souls wherein dull time
At Assaroe, near Erna shore,                      Could domicile decay, or house
This could not be.                                Decrepitude!
On Derry‘s plains, in rich Drumcliff,             They passed from earth ere manhood‘s prime,    70
Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned        20   Ere years had power to dim their brows,
In olden years,                                   Or chill their blood.
No day could pass but woman‘s grief
Would rain upon the burial-ground                 And who can marvel o‘er thy grief,
Fresh floods of tears!                            Or who can blame thy flowing tears,
                                                  Who knows their source?                        75
O no!—From Shannon, Boyne, and Suir,         25   O‘Donnell, Dunnasava‘s chief,
From high Dunluce‘s castle-walls,                 Cut off amid his vernal years,
From Lissadill,                                   Lies here a corse
Would flock alike both rich and poor:             Beside his brother Cathbar, whom
One wail would rise from Cruachan‘s halls         Tyrconnell of the Helmets mourns               80
To Tara Hill;                                30   In deep despair:
And some would come from Barrow-side,             For valour, truth, and comely bloom,
And many a maid would leave her home              For all that greatens and adorns,
On Leitrim‘s plains,                              A peerless pair.
And by melodious Banna‘s tide,
And by the Mourne and Erne, to come          35   Oh, had these twain, and he, the third,        85
And swell thy strains!                            The Lord of Mourne, O‘Niall‘s son
                                                  (Their mate in death),
O, horses‘ hoofs would trample down               A prince in look, in deed, and word,
The mount whereon the martyr-saint                Had these three heroes yielded on
Was crucified;                                    The field their breath,                        90
From glen and hill, from plain and town,     40   Oh, had they fallen on Criffan‘s plain,
One loud lament, one thrilling plaint,            There would not be a town or clan
Would echo wide                                   From shore to sea,
There would not soon be found, I ween,            But would with shrieks bewail the slain,
One foot of ground among those bands              Or chant aloud the exulting rann               95
For museful thought,                         45   Of jubilee!
So many shriekers of the keen
Would cry aloud, and clap their hands,            When high the shout of battle rose,
All woe-distraught!                               On fields where Freedom‘s torch still burned
                                                  Through Erin‘s gloom,
Two princes of the line of Conn                   If one, if barely one of those                 100
Sleep in their cells of clay beside          50   Were slain, all Ulster would have mourned
O‘Donnell Roe:                                    The hero‘s doom!
Three royal youths, alas! are gone,               If at Athboy, where hosts of brave
Who lived for Erin‘s weal, but died               Ulidian horsemen sank beneath
For Erin‘s woe.                                   The shock of spears,                           105
Ah, could the men of Ireland read            55   Young Hugh O‘Neill had found a grave,
The names those noteless burial-stones            Long must the North have wept his death
Display to view,                                  With heart-wrung tears!
Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed,
Their tears gush forth again, their groans        If on the day of Ballach-myre
The Lord of Mourne had met thus young,     110   How would the triumph of his ranks            160
A warrior‘s fate,                                be dashed with grief!
In vain would such as thou desire                How would the troops of Murbach Mourn
To mourn, alone, the champion sprung             If on the Curlew Mountains‘ day
From Niall the Great!                            Which England rued,
No marvel this—for all the dead,                 Some Saxon hand had left them lorn,           165
Heaped on the field, pile over pile,       115   By shedding there, amid the fray,
At Mullach-brack,                                Their prince‘s blood!
Were scarce an eric for his head,
If death had stayed his footsteps while          Red would have been our warriors‘ eyes
On victory‘s track!                              Had Roderick found on Sligo‘s field
                                                 A gory grave,                                 170
If on the Day of Hostages                  120   No Northern Chief would soon arise
The fruit had from the parent bough              So sage to guide, so strong to shield,
Been rudely torn                                 So swift to save.
In sight of Munster‘s bands-MacNee‘s—            Long would Leith-Cuinn have wept if Hugh
Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow,             Had met the death he oft had dealt            175
Could ill have borne.                      125   Among the foe;
If on the day of Ballach-boy                     But, had our Roderick fallen too,
Some arm had laid by foul surprise,              All Erin must, alas! have felt
The chieftain low,                               The deadly blow!
Even our victorious shout of joy
Would soon give place to rueful cries      130   What do I say? Ah, woe is me!                 180
And groans of woe!                               Already we bewail in vain
                                                 Their fatal fall!
If on the day the Saxon host                     And Erin, once the great and free,
Were forced to fly—a day so great                Now vainly mourns her breakless chain,
For Ashanee—                                     And iron thrall.                              185
The Chief had been untimely lost,          135   Then, daughter of O‘Donnell, dry
Our conquering troops should moderate            Thine overflowing eyes, and turn
Their mirthful glee.                             Thy heart aside,
There would not lack on Lifford‘s day,           For Adam‘s race is born to die,
From Galway, from the glens of Boyle,            And sternly the sepulchral urn                190
From Limerick‘s towers,                    140   Mocks human pride.
A marshalled file, a long array
Of mourners to bedew the soil                    Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne,
With tears in showers!                           Nor place thy trust in arm of clay,
                                                 But on thy knees
If on the day a sterner fate                     Uplift thy soul to God Alone,                 195
Compelled his flight from Athenree,        145   For all things go their destined way
His blood had flowed,                            As He decrees.
What numbers all disconsolate,                   Embrace the faithful crucifix,
Would come unasked, and share with thee          And seek the path of pain and prayer
Affliction‘s load!                               Thy Saviour trod;                             200
If Derry‘s crimson field had seen          150   Nor let thy spirit intermix
His life-blood offered up, though ‘twere         With earthly hope, with worldly care,
On Victory‘s shrine,                             Its groans to God!
A thousand cries would swell the keen,
A thousand voices of despair                     And Thou, O mighty Lord! Whose Ways
Would echo thine!                          155   Are far above our feeble minds                205
                                                 To understand,
Oh, had the fierce Dalcassian swarm              Sustain us in these doleful days,
That bloody night of Fergus‘ banks               And render light the chain that binds
But slain our Chief,                             Our fallen land!
When rose his camp in wild alarm—                                                           (1842)
The Nameless One
Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river,             Go on to tell how, with genius wasted,
 That sweeps along to the mighty sea;                     Betray‘d in friendship, befool‘d in love,      30
God will inspire me while I deliver                      With spirit shipwreck‘d, and young hopes blasted,
          My soul of thee!                                         He still, still strove;

Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening 5       Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others
 Amid the last homes of youth and eld,                    (And some whose hands should have wrought for him,
That once there was one whose veins ran lightning        If children live not for sires and mothers),    35
          No eye beheld.                                            His mind grew dim;

Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour,           And he fell far through that pit abysmal,
 How shone for him, through his griefs and gloom,         The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns,
No star of all heaven sends to light our                 And pawn‘d his soul for the devil‘s dismal
          Path to the tomb.                                       Stock of returns.                           40

Roll on, my song, and to after ages                      But yet redeem‘d it in days of darkness,
 Tell how, disdaining all earth can give,                 And shapes and signs of the final wrath,
He would have taught men, from wisdom‘s pages,           When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness,
          The way to live.                                         Stood on his path.

And tell how trampled, derided, hated,                   And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow,       45
 And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong,                And want, and sickness, and houseless nights,
He fled for shelter to God, who mated                    He bides in calmness the silent morrow,
          His soul with song.                     20               That no ray lights.

—With song which alway, sublime or vapid,                And lives he still, then? Yes! Old and hoary
 Flow‘d like a rill in the morning beam,                  At thirty-nine, from despair and woe,               50
Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid—               He lives, enduring what future story
         A mountain stream.                                        Will never know.

Tell how this Nameless, condemn‘d for years long         Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble,
 To herd with demons from hell beneath,                   Deep in your bosoms: there let him dwell!
Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, long    He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble,         55
          For even death.                                          Here and in hell.

Caroline Norton (1808-1877)
From Voice from the Factories
I.                                                      II.
  When fallen man from Paradise was driven,              Sacred to heavenly peace, those years remain!
  Forth to a world of labour, death, and care;           And when with clouds their dawn is overcast,
  Still, of his native Eden, bounteous Heaven            Unnatural seem the sorrow and the pain
  Resolved one brief memorial to spare,                  (Which rosy joy flies forth to banish fast,
  And gave his offspring an imperfect share              Because that season‘s sadness may not last).
  Of that lost happiness, amid decay;                    Light is their grief! a word of fondness cheers
  Making their first approach to life seem fair,         The unhaunted heart; the shadow glideth past;
  And giving, for the Eden past away,                    Unknown to them the weight of boding fears,
CHILDHOOD, the weary life‘s long happy holyday.         And soft as dew on flowers their bright, ungrieving

III.                                                     All thoughts of innocent joy that visit earth–
 See the Stage-Wonder (taught to earn its bread         Prayer–slumber–fondness–smiles–and hours of rosy
 By the exertion of an infant skill),                       mirth.
 Forsake the wholesome slumbers of its bed,
 And mime, obedient to the public will.                 VIII.
 Where is the heart so cold that does not thrill         And therefore when we hear the shrill faint cries
 With a vexatious sympathy, to see                       Which mark the wanderings of the little sweep;
 That child prepare to play its part, and still          Or when, with glittering teeth and sunny eyes,
 With simulated airs of gaiety                           The boy-Italian‘s voice, so soft and deep,
Rise to the dangerous rope, and bend the supple knee?    Asks alms for his poor marmoset asleep;
                                                         They fill our hearts with pitying regret,
IV.                                                      Those little vagrants doomed so soon to weep–
 Painted and spangled, trembling there it stands,        As though a term of joy for all was set,
 Glances below for friend or father‘s face,             And that their share of Life‘s long suffering was not
 Then lifts its small round arms and feeble hands           yet.
 With the taught movements of an artist‘s grace:
 Leaves its uncertain gilded resting-place–             IX.
 Springs lightly as the elastic cord gives way–          Ever a toiling child doth make us sad:
 And runs along with scarce perceptible pace–            ‘T is an unnatural and mournful sight,
 Like a bright bird upon a waving spray,                 Because we feel their smiles should be so glad,
Fluttering and sinking still, whene‘er the branches      Because we know their eyes should be so bright.
    play.                                                What is it, then, when, tasked beyond their might,
                                                         They labour all day long for others‘ gain,–
V.                                                       Nay, trespass on the still and pleasant night,
 Now watch! a joyless and distorted smile                While uncompleted hours of toil remain?
 Its innocent lips assume; (the dancer‘s leer!)         Poor little FACTORY SLAVES–for You these lines
 Conquering its terror for a little while:                 complain!
 Then lets the TRUTH OF INFANCY appear,
 And with a stare of numbed and childish fear           X.
 Looks sadly towards the audience come to gaze           Beyond all sorrow which the wanderer knows,
 On the unwonted skill which costs so dear,              Is that these little pent-up wretches feel;
 While still the applauding crowd, with pleased          Where the air thick and close and stagnant grows,
     amaze,                                              And the low whirring of the incessant wheel
Ring through its dizzy ears unwelcome shouts of          Dizzies the head, and makes the senses reel:
     praise.                                             There, shut for ever from the gladdening sky,
                                                         Vice premature and Care‘s corroding seal
VI.                                                      Stamp on each sallow cheek their hateful die,
 What is it makes us feel relieved to see               Line the smooth open brow, and sink the saddened
 That hapless little dancer reach the ground;                eye.
 With its whole spirit‘s elasticity
 Thrown into one glad, safe, triumphant bound?          XI.
 Why are we sad, when, as it gazes round                 For them the fervid summer only brings
 At that wide sea of paint, and gauze, and plumes,       A double curse of stifling withering heat;
 (Once more awake to sense, and sight, and sound,)       For them no flowers spring up, no wild bird sings,
 The nature of its age it re-assumes,                    No moss-grown walks refresh their weary feet;–
And one spontaneous smile at length its face illumes?    No river‘s murmuring sound;–no wood-walk, sweet
                                                         With many a flower the learned slight and pass;–
VII.                                                     Nor meadow, with pale cowslips thickly set
 Because we feel, for Childhood‘s years and strength,    Amid the soft leaves of its tufted grass,–
 Unnatural and hard the task hath been;–                Lure them a childish stock of treasures to amass.
 Because our sickened souls revolt at length,
 And ask what infant-innocence may mean,                XII.
 Thus toiling through the artificial scene;–             Have we forgotten our own infancy,
 Because at that word, CHILDHOOD, start to birth         That joys so simple are to them denied?–
 All dreams of hope and happiness serene–                Our boyhood‘s hopes–our wanderings far and free,
 Where yellow gorse-bush left the common wide            Of the unalienable RIGHT OF GAIN,
 And open to the breeze?–The active pride                Those who against Truth‘s brightest eloquence
 Which made each obstacle a pleasure seem;               Upheld the cause of torture and of pain:
 When, rashly glad, all danger we defied,                And fear of Property‘s Decrease made vain,
 Dashed through the brook by twilight‘s fading gleam,    For years, the hope of Christian Charity
Or scorned the tottering plank, and leapt the narrow     To lift the curse from SLAVERY‘s dark domain,
    stream?                                              And send across the wide Atlantic sea
                                                        The watchword of brave men–the thrilling shout, ―BE
XIII.                                                       FREE!‖
 In lieu of this,–from short and bitter night,
 Sullen and sad the infant labourer creeps;             XVIII.
 He joys not in the glow of morning‘s light,             What is to be a slave? Is‘t not to spend
 But with an idle yearning stands and weeps,             A life bowed down beneath a grinding ill?–
 Envying the babe that in its cradle sleeps:             To labour on to serve another‘s end,–
 And ever as he slowly journeys on,                      To give up leisure, health, and strength, and skill–
 His listless tongue unbidden silence keeps;             And give up each of these against your will?
 His fellow-labourers (playmates hath he none)           Hark to the angry answer:– ―Theirs is not
Walk by, as sad as he, nor hail the morning sun.         A life of slavery; if they labour,–still
                                                         We pay their toil. Free service is their lot;
XIV.                                                    And what their labour yields, by us is fairly got.‖
 Mark the result. Unnaturally debarred
 All nature‘s fresh and innocent delights,              XIX.
 While yet each germing energy strives hard,             Oh, Men! blaspheme not Freedom! Are they free
 And pristine good with pristine evil fights;            Who toil until the body‘s strength gives way?
 When every passing dream the heart excites,             Who may not set a term for Liberty,
 And makes even guarded virtue insecure;                 Who have no time for food, or rest, or play,
 Untaught, unchecked, they yield as vice invites:        But struggle through the long unwelcome day
 With all around them cramped, confined, impure,         Without the leisure to be good or glad?
Fast spreads the moral plague which nothing new shall    Such is their service–call it what you may.
    cure.                                                Poor little creatures, overtasked and sad,
                                                        Your Slavery hath no name,–yet is its Curse as bad!
 Yes, this reproach is added; (infamous                 XX.
 In realms which own a Christian monarch‘s sway!)        Again an answer. ―‘T is their parents‘ choice.
 Not suffering only is their portion, thus               By some employ the poor man‘s child must earn
 Compelled to toil their youthful lives away:            Its daily bread; and infants have no voice
 Excessive labour works the SOUL‘s decay–                In what the allotted task shall be: they learn
 Quenches the intellectual light within–                 What answers best, or suits the parents‘ turn.‖
 Crushes with iron weight the mind‘s free play–          Mournful reply! Do not your hearts inquire
 Steals from us LEISURE purer thoughts to win–           Who tempts the parents‘ penury? They yearn
And leaves us sunk and lost in dull and native sin.      Toward their offspring with a strong desire,
                                                        But those who starve will sell, even what they most
XVI.                                                         require.
 Yet in the British Senate men rise up,
 (The freeborn and the fathers of our land!)            XXI.
 And while these drink the dregs of Sorrow‘s cup,        We grant their class must labour–young and old;
 Deny the sufferings of the pining band.                 We grant the child the needy parents‘ tool:
 With nice-drawn calculations at command,                But still our hearts a better plan behold;
 They prove–rebut–explain–and reason long;               No bright Utopia of some dreaming fool,
 Proud of each shallow argument they stand,              But rationally just, and good by rule.
 And prostitute their utmost powers of tongue            Not against TOIL, but TOIL‘S EXCESS we pray,
Feebly to justify this great and glaring wrong.          (Else were we nursed in Folly‘s simplest school);
                                                         That so our country‘s hardy children may
XVII.                                                   Learn not to loathe, but bless, the well apportioned
 So rose, with such a plausible defence                     day.
XXII.                                                     Become a by-word in the Nation‘s ears,
 One more reply! The last reply–the great                 As one who pitying heard the stranger‘s groan,
 Answer to all that sense or feeling shows,              But to these nearer woes was cold and deaf as stone.
 To which all others are subordinate:–
 ―The Masters of the Factories must lose                 XXVII.
 By the abridgement of these infant woes.                 Are there not changes made which grind the Poor?
 Show us the remedy which shall combine                   Are there not losses every day sustained,–
 Our equal gain with their increased repose–              Deep grievances, which make the spirit sore?
 Which shall not make our trading class repine,           And what the answer, when these have complained?
But to the proffered boon its strong effects confine.‖    ―For crying evils there hath been ordained
                                                          The REMEDY OF CHANGE; to obey its call
                                                          Some individual loss must be disdained,
XXIII.                                                    And pass as unavoidable and small,
 Oh! shall it then be said that TYRANT acts              Weighed with the broad result of general good to all.‖
 Are those which cause our country‘s looms to thrive?
 That Merchant England‘s prosperous trade exacts         XXVIII.
 This bitter sacrifice, e‘er she derive                   Oh! such an evil now doth cry aloud!
 That profit due, for which the feeble strive?            And CHANGE should be by generous hearts begun,
 Is her commercial avarice so keen,                       Though slower gain attend the prosperous crowd;
 That in her busy multitudinous hive                      Lessening the fortunes for their children won.
 Hundreds must die like insects, scarcely seen,           Why should it grieve a father, that his son
While the thick-thronged survivors work where they        Plain competence must moderately bless?
     have been?                                           That he must trade, even as his sire has done,
                                                          Not born to independent idleness,
XXIV.                                                    Though honestly above all probable distress?
 Forbid it, Spirit of the glorious Past                  ...................... .............
 Which gained our Isle the surname of ‗The Free,‘
 And made our shores a refuge at the last                XXXIV.
 To all who would not bend the servile knee,              Fondly familiar is the look she gives
 The vainly-vanquished sons of Liberty!                   As he returns, who forth so lately went,—
 Here ever came the injured, the opprest,                 For they together pass their happy lives;
 Compelled from the Oppressor‘s face to flee–             And many a tranquil evening have they spent
 And found a home of shelter and of rest                  Since, blushing, ignorantly innocent,
In the warm generous heart that beat in England‘s         She vowed, with downcast eyes and changeful hue,
     breast.                                              To love Him only. Love fulfilled, hath lent
                                                          Its deep repose; and when he meets her view,
XXV.                                                     Her soft look only says, —―I trust—and I am true.‖
 Here came the Slave, who straightway burst his
    chain,                                               XXXV.
 And knew that none could ever bind him more;             Scattered like flowers, the rosy children play—
 Here came the melancholy sons of Spain;                  Or round her chair a busy crowd they press;
 And here, more buoyant Gaul‘s illustrious poor           But, at the FATHER‘s coming, start away,
 Waited the same bright day that shone before.            With playful struggle for his loved caress,
 Here rests the Enthusiast Pole! and views afar           And jealous of the one he first may bless.
 With dreaming hope, from this protecting shore,          To each, a welcoming word is fondly said;
 The trembling rays of Liberty‘s pale star                He bends and kisses some; lifts up the less;
Shine forth in vain to light the too-unequal war!         Admires the little cheek, so round and red,
                                                         Or smooths with tender hand the curled and shining
XXVI.                                                        head.
 And shall REPROACH cling darkly to the name
 Which every memory so much endears?                     XXXVI.
 Shall we, too, tyrannise,–and tardy Fame                 Oh! let us pause, and gaze upon them now.
 Revoke the glory of our former years,                    Is there not one–beloved and lovely boy!
 And stain Britannia‘s flag with children‘s tears?        With Mirth‘s bright seal upon his open brow,
 So shall the mercy of the English throne                 And sweet fond eyes, brimful of love and joy?
 He, whom no measure of delight can cloy,            XLI.
 The daring and the darling of the set;               Or, sparing these, send Her whose simplest words
 He who, though pleased with every passing toy,       Have power to charm,—whose warbled, childish
 Thoughtless and buoyant to excess, could yet            song,
Never a gentle word or kindly deed forget? . . . .    Fluent and clear and bird-like, strikes the chords
                                                      Of sympathy among the listening throng,—
XXXVII.                                               Whose spirits light, and steps that dance along,
 And one, more fragile than the rest, for whom—       Instinctive modesty and grace restrain:
 As for the weak bird in a crowded nest—              The fair young innocent who knows no wrong,—
 Are needed all the fostering care of home            Whose slender wrists scarce hold the silken skein
 And the soft comfort of the brooding breast:        Which the glad Mother winds;—shall She endure this
 One, who hath oft the couch of sickness prest!          pain?
 On whom the Mother looks, as it goes by,
 With tenderness intense, and fear supprest,         XLII.
 While the soft patience of her anxious eye           Away! The thought—the thought alone brings tears!
Blends with ―God‘s will be done,‖—―God grant thou     THEY labour—they, the darlings of our lives!
    may‘st not die!‖                                  The flowers and the sunbeams of our fleeting years;
                                                      From whom alone our happiness derives
XXXVIII.                                              A lasting strength, which every shock survives;
 And is there not the elder of the band?              The green young trees beneath whose arching boughs
 She with the gentle smile and smooth bright hair,    (When failing Energy no longer strives,)
 Waiting, some paces back,—content to stand           Our wearied age shall find a cool repose;—
 Till these of Love‘s caresses have their share;     THEY toil in torture!—No—the painful picture close.
 Knowing how soon his fond paternal care
 Shall seek his violet in her shady nook,—           XLIII.
 Patient she stands–demure, and brightly fair—        Ye shudder,—nor behold the vision more!
 Copying the meekness of her Mother‘s look,           Oh, Fathers! is there then one law for these,
And clasping in her hand the favourite story-book.    And one for the pale children of the Poor,—
                                                      That to their agony your hearts can freeze;
XXXIX.                                                Deny their pain, their toil, their slow disease;
 Wake, dreamer!—Choose;—to labour Life away,          And deem with false complaining they encroach
 Which of these little precious ones shall go         Upon your time and thought? Is yours the Ease
 (Debarred of summer-light and cheerful play)         Which misery vainly struggles to approach,
 To that receptacle for dreary woe,                  Whirling unthinking by, in Luxury‘s gilded coach?
 The Factory Mill?—Shall He, in whom the glow
 Of Life shines bright, whose free limbs‘ vigorous   XLIV.
    tread                                             Examine and decide. Watch through his day
 Warns us how much of beauty that we know             One of these little ones. The sun hath shone
 Would fade, when he became dispirited,               An hour, and by the ruddy morning‘s ray,
And pined with sickened heart, and bowed his          The last and least, he saunters on alone.
    fainting head?                                    See where, still pausing on the threshold stone,
                                                      He stands, as loth to lose the bracing wind;
XL.                                                   With wistful wandering glances backward thrown
 Or shall the little quiet one, whose voice           On all the light and glory left behind,
 So rarely mingles in their sounds of glee,          And sighs to think that HE must darkly be confined!
 Whose life can bid no living thing rejoice,
 But rather is a long anxiety;—                      XLV.
 Shall he go forth to toil? and keep the free         Enter with him. The stranger who surveys
 Frank boy, whose merry shouts and restless grace     The little natives of that dreary place
 Would leave all eyes that used his face to see,      (Where squalid suffering meets his shrinking gaze),
 Wistfully gazing towards that vacant space           Used to the glory of a young child‘s face,
Which makes their fireside seem a lone and dreary     Its changeful light, its coloured sparkling grace,
    place?                                            (Gleams of Heaven‘s sunshine on our shadowed
                                                      Starts at each visage wan, and bold, and base,
 Whose smiles have neither innocence nor mirth,—         Breaks the sick silence: staring at the guest
And comprehends the Sin original from birth.             Who comes to view their labour, they beguile
                                                         The unwatched moment; whispers half supprest
XLVI.                                                    And mutterings low, their faded lips defile,—
 There the pale Orphan, whose unequal strength          While gleams from face to face a strange and sullen
 Loathes the incessant toil it must pursue,                 smile.
 Pines for the cool sweet evening‘s twilight length,
 The sunny play-hour, and the morning‘s dew:            XLVIII.
 Worn with its cheerless life‘s monotonous hue,          These then are his Companions: he, too young
 Bowed down, and faint, and stupefied it stands;         To share their base and saddening merriment,
 Each half-seen object reeling in its view—              Sits by: his little head in silence hung;
 While its hot, trembling, languid little hands          His limbs cramped up; his body weakly bent;
Mechanically heed the Task-master‘s commands.            Toiling obedient, till long hours so spent
                                                         Produce Exhaustion‘s slumber, dull and deep.
XLVII.                                                   The Watcher‘s stroke,—bold—sudden—violent,—
 There, sounds of wailing grief and painful blows        Urges him from that lethargy of sleep,
 Offend the ear, and startle it from rest;              And bids him wake to Life,—to labour and to weep!
 (While the lungs gasp what air the place bestows;)
 Or misery‘s joyless vice, the ribald jest,

Romanticism in the United States
Joel Barlow (1754-1812)
Advice to a Raven in Russia
   Black fool, why winter here? These frozen skies,      Glow deep with purple drawn from Gallic veins.
Worn by your wings and deafen‘d by your cries,           No Raven‘s wing can stretch the flight so far
Should warn you hence, where milder suns invite,         As the torn bandrols of Napoleon‘s war.           30
And day alternates with his mother night.                Choose then your climate, fix your best abode,
   You fear perhaps your food will fail you there,5      He‘ll make you deserts and he‘ll bring you blood.
Your human carnage, that delicious fare                     How could you fear a dearth? have not mankind,
That lured you hither, following still your friend       Tho slain by millions, millions left behind?
The great Napoleon to the world‘s bleak end.             Has not CONSCRIPTION still the power to wield 35
You fear, because the southern climes pour‘d forth       Her annual faulchion o‘er the human field?
Their clustering nations to infest the north,      10    A faithful harvester! or if a man
Barvarians, Austrians, those who drink the Po            Escape that gleaner, shall he scape the BAN?
And those who skirt the Tuscan seas below,               The triple BAN, that like the hound of hell
With all Germania, Neustria, Belgia, Gaul,               Gripes with three joles, to hold his victim well. 40
Doom‘d here to wade thro slaughter to their fall,           Fear nothing then, hatch fast your ravenous
You fear he left behind no wars, to feed           15    brood,
His feather‘d cannibals and nurse the breed.             Teach them to cry to Bonaparte for food;
   Fear not, my screamer, call your greedy train,        They‘ll be like you, of all his suppliant train,
Sweep over Europe, hurry back to Spain,                  The only class that never cries in vain.
You‘ll find his legions there; the valiant crew          For see what mutual benefits you lend!            45
Please best their master when they toil for you. 20      (The surest way to fix the mutual friend)
Abundant there they spread the country o‘er              While on his slaughter‘d troops your tribes are fed,
And taint the breeze with every nation‘s gore,           You cleanse his camp and carry off his dead.
Iberian, Lussian, British widely strown,                 Imperial Scavenger! but now you know
But still more wide and copious flows their own.         Your work is vain amid these hills of snow.       50
   Go where you will; Calabria, Malta, Greece, 25        His tentless troops are marbled thro with frost
Egypt and Syria still his fame increase,                 And change to crystal when the breath is lost.
Domingo‘s fatten‘d isle and India‘s plains               Mere trunks of ice, tho‘ limb‘d like human frames
And lately warm‘d with life‘s endearing flames,            Rejoin your master; for you‘ll find him then,
They cannot taint the air, the world impest,      55       With his new million of the race of men,         70
Nor can you tear one fiber from their breast.              Clothed in his thunders, all his flags unfurl‘d,
No! from their visual sockets, as they lie,                Raging and storming o‘er the prostrate world.
With beak and claws you cannot pluck an eye.                  War after war his hungry soul requires,
The frozen orb, preserving still its form,                 State after State shall sink beneath his fires,
Defies your talons as it braves the storm,        60       Yet other Spains in victim smoke shall rise      75
But stands and stares to God, as if to know                And other Moskows suffocate the skies,
In what curst hands he leaves his world below.             Each land lie reeking with its people‘s slain
   Fly then, or starve; tho all the dreadful road          And not a stream run bloodless to the main.
From Minsk to Moskow with their bodies strow‘d             Till men resume their souls, and dare to shed
May count some Myriads, yet they can‘t suffice 65          Earth‘s total vengeance on the monster‘s head, 80
To feed you more beneath these dreary skies.               Hurl from his blood-built throne this king of woes,
Go back, and winter in the wilds of Spain;                 Dash him to dust, and let the world repose.
Feast there awhile, and in the next campaign
                                                                                               December, 1812

William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878)

The Massacre at Scio
Weep not for Scio‘s children slain;                        And for each corpse, that in the sea
  Their blood, by Turkish falchions shed,                    Was thrown, to feast the scaly herds,         10
Sends not its cry to Heaven in vain                        A hundred of the foe shall be
  For vengeance on the murder‘s head.                        A banquet for the mountain-birds.

Though high the red warm torrent ran             5         Stern rites and sad shall Greece ordain
  Between the flames that lit the sky,                       To keep that day along her shore,
Yet, for each drop, an arméd man                           Till the last link of slavery‘s chain           15
  Shall rise, to free the land, or die.                      Is shattered, to be worn no more.

                         William Tell
                         Chains may subdue the feeble spirit, but thee,
                          Tell , of the iron heart! they could not tame!
                          For thou wert of the mountains; they proclaim
                         The everlasting creed of liberty.
                         That creed is written on the untrampled snow,                           5
                          Thundered by torrents which no power can hold,
                          Save that of God, when He sends forth His cold,
                         And breathed by winds that through the free heaven blow
                         Thou, while thy prison-walls were dark around,
                          Didst meditate the lesson Nature taught,                               10
                          And to thy brief captivity was brought
                         A vision of thy Switzerland unbound.
                          The bitter cup they mingled, strengthened thee
                          For the great work to set thy country free.

                         The Damsel of Peru
                         Where olive-leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew,
                         There sat beneath the pleasant shade a damsel of Peru.
                        Betwixt the slender boughs, as they opened to the air,
                        Came glimpses of her ivory neck and of her glossy hair;
                        And sweetly rang her silver voice, within that shady nook,               5
                        As from the shrubby glen is heard the sound of hidden brook.

                        ‘Tis a song of love and valor, in the noble Spanish tongue,
                        That once upon the sunny plains of old Castile was sung;
                        When, from their mountain-holds, on the Moorish rout below,
                        Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept away the foe.          10
                        Awhile that melody is still, and then breaks forth anew
                        A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and Peru.

                        For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover‘s side,
                        And sent him to the war the day she should have been his bride,
                        And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle for the right,              15
                        And held the fountains of her eyes till he was out of sight.
                        Since the parting kiss was given, six weary months are fled,
                        And yet the foe is in the land, and blood must yet be shed.

                        A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth,
                        And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly toward the north.
                        Thou look‘st in vain, sweet maiden, the sharpest sight would fail
                        To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale;
                        For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely beat,
                        And the silent hills and forest-tops seem reeling in the heat.

                        That white hand is withdrawn, that fair sad face is gone,                25
                        But the music of that silver voice is flowing sweetly on,
                        Not as of late, in cheerful tones, but mournfully and low,—
                        A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long ago,
                        Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave,
                        And her who died of sorrow, upon his early grave.                        30

                        And see, along that mountain-slope, a fiery horseman ride;
                        Mark his torn plume, his tarnished belt, the sabre at his side.
                        His spurs are buried rowel-deep, he rides with loosened rain,
                        There‘s blood upon his charger‘s flank and foam upon the mane.
                        He speeds him toward the olive-grove, along that shaded hill!            35
                        God shield the helpless maiden there, if he should mean her ill!

                        And suddenly that song has ceased, and suddenly I hear
                        A shriek sent up amid the shade, a shriek—but not of fear.
                        For tender accents follow, and tender pauses speak
                        The overflow of gladness, when words are all too weak;                   40
                        ―I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru is free,
                        And I am come to dwell beside the olive-grove with thee.‖

To a Cloud
Beautiful cloud! with folds so soft and fair,              Beautiful cloud! I would I were with thee
 Swimming in the pure quiet air!                            In thy calm way o‘er land and sea;
Thy fleeces bathed in sunlight, while below                To rest on thy unrolling skirts, and look
 Thy shadow o‘er the vale moves slow;                       On Earth as on an open book;                     10
Where, midst their labor, pause the reaper train, 5        On streams that tie her realms with silver bands,
 As cool it comes along the grain.                          And the long ways that seam her lands;
And hear her humming cities, and the sound               And the Othman power is cloven, and the stroke
 Of the great ocean breaking round.                       Has touched its chains, and they are broke.
Ay—I would sail, upon thy air-borne car,        15       Ay, we would linger, till the sunset there
 To blooming regions distant far,                         Should come, to purple all the air,                 30
To where the sun of Andalusia shines                     And thou reflect upon the sacred ground
 On his own olive-groves and vines,                       The ruddy radiance streaming round.
Or the soft lights of Italy‘s clear sky                  Bright meteor! for the summer noontide made!
 In smiles upon her ruins lie.                  20        Thy peerless beauty yet shall fade.
But I would woo the winds to let us rest                 The sun, that fills with light each glistening fold, 35
 O‘er Greece, long fettered and oppressed,                Shall set, and leave thee dark and cold:
Whose sons at length have heard the call that comes      The blast shall rend thy skirts, or thou mayst frown
 From the old battle-fields and tombs,                    In the dark heaven when storms come down;
And risen, and drawn the sword, and on the foe 25        And weep in rain, till man‘s inquiring eye
 Have dealt the swift and desperate blow,                 Miss thee, forever, from the sky.                   40

A Forest Hymn
The groves were God‘s first temples. Ere man learned     The boast of our vain race to change the form
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,                Of thy fair works. But thou art here—thou fill‘st
And spread the roof above them—ere he framed             The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds           40
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back                 That run along the summit of these trees
The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,        5     In music; thou art in the cooler breath
Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down,                That from the inmost darkness of the place
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks               Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground,
And supplication. For his simple heart                   The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee. 45
Might not resist the sacred influences                   Here is continual worship;—Nature, here,
Which, from the stilly twilight of the place,      10    In the tranquillity that thou dost love,
And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven         Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around,
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound           From perch to perch, the solitary bird
Of the invisible breath that swayed at once              Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs, 50
All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed          Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots
His spirit with the thought of boundless power 15        Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale
And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why                        Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left
Should we, in the world‘s riper years, neglect           Thyself without a witness, in the shades,
God‘s ancient sanctuaries, and adore                     Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace 55
Only among the crowd, and under roofs                    Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak—
That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least, 20   By whose immovable stem I stand and seem
Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,                   Almost annihilated—not a prince,
Offer one hymn—thrice happy, if it find                  In all that proud old world beyond the deep,
Acceptance in His ear.                                   E‘er wore his crown as loftily as he               60
                                                         Wears the green coronal of leaves with which
                            Father, thy hand             Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root
Hath reared these venerable columns, thou         25     Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down      Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower,
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose               With scented breath and look so like a smile,      65
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun,         Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould,
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze,      An emanation of the indwelling Life,
And shot toward heaven. The century-living crow          A visible token of the upholding Love,
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died         That are the soul of this great universe.
Among their branches, till, at last, they stood,
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark,               My heart is awed within me when I think          70
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold                 Of the great miracle that still goes on,
Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults, 35           In silence, round me—the perpetual work
These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride             Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed
Report not. No fantastic carvings show                   Forever. Written on thy works I read
The lesson of thy own eternity.                    75    Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus.
Lo! all grow old and die—but see again,                  But let me often to these solitudes
How on the faltering footsteps of decay                  Retire, and in thy presence reassure
Youth presses—ever gay and beautiful youth               My feeble virtue. Here its enemies,                100
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees            The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink
Wave not less proudly that their ancestors         80    And tremble and are still. O God! when thou
Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost              Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire
One of earth‘s charms: upon her bosom yet,               The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill,
After the flight of untold centuries,                    With all the waters of the firmament,              105
The freshness of her far beginning lies                  The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate        85    And drowns the villages; when, at thy call,
Of his arch-enemy Death—yea, seats himself               Uprises the great deep and throws himself
Upon the tyrant‘s throne—the sepulchre,                  Upon the continent, and overwhelms
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe                   Its cities—who forgets not, at the sight           110
Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth             Of these tremendous tokens of thy power,
From thine own bosom, and shall have no end.       90    His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by?
                                                         Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face
  There have been holy men who hid themselves            Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave                   Of the mad unchained elements to teach             115
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived    Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate,
The generation born with them, nor seemed                In these calm shades, thy milder majesty,
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks            95   And to the beautiful order of thy works
Around them;—and there have been holy men                Learn to conform the order of our lives.

The Hurricane
Lord of the winds! I feel thee nigh,                     How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale;
I know thy breath in the burning sky!                    How his huge and writhing arms are bent
And I wait, with a thrill in every vein,                 To clasp the zone of the firmament,
For the coming of the hurricane!                         And fold at length, in their dark embrace,
                                                         From mountain to mountain the visible space.       30
And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales,        5
Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails;           Darker—still darker! the whirlwinds bear
Silent and slow, and terribly strong,                    The dust of the plains to the middle air:
The mighty shadow is borne along,                        And hark to the crashing, long and loud,
Like the dark eternity to come;                          Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud!
While the world below, dismayed and dumb,      10        You may trace its path by the flashes that start   35
Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere,            From the rapid wheels where‘er they dart,
Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear.                  As the fire-bolts leap to the world below,
                                                         And flood the skies with a lurid glow.
They darken fast; and the golden blaze
Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze,                What roar is that?—‘tis the rain that breaks
And he sends through the shade a funeral ray— 15         In torrents away from the airy lakes,         40
A glare that is neither night nor day,                   Heavily poured on the shuddering ground,
A beam that touches, with hues of death,                 And shedding a nameless horror round.
The clouds above and the earth beneath.                  Ah! well-known woods, and mountains, and skies,
To its covert glides the silent bird,                    With the very clouds!—ye are lost to my eyes.
While the hurricane‘s distant voice is heard  20
Uplifted among the mountains round,                      I seek ye vainly, and see in your place        45
And the forests hear and answer the sound.               The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space,
                                                         A whirling ocean that fills the wall
He is come! he is come! do ye not behold                 Of the crystal heaven, and buries all.
His ample robes on the wind unrolled?                    And I, cut off from the world, remain
Giant of air! we bid thee hail!—                   25    Alone with the terrible hurricane.             50
                                                                                                 (c. 1840s)
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)
Sung at the Completion of the Concord Monument
April 19, 1836

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,                On this green bank, by this soft stream,
 Their flag to April‘s breeze unfurled,                   We set to-day a votive stone;                     10
Here once the embattled farmers stood,                   That memory may their deed redeem,
 And fired the shot heard round the world.                When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

The foe long since in silence slept;        5            Spirit, that made those heroes dare
 Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;                       To die, and leave their children free,
And Time the ruined bridge has swept                     Bid Time and Nature gently spare                   15
 Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.               The shaft we raise to them and thee.

Each and All
Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown,      Had left their beauty on the shore
Of thee, from the hill-top looking down;                 With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar.
And the heifer, that lows in the upland farm,            The lover watched his graceful maid
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;                  As ‘mid the virgin train she strayed,              30
The sexton tolling the bell at noon,                5    Nor knew her beauty‘s best attire
Dreams not that great Napoleon                           Was woven still by the snow-white quire;
Stops his horse, and lists with delight,                 At last she came to his hermitage,
Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;          Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage,—
Nor knowest thou what argument                           The gay enchantment was undone,                    35
Thy life to thy neighbor‘s creed has lent:          10   A gentle wife, but fairy none.
All are needed by each one,                              Then I said, ―I covet Truth;
Nothing is fair or good alone.                           Beauty is unripe childhood‘s cheat,—
I thought the sparrow‘s note from heaven,                I leave it behind with the games of youth.‖
Singing at dawn on the alder bough;                      As I spoke, beneath my feet                        40
I brought him home in his nest at even;—            15   The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,
He sings the song, but it pleases not now;               Running over the club-moss burrs;
For I did not bring home the river and sky;              I inhaled the violet‘s breath;
He sang to my ear; they sang to my eye.                  Around me stood the oaks and firs;
The delicate shells lay on the shore;                    Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground;           45
The bubbles of the latest wave                      20   Above me soared the eternal sky,
Fresh pearls to their enamel gave;                       Full of light and deity;
And the bellowing of the savage sea                      Again I saw, again I heard,
Greeted their safe escape to me;                         The rolling river, the morning bird;—
I wiped away the weeds and foam,                         Beauty through my senses stole,                    50
And fetched my sea-born treasures home;             25   I yielded myself to the perfect whole.
But the poor, unsightly, noisome things

Initial, Daemonic and Celestial Love
I THE INITIAL LOVE                               The glance that to their glance opposes,
                                                 Like fiery honey sucked from roses.
Venus, when her son was lost,                    He palmistry can understand,
Cried him up and down the coast,                 Imbibing virtue by his hand                     55
In hamlets, palaces and parks,                   As if it were a living root;
And told the truant by his marks,—               The pulse of hands will make him mute;
Golden curls, and quiver and bow.           5    With all his force he gathers balms
This befell how long ago!                        Into those wise, thrilling palms.
Time and tide are strangely changed,             Cupid is a casuist,                             60
Men and manners much deranged:                   A mystic and a cabalist,—
None will now find Cupid latent                  Can your lurking thought surprise,
By this foolish antique patent.             10   And interpret your device.
He came late along the waste,                    He is versed in occult science,
Shod like a traveller for haste;                 In magic and in clairvoyance,                   65
With malice dared me to proclaim him,            Oft he keeps his fine ear strained,
That the maids and boys might name him.          And Reason on her tiptoe pained
Boy no more, he wears all coats,            15   For aëry intelligence,
Frocks and blouses, capes, capotes;              And for strange coincidence.
He bears no bow, or quiver, or wand,             But it touches his quick heart                  70
Nor chaplet on his head or hand.                 When Fate by omens takes his part,
Leave his weeds and heed his eyes,—              And chance-dropped hints from Nature‘s sphere
All the rest he can disguise.               20   Deeply soothe his anxious ear.
In the pit of his eye‘s a spark                  Heralds high before him run;
Would bring back day if it were dark;            He has ushers many a one;                       75
And, if I tell you all my thought,               He spreads his welcome where he goes,
Though I comprehend it not,                      And touches all things with his rose.
In those unfathomable orbs                  25   All things wait for and divine him,—
Every function he absorbs;                       How shall I dare to malign him,
Doth eat, and drink, and fish, and shoot,        Or accuse the god of sport?                     80
And write, and reason, and compute,              I must end my true report,
And ride, and run, and have, and hold,           Painting him from head to foot,
And whine, and flatter, and regret,         30   In as far as I took note,
And kiss, and couple, and beget,                 Trusting well the matchless power
By those roving eyeballs bold.                   Of this young-eyed emperor                      85
Undaunted are their courages,                    Will clear his fame from every cloud
Right Cossacks in their forages;                 With the bards and with the crowd.
Fleeter they than any creature,—            35   He is wilful, mutable,
They are his steeds, and not his feature;        Shy, untamed, inscrutable,
Inquisitive, and fierce, and fasting,            Swifter-fashioned than the fairies,             90
Restless, predatory, hasting;                    Substance mixed of pure contraries;
And they pounce on other eyes                    His vice some elder virtue‘s token,
As lions on their prey;                     40   And his good is evil-spoken.
And round their circles is writ,                 Failing sometimes of his own,
Plainer than the day,                            He is headstrong and alone;                     95
Underneath, within, above,—                      He affects the wood and wild,
Love—love—love—love.                             Like a flower-hunting child;
He lives in his eyes;                       45   Buries himself in summer waves,
There doth digest, and work, and spin,           In trees, with beasts, in mines and caves,
And buy, and sell, and lose, and win;            Loves nature like a hornèd cow,                 100
He rolls them with delighted motion,             Bird, or deer, or caribou.
Joy-tides swell their mimic ocean.               Shun him, nymphs, on the fleet horses!
Yet holds he them with tautest rein,        50   He has a total world of wit;
That they may seize and entertain                O how wise are his discourses!
But he is the arch-hypocrite,                105   Names from awful childhood heard
And, through all science and all art,              Throbs of a wild religion stirred;—
Seeks alone his counterpart.                       Virtue, to love, to hate them, vice;
He is a Pundit of the East,                        Till dangerous Beauty came, at last,         160
He is an augur and a priest,                       Till Beauty came to snap all ties;
And his soul will melt in prayer,            110   The maid, abolishing the past,
But word and wisdom is a snare;                    With lotus wine obliterates
Corrupted by the present toy                       Dear memory‘s stone-incarved traits,
He follows joy, and only joy.                      And, by herself, supplants alone             165
There is no mask but he will wear;                 Friends year by year more inly known.
He invented oaths to swear;                  115   When her calm eyes opened bright,
He paints, he carves, he chants, he prays,         All else grew foreign in their light.
And holds all stars in his embrace.                It was ever the self-same tale,
He takes a sovran privilege                        The first experience will not fail;    170
Not allowed to any liege;                          Only two in the garden walked,
For Cupid goes behind all law,               120   And with snake and seraph talked.
And right into himself does draw;                  Close, close to men,
For he is sovereignly allied,—                     Like undulating layer of air,
Heaven‘s oldest blood flows in his side,—          Right above their heads,                     175
And interchangeably at one                         The potent plain of Daemons spreads.
With every king on every throne,             125   Stands to each human soul its own,
That no god dare say him nay,                      For watch and ward and furtherance,
Or see the fault, or seen betray:                  In the snares of Nature‘s dance;
He has the Muses by the heart,                     And the lustre and the grace                 180
And the stern Parcae on his part.                  To fascinate each youthful heart,
His many signs cannot be told;               130   Beaming from its counterpart,
He has not one mode, but manifold,                 Translucent through the mortal covers,
Many fashions and addresses,                       Is the Daemon‘s form and face.
Piques, reproaches, hurts, caresses.               To and fro the Genius hies,—                 185
He will preach like a friar,                       A gleam which plays and hovers
And jump like Harlequin;                     135   Over the maiden‘s head,
He will read like a crier,                         And dips sometimes as low as to her eyes.
And fight like a Paladin.                          Unknown, albeit lying near,
Boundless is his memory;                           To men, the path to the Daemon sphere;       190
Plans immense his term prolong;                    And they that swiftly come and go
He is not of counted age,                    140   Leave no track on the heavenly snow.
Meaning always to be young.                        Sometimes the airy synod bends,
And his wish is intimacy,                          And the mighty choir descends,
Intimater intimacy,                                And the brains of men thenceforth,           195
And a stricter privacy;                            In crowded and in still resorts,
The impossible shall yet be done,            145   Teem with unwonted thoughts:
And, being two, shall still be one.                As, when a shower of meteors
As the wave breaks to foam on shelves,             Cross the orbit of the earth,
Then runs into a wave again,                       And, lit by fringent air,                    200
So lovers melt their sundered selves,              Blaze near and far,
Yet melted would be twain.                   150   Mortals deem the planets bright
                                                   Have slipped their sacred bars,
II THE DAEMONIC LOVE                               And the lone seaman all the night
                                                   Sails, astonished, amid stars.               205
Man was made of social earth,                      Beauty of a richer vein,
Child and brother from his birth,                  Graces of a subtler strain,
Tethered by a liquid cord                          Unto men these moonmen lend,
Of blood through veins of kindred poured.          And our shrinking sky extend.
Next his heart the fireside band             155   So is man‘s narrow path                      210
Of mother, father, sister, stand;                  By strength and terror skirted;
Also (from the song the wrath                  Which his ruthless will defies,
Of the Genii be averted!                       And the dogs of Fate unties.
The Muse the truth uncolored speaking)         Shiver the palaces of glass;
The Daemons are self-seeking:            215   Shrivel the rainbow-colored walls,             270
Their fierce and limitary will                 Where in bright Art each god and sibyl dwelt
Draws men to their likeness still.             Secure as in the zodiac‘s belt;
The erring painter made Love blind,—           And the galleries and halls,
Highest Love who shines on all;                Wherein every siren sung,
Him, radiant, sharpest-sighted god,      220   Like a meteor pass.                            275
None can bewilder;                             For this fortune wanted root
Whose eyes pierce                              In the core of God‘s abysm,—
The universe,                                  Was a weed of self and schism;
Path-finder, road-builder,                     And ever the Daemonic Love
Mediator, royal giver;                   225   Is the ancestor of wars                        280
Rightly seeing, rightly seen,                  And the parent of remorse.
Of joyful and transparent mien.
‘T is a sparkle passing                        III THE CELESTIAL LOVE
From each to each, from thee to me,
To and fro perpetually;                  230   But God said,
Sharing all, daring all,                       ‗I will have a purer gift;
Levelling, displacing                          There is smoke in the flame;
Each obstruction, it unites                    New flowerets bring, new prayers uplift,       285
Equals remote, and seeming opposites.          And love without a name.
And ever and forever Love                235   Fond children, ye desire
Delights to build a road:                      To please each other well;
Unheeded Danger near him strides,              Another round, a higher,
Love laughs, and on a lion rides.              Ye shall climb on the heavenly stair,          290
But Cupid wears another face,                  And selfish preference forbear;
Born into Daemons less divine:           240   And in right deserving,
His roses bleach apace,                        And without a swerving
His nectar smacks of wine.                     Each from your proper state,
The Daemon ever builds a wall,                 Weave roses for your mate.                     295
Himself encloses and includes,                 Deep, deep are loving eyes,
Solitude in solitudes:                   245   Flowed with naphtha fiery sweet;
In like sort his love doth fall.               And the point is paradise,
He doth elect                                  Where their glances meet:
The beautiful and fortunate,                   Their reach shall yet be more profound,        300
And the sons of intellect,                     And a vision without bound:
And the souls of ample fate,             250   The axis of those eyes sun-clear
Who the Future‘s gates unbar,—                 Be the axis of the sphere:
Minions of the Morning Star.                   So shall the lights ye pour amain
In his prowess he exults,                      Go, without check or intervals,                305
And the multitude insults.                     Through from the empyrean walls
His impatient looks devour               255   Unto the same again.‘
Oft the humble and the poor;                   Higher far into the pure realm,
And, seeing his eye glare,                     Over sun and star,
They drop their few pale flowers,              Over the flickering Daemon film,               310
Gathered with hope to please,                  Thou must mount for love;
Along the mountain towers,—              260   Into vision where all form
Lose courage, and despair.                     In one only form dissolves;
He will never be gainsaid,—                    In a region where the wheel
Pitiless, will not be stayed;                  On which all beings ride                       315
His hot tyranny                                Visibly revolves;
Burns up every other tie.                265   Where the starred, eternal worm
Therefore comes an hour from Jove              Girds the world with bound and term;
Where unlike things are like;                   Nature is the bond of both:
Where good and ill,                       320   No prayer persuades, no flattery fawns,—
And joy and moan,                               Their noble meanings are their pawns.
Melt into one.                                  Plain and cold is their address,               370
There Past, Present, Future, shoot              Power have they for tenderness;
Triple blossoms from one root;                  And, so thoroughly is known
Substances at base divided,               325   Each other‘s counsel by his own,
In their summits are united;                    They can parley without meeting;
There the holy essence rolls,                   Need is none of forms of greeting;             375
One through separated souls;                    They can well communicate
And the sunny AEon sleeps                       In their innermost estate;
Folding Nature in its deeps,              330   When each the other shall avoid,
And every fair and every good,                  Shall each by each be most enjoyed.
Known in part, or known impure,                 Not with scarfs or perfumed gloves             370
To men below,                                   Do these celebrate their loves:
In their archetypes endure.                     Not by jewels, feasts and savors,
The race of gods,                         335   Not by ribbons or by favors,
Or those we erring own,                         But by the sun-spark on the sea,
Are shadows flitting up and down                And the cloud-shadow on the lea,               375
In the still abodes.                            The soothing lapse of morn to mirk,
The circles of that sea are laws                And the cheerful round of work.
Which publish and which hide the cause.   340   Their cords of love so public are,
Pray for a beam                                 They intertwine the farthest star:
Out of that sphere,                             The throbbing sea, the quaking earth,          375
Thee to guide and to redeem.                    Yield sympathy and signs of mirth;
O, what a load                                  Is none so high, so mean is none,
Of care and toil,                         345   But feels and seals this union;
By lying use bestowed,                          Even the fell Furies are appeased,
From his shoulders falls who sees               The good applaud, the lost are eased.          380
The true astronomy,                             Love‘s hearts are faithful, but not fond,
The period of peace.                            Bound for the just, but not beyond;
Counsel which the ages kept               350   Not glad, as the low-loving herd,
Shall the well-born soul accept.                Of self in other still preferred,
As the overhanging trees                        But they have heartily designed                385
Fill the lake with images,—                     The benefit of broad mankind.
As garment draws the garment‘s hem,             And they serve men austerely,
Men their fortunes bring with them.       355   After their own genius, clearly,
By right or wrong,                              Without a false humility;
Lands and goods go to the strong.               For this is Love‘s nobility,—                  390
Property will brutely draw                      Not to scatter bread and gold,
Still to the proprietor;                        Goods and raiment bought and sold;
Silver to silver creep and wind,          360   But to hold fast his simple sense,
And kind to kind.                               And speak the speech of innocence,
Nor less the eternal poles                      And with hand and body and blood,              395
Of tendency distribute souls.                   To make his bosom-counsel good.
There need no vows to bind                      He that feeds men serveth few;
Whom not each other seek, but find.       365   He serves all who dares be true.
They give and take no pledge or oath,—

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
Hymn to the Night

I heard the trailing garments of the Night           From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
  Sweep through her marble halls!                      My spirit drank repose;
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light        The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,— 15
  From the celestial walls!                            From those deep cisterns flows.

I felt her presence, by its spell of might,     5    O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
   Stoop o‘er me from above;                          What man has borne before!
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,            Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
   As of the one I love.                              And they complain no more.                          20

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,            Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
  The manifold, soft chimes,                    10    Descend with broad-winged flight,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,         The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
  Like some old poet‘s rhymes.                        The best-beloved Night!

The Slave in the Dismal Swamp
In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp                     A poor old slave, infirm and lame;
  The hunted Negro lay;                               Great scars deformed his face;
He saw the fire of the midnight camp,                On his forehead he bore the brand of shame,
  And heard at times a horse‘s tramp                  And the rags, that hid his mangled frame,
And a bloodhound‘s distant bay.                 5    Were the livery of disgrace.                         20

Where will-o‘-the-wisps and glow-worms shine,        All things above were bright and fair,
  In bulrush and in brake;                             All things were glad and free;
Where waving mosses shroud the pine,                 Lithe squirrels darted here and there,
  And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine          And wild birds filled the echoing air
Is spotted like the snake;                    10     With songs of Liberty!                               25

Where hardly a human foot could pass,                On him alone was the doom of pain,
  Or a human heart would dare,                        From the morning of his birth;
On the quaking turf of the green morass              On him alone the curse of Cain
  He crouched in the rank and tangled grass,          Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain,
Like a wild beast in his lair.                  15   And struck him to the earth!                         30

The Quadroon Girl
The Slaver in the broad lagoon                       Odors of orange-flowers, and spice,
 Lay moored with idle sail;                            Reached them from time to time,                    10
He waited for the rising moon,                       Like airs that breathe from Paradise
 And for the evening gale.                             Upon a world of crime.

Under the shore his boat was tied,              5    The Planter, under his roof of thatch,
 And all her listless crew                            Smoked thoughtfully and slow;
Watched the gray alligator slide                     The Slaver‘s thumb was on the latch,                 15
 Into the still bayou.                                He seemed in haste to go.

He said, ―My ship at anchor rides                     ―The soil is barren,—the farm is old,‖
  In yonder broad lagoon;                              The thoughtful planter said;
I only wait the evening tides,                        Then looked upon the Slaver‘s gold,                 35
  And the rising of the moon.‖                   20    And then upon the maid.

Before them, with her face upraised,                  His heart within him was at strife
  In timid attitude,                                   With such accursed gains:
Like one half curious, half amazed,                   For he knew whose passions gave her life,
  A Quadroon maiden stood.                             Whose blood ran in her veins.                      40

Her eyes were large, and full of light,          25   But the voice of nature was too weak;
 Her arms and neck were bare;                          He took the glittering gold!
No garment she wore save a kirtle bright,             Then pale as death grew the maiden‘s cheek,
 And her own long, raven hair.                         Her hands as icy cold.

And on her lips there played a smile                  The Slaver led her from the door,                   45
 As holy, meek, and faint,                       30    He led her by the hand,
As lights in some cathedral aisle                     To be his slave and paramour
 The features of a saint.                              In a strange and distant land!

The Slave’s Dream
Beside the ungathered rice he lay,                    Before him, like a blood-red flag,                  25
 His sickle in his hand;                                The bright flamingoes flew;
His breast was bare, his matted hair                  From morn till night he followed their flight,
 Was buried in the sand.                                O‘er plains where the tamarind grew,
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,          5    Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts,
 He saw his Native Land.                                And the ocean rose to view.                       30

Wide through the landscape of his dreams              At night he heard the lion roar,
 The lordly Niger flowed;                              And the hyena scream,
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain                   And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds
 Once more a king he strode;                     10    Beside some hidden stream;
And heard the tinkling caravans                       And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,       35
 Descend the mountain road.                            Through the triumph of his dream.

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen                  The forests, with their myriad tongues,
 Among her children stand;                             Shouted of liberty;
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,   15   And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,
 They held him by the hand!—                           With a voice so wild and free,                     40
A tear burst from the sleeper‘s lids                  That he started in his sleep and smiled
 And fell into the sand.                               At their tempestuous glee.

And then at furious speed he rode                     He did not feel the driver‘s whip,
 Along the Niger‘s bank;                         20    Nor the burning heat of day;
His bridle-reins were golden chains,                  For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,          45
 And, with a martial clank,                            And his lifeless body lay
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel      A worn-out fetter, that the soul
 Smiting his stallion‘s flank.                         Had broken and thrown away!


The Witnesses
In Ocean‘s wide domains,                        Within Earth‘s wide domains
  Half buried in the sands,                      Are markets for men‘s lives;
Lie skeletons in chains,                        Their necks are galled with chains,
  With shackled feet and hands.                  Their wrists are cramped with gyves.          20

Beyond the fall of dews,                   5    Dead bodies, that the kite
  Deeper than plummet lies,                      In deserts makes its prey;
Float ships, with all their crews,              Murders, that with affright
  No more to sink nor rise.                      Scare school-boys from their play!

There the black Slave-ship swims,               All evil thoughts and deeds;                   25
 Freighted with human forms,               10    Anger, and lust, and pride;
Whose fettered, fleshless limbs                 The foulest, rankest weeds,
 Are not the sport of storms.                    That choke Life‘s groaning tide!

These are the bones of Slaves;                  These are the woes of Slaves;
 They gleam from the abyss;                      They glare from the abyss;                    30
They cry, from yawning waves,              15   They cry, from unknown graves,
 ―We are the Witnesses!‖                         ―We are the Witnesses!‖

Birds of Passage
Black shadows fall                              I hear the cry
From the lindens tall,                          Of their voices high
That lift aloft their massive wall              Falling dreamily through the sky,
  Against the southern sky;                       But their forms I cannot see.

And from the realms                        5    Oh, say not so!                                25
Of the shadowy elms                             Those sounds that flow
A tide-like darkness overwhelms                 In murmurs of delight and woe
 The fields that round us lie.                    Come not from wings of birds.

But the night is fair,                          They are the throngs
And everywhere                             10   Of the poet‘s songs,                           30
A warm, soft vapor fills the air,               Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs,
 And distant sounds seem near;                   The sound of winged words.

And above, in the light                         This is the cry
Of the star-lit night,                          Of souls, that high
Swift birds of passage wing their flight   15   On toiling, beating pinions, fly,              35
 Through the dewy atmosphere.                    Seeking a warmer clime.

I hear the beat                                 From their distant flight
Of their pinions fleet,                         Through realms of light
As from the land of snow and sleet              It falls into our world of night,
  They seek a southern lea.                20      With the murmuring sound of rhyme.          40

Killed at the Ford
He is dead, the beautiful youth,                            In a room where some one is lying dead;        20
The heart of honor, the tongue of truth,                    But he made no answer to what I said.
He, the life and light of us all,
Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call,                     We lifted him up to his saddle again,
Whom all eyes followed with one consent,         5          And through the mire and the mist and the rain
The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word,          Carried him back to the silent camp,
Hushed all murmurs of discontent.                           And laid him as if asleep on his bed;          25
                                                            And I saw by the light of the surgeon‘s lamp
Only last night, as we rode along,                          Two white roses upon his cheeks,
Down the dark of the mountain gap,                          And one, just over his heart, blood red!
To visit the picket-guard at the ford,          10
Little dreaming of any mishap,                              And I saw in a vision how far and fleet
He was humming the words of some old song:                  That fatal bullet went speeding forth,          30
―Two red roses he had on his cap                            Till it reached a town in the distant North,
And another he bore at the point of his sword.‖             Till it reached a house in a sunny street,
                                                            Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat
Sudden and swift a whistling ball               15          Without a murmur, without a cry;
Came out of a wood, and the voice was still;                And a bell was tolled in that far-off town,     35
Something I heard in the darkness fall,                     For one who had passed from cross to crown,
And for a moment my blood grew chill;                       And the neighbors wondered that she should die.
I spoke in a whisper, as he who speaks                                                                   (1867)

                        As a fond mother, when the day is o‘er,
                          Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
                          Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
                          And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
                        Still gazing at them through the open door,                             5
                          Nor wholly reassured and comforted
                          By promises of others in their stead,
                          Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;
                        So Nature deals with us, and takes away
                          Our playthings one by one, and by the hand                            10
                          Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
                        Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
                          Being too full of sleep to understand
                          How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

                        The Harvest Moon
                        It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes
                           And roofs of villages, on woodland crests
                           And their aerial neighborhoods of nests
                           Deserted, on the curtained window-panes
                        Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes                         5
                           And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!
                           Gone are the birds that were our summer guests;
                           With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!
                        All things are symbols: the external shows
                           Of Nature have their image in the mind,                              10
                           As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;
The song-birds leave us at the summer‘s close,
 Only the empty nests are left behind,
 And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.
My Cathedral
Like two cathedral towers these stately pines
    Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones;
    The arch beneath them is not built with stones,
    Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines,
And carved this graceful arabesque of vines;                5
    No organ but the wind here sighs and moans,
    No sepulchre conceals a martyr‘s bones.
    No marble bishop on his tomb reclines.
Enter! the pavement, carpeted with leaves,
    Gives back a softened echo to thy tread!                10
    Listen! the choir is singing; all the birds,
In leafy galleries beneath the eaves,
    Are singing! listen, ere the sound be fled,
    And learn there may be worship with out words.
Mezzo Cammin
Half of my life is gone, and I have let
 The years slip from me and have not fulfilled
 The aspiration of my youth, to build
 Some tower of song with lofty parapet.
Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret                   5
 Of restless passions that would not be stilled,
 But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,
 Kept me from what I may accomplish yet;
Though, half-way up the hill, I see the Past
 Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights,—              10
 A city in the twilight dim and vast,
With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights,—
 And hear above me on the autumnal blast
 The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights.

The Cross of Snow
In the long, sleepless watches of the night
    A gentle face—the face of one long dead—
    Looks at me from the wall, where round its head
    The night lamp casts a halo of pale light.
Here in this room she died; and soul more white             5
    Never through martyrdom of fire was led
    To its repose; nor can in books be read
    The legend of a life more benedight.
There is a mountain in the distant West
    That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines                  10
    Displays a cross of snow upon its side.
Such is the cross I wear upon my breast
    These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes
    And seasons, changeless since the day she died.
                       Into the darkness and the hush of night
                         Slowly the landscape sinks, and fades away,
                         And with it fade the phantoms of the day,
                         The ghosts of men and things, that haunt the light.
                       The crowd, the clamor, the pursuit, the flight,                        5
                         The unprofitable splendor and display,
                         The agitations, and the cares that prey
                         Upon our hearts, all vanish out of sight.
                       The better life begins; the world no more
                         Molests us; all its records we erase                                 10
                         From the dull commonplace book of our lives,
                       That like a palimpsest is written o‘er
                         With trivial incidents of time and place,
                         And lo! the ideal, hidden beneath, revives.

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)
A Dream within a Dream
1                                                          2
Take this kiss upon the brow!                              I stand amid the roar
And, in parting from you now,                              Of a surf-tormented shore,
Thus much let me avow—                                     And I hold within my hand
You are not wrong, who deem                                Grains of the golden sand—                   15
That my days have been a dream;                5           How few! yet how they creep
Yet if hope has flown away                                 Through my fingers to the deep,
In a night, or in a day,                                   While I weep—while I weep!
In a vision, or in none,                                   O God! can I not grasp
Is it therefore the less gone?                             Them with a tighter clasp?                   20
All that we see or seem                        10          O God! can I not save
Is but a dream within a dream.                             One from the pitiless wave?
                                                           Is all that we see or seem
                                                           But a dream within a dream?
Spirits of the Dead
1                                                          3
Thy soul shall find itself alone                           The night—tho‘ clear—shall frown—
‘Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone—                 And the stars shall look not down,
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry                          From their high thrones in the Heaven,
Into thine hour of secrecy:                                With light like Hope to mortals given—
                                                           But their red orbs, without beam,            15
2                                                          To thy weariness shall seem
Be silent in that solitude                     5
                                                           As a burning and a fever
  Which is not loneliness—for then                         Which would cling to thee for ever:
The spirits of the dead who stood
  In life before thee are again                            4
In death around thee—and their will                        Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish—
  Shall overshadow thee: be still.             10          Now are visions ne‘er to vanish—             20
                                                           From thy spirit shall they pass

No more—like dew-drop from the grass:                        Shadowy—shadowy—yet unbroken,           25
                                                             Is a symbol and a token—
5                                                            How it hangs upon the trees,
The breeze—the breath of God—is still—                       A mystery of mysteries!—
And the mist upon the hill                                                                        (1829)

                      The Coliseum
                      Lone ampitheatre! Grey Coliseum!
                      Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
                      Of lofty contemplation left to Time
                      By buried centuries of pomp and power!
                      At length, at length—after so many days                                5
                      Of weary pilgrimage, and burning thirst,
                      (Thirst for the springs of love that in thee lie,)
                      I kneel, an altered, and an humble man,
                      Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
                      My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory.                           10

                      Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
                      Silence and Desolation! and dim Night!
                      Gaunt vestibules! and phantom-peopled aisles!
                      I feel ye now: I feel ye in your strength!
                      O spells more sure then e‘er Judaean king                              15
                      Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
                      O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
                      Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!

                      Here, where a hero fell, a column falls:
                      Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,                            20
                      A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat:
                      Here, where the dames of Rome their yellow hair
                      Wav‘d to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle:
                      Here, where on ivory couch the Caesar sat,
                      On bed of moss lies gloating the foul adder:                           25

                      Here, where on golden throne the monarch loll‘d,
                      Glides spectre-like unto his marble home,
                      Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
                      The swift and silent lizard of the stones.

                      These crumbling walls; these tottering arcades;                        30
                      These mouldering plinths; these sad, and blacken‘d shafts;
                      These vague entablatures; this broken frieze;
                      These shattered cornices; this wreck; this ruin;
                      These stones, alas!—these grey stones—are they all;
                      All of the great and the colossal left                                 35
                      By the corrosive hours to Fate and me?

                      ―Not all,‖— the echoes answer me; ―not all:
                      Prophetic sounds, and loud, arise forever
                      From us, and from all ruin, unto the wise,
                      As in old days from Memnon to the sun.                                 40
                      We rule the hearts of mightiest men:—we rule
                       With a despotic sway all giant minds.
                       We are not desolate—we pallid stones;
                       Not all our power is gone; not all our Fame;
                       Not all the magic of our high renown;                                    45
                       Not all the wonder that encircles us;
                       Not all the mysteries that in us lie;
                       Not all the memories that hang upon,
                       And cling around about us now and ever,
                       And clothe us in a robe of more than glory.‖                             50

The Haunted Palace
In the greenest of our valleys                            And all with pearl and ruby glowing           25
   By good angels tenanted,                                  Was the fair palace door,
Once a fair and stately palace—                           Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
   Radiant palace—reared its head.                           And sparkling evermore,
In the monarch Thought‘s dominion—             5          A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
   It stood there!                                           Was but to sing,                           30
Never seraph spread a pinion                              In voices of surpassing beauty,
   Over fabric half so fair!                                 The wit and wisdom of their king.

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,                         But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
  On its roof did float and flow,              10            Assailed the monarch‘s high estate.
(This—all this—was in the olden                           (Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow           35
  Time long ago,)                                            Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And every gentle air that dallied,                        And round about his home the glory
  In that sweet day,                                         That blushed and bloomed,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,          15         Is but a dim-remembered story
  A wingéd odour went away.                                  Of the old time entombed.                  40

Wanderers in that happy valley,                           And travellers, now, within that valley,
   Through two luminous windows, saw                        Through the red-litten windows see
Spirits moving musically,                                 Vast forms, that move fantastically
   To a lute‘s well-tunéd law,                 20           To a discordant melody,
Round about a throne where, sitting                       While, like a ghastly rapid river,            45
   (Porphyrogene!)                                          Through the pale door
In state his glory well befitting,                        A hideous throng rush out forever
   The ruler of the realm was seen.                         And laugh—but smile no more.

To Helen
Helen, thy beauty is to me                                  To the glory that was Greece,
 Like those Nicéan barks of yore,                           And the grandeur that was Rome.             10
That gently, o‘er a perfumed sea,
 The weary, way-worn wanderer bore                        Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
 To his own native shore.                      5           How statue-like I see thee stand,
                                                          The agate lamp within thy hand!
On desperate seas long wont to roam,                       Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
 Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,                      Are Holy-Land!                               15
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home

Sonnet—To Science
Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
 Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes,
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet‘s heart,
 Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,                           5
 Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
 Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
 And driven the Hamadryad from the wood                                   10
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
 Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
―‘Tis some visiter,‖ I muttered, ―tapping at my chamber door—             5
                           Only this, and nothing more.‖

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—              10
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
                          Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating          15
―‘Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
                            This it is, and nothing more.‖

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
―Sir,‖ said I, ―or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;               20
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you‖—here I opened wide the door;—
                           Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,   25
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, ―Lenore!‖
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, ―Lenore!‖
                          Merely this, and nothing more.                  30

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.
―Surely,‖ said I, ―surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—                    35
                            ‘Tis the wind and nothing more!‖

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—               40
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
                            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
―Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,‖ I said, ―art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night‘s Plutonian shore!‖
                          Quoth the raven, ―Nevermore.‖

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;                      50
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
                          With such name as ―Nevermore.‖

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only                 55
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered ―Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.‖
                            Then the bird said ―Nevermore.‖                  60

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
―Doubtless,‖ said I, ―what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore                      65
                             Of ‗Never—nevermore.‘‖

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—                   70
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
                            Meant in croaking ―Nevermore.‖

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom‘s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining                 75
On the cushion‘s velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o‘er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o‘er,
                          She shall press, ah, nevermore!
                        Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
                        Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
                        ―Wretch,‖ I cried, ―thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
                        Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
                        Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!‖
                                                   Quoth the raven, ―Nevermore.‖

                        ―Prophet!‖ said I, ―thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—      85
                        Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
                        Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
                        On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
                        Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!‖
                                                   Quoth the raven, ―Nevermore.‖                  90

                        ―Prophet!‖ said I, ―thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!
                        By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
                        Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
                        It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
                        Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.‖             95
                                                    Quoth the raven, ―Nevermore.‖

                        ―Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!‖ I shrieked, upstarting—
                        ―Get thee back into the tempest and the Night‘s Plutonian shore!
                        Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
                        Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!                 100
                        Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!‖
                                                  Quoth the raven, ―Nevermore.‖

                        And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
                        On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
                        And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon‘s that is dreaming,          105
                        And the lamp-light o‘er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
                        And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
                                                   Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Annabel Lee
It was many and many a year ago,                             And bore her away from me,
   In a kingdom by the sea                                  To shut her up in a sepulchre,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know                  In this kingdom by the sea.                       20
   By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought             The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
   Than to love and be loved by me.                          Went envying her and me—
                                                            Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
I was a child and she was a child,                           In this kingdom by the sea)
  In this kingdom by the sea,                               That the wind came out of the cloud by night,      25
But we loved with a love that was more than love—            Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
  I and my Annabel Lee—                         10
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven               But our love it was stronger by far than the love
  Coveted her and me.                                        Of those who were older than we—
                                                             Of many far wiser than we—
And this was the reason that, long ago,                     And neither the angels in heaven above,           30
 In this kingdom by the sea,                                 Nor the demons down under the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling              15        Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
 My beautiful Annabel Lee;                                   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
So that her highborn kinsmen came
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;                                                                          35
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
 In her sepulchre there by the sea—                                                                     40
 In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
On the Beach at Night Alone
On the beach at night alone,
As the old mother sways her to and fro singing her husky song,
As I watch the bright stars shining, I think a thought of the clef of the universe and of the future.

A vast similitude interlocks all,
All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons, planets,                                        5
All distances of place however wide,
All distances of time, all inanimate forms,
All souls, all living bodies though they be ever so different, or in different worlds,
All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes, the fishes, the brutes,
All nations, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages,                                              10
All identities that have existed or may exist on this globe, or any globe,
All lives and deaths, all of the past, present, future,
This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann‘d,
And shall forever span them and compactly hold and enclose them.
                                                                                                        (pub. 1892)

Years of the Modern
Years of the modern! years of the unperform‘d!
Your horizon rises, I see it parting away for more august dramas,
I see not America only, not only Liberty‘s nation but other nations preparing,
I see tremendous entrances and exits, new combinations, the solidarity of races,
I see that force advancing with irresistible power on the world‘s stage,                       5
(Have the old forces, the old wars, played their parts? are the acts suitable to them closed?)
I see Freedom, completely arm‘d and victorious and very haughty, with Law on one side and Peace on the other,
A stupendous trio all issuing forth against the idea of caste;
What historic denouements are these we so rapidly approach?
I see men marching and countermarching by swift millions,                                      10
I see the frontiers and boundaries of the old aristocracies broken,
I see the landmarks of European kings removed,
I see this day the People beginning their landmarks, (all others give way;)
Never were such sharp questions ask‘d as this day,
Never was average man, his soul, more energetic, more like a God,                              15
Lo, how he urges and urges, leaving the masses no rest!
His daring foot is on land and sea everywhere, he colonizes the Pacific, the archipelagoes,
With the steamship, the electric telegraph, the newspaper, the wholesale engines of war,
With these and the world-spreading factories he interlinks all geography, all lands;
What whispers are these O lands, running ahead of you, passing under the seas?                 20
Are all nations communing? is there going to be but one heart to the globe?
Is humanity forming en-masse? for lo, tyrants tremble, crowns grow dim,
The earth, restive, confronts a new era, perhaps a general divine war,
No one knows what will happen next, such portents fill the days and nights;
Years prophetical! the space ahead as I walk, as I vainly try to pierce it, is full of phantoms,   25
Unborn deeds, things soon to be, project their shapes around me,
This incredible rush and heat, this strange ecstatic fever of dreams O years!
Your dreams O years, how they penetrate through me! (I know not whether I sleep or wake;)
The perform‘d America and Europe grow dim, retiring in shadow behind me,
The unperform‘d, more gigantic than ever, advance, advance upon me.                                30
                                                                                                        (pub. 1892)

Proud Music of the Storm
Proud music of the storm,
Blast that careers so free, whistling across the prairies,
Strong hum of forest tree-tops—wind of the mountains,
Personified dim shapes—you hidden orchestras,
You serenades of phantoms with instruments alert,                                                  5
Blending with Nature‘s rhythmus all the tongues of nations;
You chords left as by vast composers—you choruses,
You formless, free, religious dances—you from the Orient,
You undertone of rivers, roar of pouring cataracts,
You sounds from distant guns with galloping cavalry,                                               10
Echoes of camps with all the different bugle-calls,
Trooping tumultuous, filling the midnight late, bending me powerless,
Entering my lonesome slumber-chamber, why have you seiz‘d me?

Come forward O my soul, and let the rest retire,
Listen, lose not, it is toward thee they tend,                                                     15
Parting the midnight, entering my slumber-chamber,
For thee they sing and dance O soul.

A festival song,
The duet of the bridegroom and the bride, a marriage-march,
With lips of love, and hearts of lovers fill‘d to the brim with love,                           20
The red-flush‘d cheeks and perfumes, the cortege swarming full of friendly faces young and old,
To flutes‘ clear notes and sounding harps‘ cantabile.

Now loud approaching drums,
Victoria! seest thou in powder-smoke the banners torn but flying? the rout of the baffled?
Hearest those shouts of a conquering army?                                                         25

(Ah soul, the sobs of women, the wounded groaning in agony,
The hiss and crackle of flames, the blacken‘d ruins, the embers of cities,
The dirge and desolation of mankind.)
Now airs antique and mediaeval fill me,
I see and hear old harpers with their harps at Welsh festivals,                                    30
I hear the minnesingers singing their lays of love,
I hear the minstrels, gleemen, troubadours, of the middle ages.
Now the great organ sounds,
Tremulous, while underneath, (as the hid footholds of the earth,
On which arising rest, and leaping forth depend,                                                   35
All shapes of beauty, grace and strength, all hues we know,
Green blades of grass and warbling birds, children that gambol and
play, the clouds of heaven above,)
The strong base stands, and its pulsations intermits not,
Bathing, supporting, merging all the rest, maternity of all the rest,                     40
And with it every instrument in multitudes,
The players playing, all the world‘s musicians,
The solemn hymns and masses rousing adoration,
All passionate heart-chants, sorrowful appeals,
The measureless sweet vocalists of ages,                                                  45
And for their solvent setting earth‘s own diapason,
Of winds and woods and mighty ocean waves,
A new composite orchestra, binder of years and climes, ten-fold renewer,
As of the far-back days the poets tell, the Paradiso,
The straying thence, the separation long, but now the wandering done,                     50
The journey done, the journeyman come home,
And man and art with Nature fused again.

Tutti! for earth and heaven;
(The Almighty leader now for once has signal‘d with his wand.)

The manly strophe of the husbands of the world,                                           55
And all the wives responding.

The tongues of violins,
(I think O tongues ye tell this heart, that cannot tell itself,
This brooding yearning heart, that cannot tell itself.)

Ah from a little child,                                                                   60
Thou knowest soul how to me all sounds became music,
My mother‘s voice in lullaby or hymn,
(The voice, O tender voices, memory‘s loving voices,
Last miracle of all, O dearest mother‘s, sister‘s, voices;)
The rain, the growing corn, the breeze among the long-leav‘d corn,                        65
The measur‘d sea-surf beating on the sand,
The twittering bird, the hawk‘s sharp scream,
The wild-fowl‘s notes at night as flying low migrating north or south,
The psalm in the country church or mid the clustering trees, the open air camp-meeting,
The fiddler in the tavern, the glee, the long-strung sailor-song,                         70
The lowing cattle, bleating sheep, the crowing cock at dawn.

All songs of current lands come sounding round me,
The German airs of friendship, wine and love,
Irish ballads, merry jigs and dances, English warbles,
Chansons of France, Scotch tunes, and o‘er the rest,                                      75
Italia‘s peerless compositions.

Across the stage with pallor on her face, yet lurid passion,
Stalks Norma brandishing the dagger in her hand.

I see poor crazed Lucia‘s eyes‘ unnatural gleam,
Her hair down her back falls loose and dishevel‘d.                                        80

I see where Ernani walking the bridal garden,
Amid the scent of night-roses, radiant, holding his bride by the hand,
Hears the infernal call, the death-pledge of the horn.
To crossing swords and gray hairs bared to heaven,
The clear electric base and baritone of the world,                                              85
The trombone duo, Libertad forever!

From Spanish chestnut trees‘ dense shade,
By old and heavy convent walls a wailing song,
Song of lost love, the torch of youth and life quench‘d in despair,
Song of the dying swan, Fernando‘s heart is breaking.                                           90

Awaking from her woes at last retriev‘d Amina sings,
Copious as stars and glad as morning light the torrents of her joy.

(The teeming lady comes,
The lustrious orb, Venus contralto, the blooming mother,
Sister of loftiest gods, Alboni‘s self I hear.)                                                 95

I hear those odes, symphonies, operas,
I hear in the William Tell the music of an arous‘d and angry people,
I hear Meyerbeer‘s Huguenots, the Prophet, or Robert,
Gounod‘s Faust, or Mozart‘s Don Juan.

I hear the dance-music of all nations,                                                          100
The waltz, some delicious measure, lapsing, bathing me in bliss,
The bolero to tinkling guitars and clattering castanets.

I see religious dances old and new,
I hear the sound of the Hebrew lyre,
I see the crusaders marching bearing the cross on high, to the martial clang of cymbals,        105
I hear dervishes monotonously chanting, interspers‘d with frantic shouts, as they spin around
    turning always towards Mecca,
I see the rapt religious dances of the Persians and the Arabs,
Again, at Eleusis, home of Ceres, I see the modern Greeks dancing,
I hear them clapping their hands as they bend their bodies,
I hear the metrical shuffling of their feet.                                                    110

I see again the wild old Corybantian dance, the performers wounding each other,
I see the Roman youth to the shrill sound of flageolets throwing and catching their weapons,
As they fall on their knees and rise again.

I hear from the Mussulman mosque the muezzin calling,
I see the worshippers within, nor form nor sermon, argument nor word,                           115
But silent, strange, devout, rais‘d, glowing heads, ecstatic faces.

I hear the Egyptian harp of many strings,
The primitive chants of the Nile boatmen,
The sacred imperial hymns of China,
To the delicate sounds of the king, (the stricken wood and stone,)                              120
Or to Hindu flutes and the fretting twang of the vina,
A band of bayaderes.

Now Asia, Africa leave me, Europe seizing inflates me,
To organs huge and bands I hear as from vast concourses of voices,
Luther‘s strong hymn Eine feste Burg ist unser Gott,                                            125
Rossini‘s Stabat Mater dolorosa,
Or floating in some high cathedral dim with gorgeous color‘d windows,
The passionate Agnus Dei or Gloria in Excelsis.

Composers! mighty maestros!
And you, sweet singers of old lands, soprani, tenori, bassi!                                    130
To you a new bard caroling in the West,
Obeisant sends his love.

(Such led to thee O soul,
All senses, shows and objects, lead to thee,
But now it seems to me sound leads o‘er all the rest.)                                          135

I hear the annual singing of the children in St. Paul‘s cathedral,
Or, under the high roof of some colossal hall, the symphonies, oratorios of Beethoven, Handel, or Haydn,
The Creation in billows of godhood laves me.
Give me to hold all sounds, (I madly struggling cry,)
Fill me with all the voices of the universe,                                                      140
Endow me with their throbbings, Nature‘s also,
The tempests, waters, winds, operas and chants, marches and dances,
Utter, pour in, for I would take them all!

Then I woke softly,
And pausing, questioning awhile the music of my dream,                                          145
And questioning all those reminiscences, the tempest in its fury,
And all the songs of sopranos and tenors,
And those rapt oriental dances of religious fervor,
And the sweet varied instruments, and the diapason of organs,
And all the artless plaints of love and grief and death,                                        150
I said to my silent curious soul out of the bed of the slumber-chamber,
Come, for I have found the clew I sought so long,
Let us go forth refresh‘d amid the day,
Cheerfully tallying life, walking the world, the real,
Nourish‘d henceforth by our celestial dream.                                                    155

And I said, moreover,
Haply what thou hast heard O soul was not the sound of winds,
Nor dream of raging storm, nor sea-hawk‘s flapping wings nor harsh scream,
Nor vocalism of sun-bright Italy,
Nor German organ majestic, nor vast concourse of voices, nor layers of harmonies,               160
Nor strophes of husbands and wives, nor sound of marching soldiers,
Nor flutes, nor harps, nor the bugle-calls of camps,
But to a new rhythmus fitted for thee,
Poems bridging the way from Life to Death, vaguely wafted in night air, uncaught, unwritten,
Which let us go forth in the bold day and write.                                                165
                                                                                                   (pub. 1892)

Chanting the Square Deific
Chanting the square deific, out of the One advancing, out of the sides,
Out of the old and new, out of the square entirely divine,
Solid, four-sided, (all the sides needed,) from this side Jehovah am I,
Old Brahm I, and I Saturnius am;
Not Time affects me—I am Time, old, modern as any,                                                    5
Unpersuadable, relentless, executing righteous judgments,
As the Earth, the Father, the brown old Kronos, with laws,
Aged beyond computation, yet never new, ever with those mighty laws rolling,
Relentless I forgive no man—whoever sins dies—I will have that man‘s life;
Therefore let none expect mercy—have the seasons, gravitation, the
   appointed days, mercy? no more have I,                                                             10
But as the seasons and gravitation, and as all the appointed days that forgive not,
I dispense from this side judgments inexorable without the least remorse.

Consolator most mild, the promis‘d one advancing,
With gentle hand extended, the mightier God am I,
Foretold by prophets and poets in their most rapt prophecies and poems,                               15
From this side, lo! the Lord Christ gazes—lo! Hermes I—lo! mine is Hercules‘ face,
All sorrow, labor, suffering, I, tallying it, absorb in myself,
Many times have I been rejected, taunted, put in prison, and
  crucified, and many times shall be again,
All the world have I given up for my dear brothers‘ and sisters‘ sake, for the soul‘s sake,           20
Wanding my way through the homes of men, rich or poor, with the kiss of affection,
For I am affection, I am the cheer-bringing God, with hope and all-enclosing charity,
With indulgent words as to children, with fresh and sane words, mine only,
Young and strong I pass knowing well I am destin‘d myself to an early death;
But my charity has no death—my wisdom dies not, neither early nor late,                               25
And my sweet love bequeath‘d here and elsewhere never dies.

Aloof, dissatisfied, plotting revolt,
Comrade of criminals, brother of slaves,
Crafty, despised, a drudge, ignorant,
With sudra face and worn brow, black, but in the depths of my heart, proud as any,                    30
Lifted now and always against whoever scorning assumes to rule me,
Morose, full of guile, full of reminiscences, brooding, with many wiles,
(Though it was thought I was baffled, and dispel‘d, and my wiles done, but that will never be,)
Defiant, I, Satan, still live, still utter words, in new lands duly appearing, (and old ones also,)
Permanent here from my side, warlike, equal with any, real as any,                                    35
Nor time nor change shall ever change me or my words.

Santa Spirita, breather, life,
Beyond the light, lighter than light,
Beyond the flames of hell, joyous, leaping easily above hell,
Beyond Paradise, perfumed solely with mine own perfume,                                               40
Including all life on earth, touching, including God, including Saviour and Satan,
Ethereal, pervading all, (for without me what were all? what were God?)
Essence of forms, life of the real identities, permanent, positive, (namely the unseen,)
Life of the great round world, the sun and stars, and of man, I, the general soul,
Here the square finishing, the solid, I the most solid,                                               45
Breathe my breath also through these songs.
                                                                                                      (pub. 1892)

Romanticism in Continental Europe
Johann Wolfgang Goethe (1749-1832; Germany)
Prometheus                              Prometheus
                                        Trans. from German by Michael Hamburger

Bedecke deinen Himmel, Zeus,            Cover your heaven, Zeus,
Mit Wolkendunst                         With cloudy vapors
Und übe, dem Knaben gleich,             And like a boy
Der Disteln köpft,                      Beheading thistles
An Eichen dich und Bergeshöhn;          Practice on oaks and mountain peaks—           5
Mußt mir meine Erde                     Still you must leave
Doch lassen stehn,                      My earth intact
Und meine Hütte, die du nicht gebaut,   And my small hovel, which you did not build,
Und meinen Herd,                        And this my hearth
Um dessen Gluth                         Whose glowing heat                             10
Du mich beneidest.                      You envy me.

Ich kenne nichts Äermeres               I know of nothing more wretched
Unter der Sonn, als euch, Götter!       Under the sun than you gods!
Ihr nähret kümmerlich                   Meagerly you nourish
Von Opfersteuern                        Your majesty                                   15
Und Gebetshauch                         On dues of sacrifice
Eure Majestät                           And breath of prayer
Und darbtet, wären                      And would suffer of want
Nicht Kinder und Bettler                But for children and beggars,
Hoffnungsvolle Thoren.                  Poor hopeful fools.                            20

Da ich ein Kind war,                    Once, too, a child,
Nicht wußte wo aus noch ein,            Not knowing where to turn,
Kehrt ich mein verirrtes Auge           I raised bewildered eyes
Zur Sonne, als wenn drüber wär          Up to the sun, as if above there were
Ein Ohr, zu hören meine Klage,          An ear to hear my complaint,                   25
Ein Herz, wie meins,                    A heart like mine
Sich des Bedrängten zu erbarmen.        To take pity on the oppressed.

Wer half mir                            Who helped me
Wider der Titanen Uebermuth?            Against the Titans‘ arrogance?
Wer rettete vom Tode mich,              Who rescued me from death,                     30
Von Sklaverei?                          From slavery?
Hast du nicht alles selbst vollendet,   Did not my holy and glowing heart,
Heilig glühend Herz?                    Unaided, accomplish all?
Und glühtest jung und gut,              And did it not, young and good,
Betrogen, Rettungsdank                  Cheated, glow thankfulness                     35
Dem Schlafenden da droben?              For its safety to him, the sleeper above?

Ich dich ehren? Wofür?                  I pay homage to you? For what?
Hast du die Schmerzen gelindert         Have you ever relieved
Je des Beladenen?                       The burdened man‘s anguish?
Hast du die Thränen gestillet           Have you ever assuaged                         40
Je des Geängsteten?                     The frightened man‘s tears?
Hat nicht mich zum Manne geschmiedet    Was it not omnipotent Time
Die allmächtige Zeit                    That forged me into manhood,
Und das ewige Schicksal,                         And eternal Fate,
Meine Herrn und deine?                           My masters and yours?                             45

Wähntest du etwa,                                Or did you think perhaps
Ich sollte das Leben hassen,                     That I should hate this life,
In Wüsten fliehen,                               Flee into deserts
Weil nicht alle                                  Because not all
Blüthenträume reiften?                           The blossoms of dream grew ripe?                  50

Hier sitz ich, forme Menschen                    Here I sit, forming men
Nach meinem Bilde,                               In my image,
Ein Geschlecht, das mir gleich sei,              A race to resemble me:
Zu leiden, zu weinen,                            To suffer, to weep,
Zu genießen und zu freuen sich,                  To enjoy, to be glad—                             55
Und dein nicht zu achten,                        And never to heed you,
Wie ich!                                         Like me!

Weltseele                                        Universal Soul
                                                 Trans. from German by Christopher Middleton

Verteilet euch nach allen Regionen               Go forth, now that this holy feast is done,
Von diesem heil‘gen Schmaus!                     Into all regions of the world disperse;
Begeistert reißt euch durch die nächsten Zonen   Stop not in purlews with your inspiration,
Ins All und füllt es aus!                        Enter the All, make full the universe!

Schon schwebet ihr in ungemeßnen Fernen          Vast distances already loft your flight;          5
Den selgen Göttertraum                           Under the stars, together, as you race
Und leuchtet neu, gesellig, unter Sternen        You float the dream of gods, and you give light
Im lichtbesäten Raum.                            In light-inseminated outer space.

Dann treibt ihr euch, gewaltige Kometen,         Urge ever onward then, as mighty comets;
Ins Weit und Weitr hinan;                        Your course will intersect, as on it runs,        10
Das Labyrinth der Sonnen und Planeten            Pressing against the far and farther limits,
Durchschneidet eure Bahn.                        The labyrinth of planets and of suns.

Ihr greifet rasch nach ungeformten Erden         Young in your creative act and bold,
Und wirket schöpfrisch jung,                     On earths devoid of form, that more and more
Daß sie belebt und stets belebter werden,        Vivid they may become, quickly take hold          15
Im abgemeßnen Schwung.                           As you complete your measured curvature.

Und kreisend führt ihr in bewegten Lüften        And in your orbits through the vibrant air
Den wandelbaren Flor                             You guide of cloud the variable skeins;
Und schreibt dem Stein in allen seinen Grüften   In all its crypts prescribe to stone the share
Die festen Formen vor.                           Of those abiding forms that it contains.          20

Nun alles sich mit göttlichem Erkühnen           With godlike courage all things come to mean
Zu übertreffen strebt;                           A self-surpassing, whither all must strive:
Das Wasser will, das unfruchtbare, grünen,       The fruitless water wishes to be green
Und jedes Stäubchen lebt.                        And every particle of dust is live.

Und so verdrängt mit liebevollem Streiten        And so with loving contest you put paid           25
Der feuchten Qualme Nacht!                       To night with its chaotic dismal dews;
Nun glühen schon des Paradieses Weiten           The full expanse of paradise arrayed
In überbunter Pracht.                            Already glows, intense, with many hues.
Wie regt sich bald, ein holdes Licht zu schauen,         Now how the crowd of creatures multiform
Gestaltenreiche Schar,                                   Is all astir, delicious light to see;             30
Und ihr erstaunt auf den beglückten Auen                 And on a happy meadow the firstborn
Nun als das erste Paar,                                  Couple you are, in wonder there to be.

Und bald verlischt ein unbegrenztes Streben              And now the boundless striving flickers out,
Im selgen Wechselblick.                                  Becomes the look that you exchange in bliss:
Und so empfangt, mit Dank, das schönste Leben            Thankful you turn this gift of life about—        35
Vom All ins All zurück.                                  Restored the universe within us is.

Mächtiges Überraschen                                    Immense Astonishment
Ein Strom entrauscht umwölktem Felsensaale,              A river from a cloud-wrapped chamber gone,
Dem Ozean sich eilig zu verbinden;                       Of rock, and roaring to be one with ocean,
Was auch sich spiegeln mag von Grund zu Gründen,         Much it reflects from deep to deep, its motion
Er wandelt unaufhaltsam fort zu Tale.                    Never relenting valleyward and on.

Dämonisch aber stürzt mit einem—                         But with abrupt demonical force,                  5
Ihr folgen Berg und Wald in Wirbelwinden—                By forest, mountain, whirling wind pursued,
Sich Oreas, Behagen dort zu finden,                      Oreas tumbles down into quietude,
Und hemmt den Lauf, begrenzt die weite Schale.           And there she brims the bowl, impedes the course.

Die Welle sprüht, und staunt zurück und weichet,         The wave breaks into spray, astonished, back
Und schwillt bergan, sich immer selbst zu trinken;       Uphill it washes, drinking herself always;        10
Gehemmt ist nun zum Vater hin das Streben.               Its urge to join the Father unhindered, too,

Sie schwankt und ruht, zum See zurückgedeichet;         It rolls and rests, is damned into a lake;
Gestirne, spiegelnd sich, beschaun das Blinken          The constellations, mirrored, fix their gaze:
Des Wellenschlags am Fels, ein neues Leben.             The flash of wave on rock, a life made new.
                                                         Trans. from German by Christopher Middleton

Selige Sehnsucht                                         Blessed Longing
Sagt es niemand, nur den Weisen,                         Tell it only to the wise,
Weil die Menge gleich verhöhnet,                         For the crowd at once will jeer:
Das Lebendge will ich preisen,                           That which is alive I praise,
Das nach Flammentod sich sehnet.                         That which longs for death by fire.

In der Liebesnächte Kühlung,                             Cooled by passionate love at night,               5
Die dich zeugte, wo du zeugtest,                         Procreated, procreating,
Ueberfällt die fremde Fühlung                            You have known the alien feeling
Wenn die stille Kerze leuchtet.                          In the calm of candlelight;

Nicht mehr bleibest du umfangen                          Gloom-embraced will lie no more,
In der Finsterniß Beschattung,                           By the flickering shades obscured,                10
Und dich reißet neu Verlangen                            But are seized by new desire,
Auf zu höherer Begattung.                                To a higher union lured.

Keine Ferne macht dich schwierig,                        Then no distance holds you fast;
Kommst geflogen und gebannt,                             Winged, enchanted, on you fly,
Und zuletzt, des Lichts begierig,                        Light your longing, and at last,                  15
Bist du Schmetterling verbrannt.                         Moth, you meet the flame and die.
Und so lang du das nicht hast,                     Never prompted to that quest:
Dieses: Stirb und Werde!                           Die and dare rebirth!
Bist du nur ein trüber Gast                        You remain a dreary guest
Auf der dunklen Erde.                              On our gloomy earth.                               20
                                                   Trans. from German by Michael Hamburger

Eins und Alles                                     One and All
Im Grenzenlosen sich zu finden,                    In boundlessness, itself discovering there,
Wird gern der einzelne verschwinden,               The singular would gladly disappear,
Da löst sich aller Überdruß;                       Satiety is then absolvèd quite;
Statt heißem Wünschen, wildem Wollen,              Ardent wishing, savage will abate,
Statt lästgem Fordern, strengem Sollen,            Strict obligation, coping, ah, with Fate:          5
Sich aufzugeben ist Genuß.                         In self-abandon is delight.

Weltseele, komm, uns zu durchdringen!              Soul of the world, soak into us, descend,
Dann mit dem Weltgeist selbst zu ringen,           Then with the very Weltgeist to contend
Wird unsrer Kräfte Hochberuf.                      Our finest faculties contract;
Teilnehmend führen gute Geister,                   Spirits benign will guide and sympathize,          10
Gelinde leitend höchste Meister                    Sublimest masters gently ways devise
Zu dem, der alles schafft und schuf.               To the perpetual Creative Act.

Und umzuschaffen das Geschaffne,                   And with effect to make creation new,
Damit sich‘s nicht zum Starren waffne,             Its weaponed rigour soon enough undo,
Wirkt ewiges, lebendiges Tun.                      Action eternal, vivid, rose;                       15
Und was nicht war, nun will es werden              And what was not, now wishes to unfold,
Zu reinen Sonnen, farbigen Erden;                  Become unsullied suns, a coloured world:
In keinem Falle darf es ruhn.                      No circumstance permits repose.

Es soll sich regen, schaffend handeln,             It has to move, to be creating deed,
Erst sich gestalten, dann verwandeln;              First make its form, then, changing it, proceed;   20
Nur scheinbar steht‘s Momente still.               All stopping, short—illusion‘s twist,
Das Ewige regt sich fort in allen:                 For the Eternal onward moves in all,
Denn alles muß in Nichts zerfallen,                And into nothing everything must fall,
Wenn es im Sein beharren will.                     If it in being would persist.
                                                   Trans. from German by Christopher Middleton

Friedrich Schiller (1759-1805; Germany)

An die Freude                                      To Joy (Ode to Joy)
Freude, schöner Götterfunken,                      Joy, beautiful spark of Gods,
  Tochter aus Elysium,                               Daughter of Elysium,
Wir betreten feuertrunken,                         We enter, fire-imbibed,
  Himmlische, dein Heiligtum                         Heavenly, thy sanctuary
Deine Zauber binden wieder                         Thy magic powers re-unite                          5
  Was der Mode Schwert geteilt;                      What custom‘s sword has divided;
Bettler werden Fürstenbrüder,                      Beggars become Princes‘ brothers
  Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.                      Where thy gentle wing abides.

Chor                                   Chorus
 Seid umschlungen, Millionen!           Be embraced, millions!
   Diesen Kuß der ganzen Welt!            This kiss to the entire world!             10
   Brüder—überm Sternenzelt               Brothers—above the starry canopy
 Muß ein lieber Vater wohnen.           A loving father must dwell.

Wem der große Wurf gelungen,           Whoever has had the great fortune,
  Eines Freundes Freund zu sein;         To be a friend‘s friend;
Wer ein holdes Weib errungen,          Whoever has won the love of a devoted wife,
  Mische seinen Jubel ein!               Add his to our jubilation!
Ja—wer auch nur eine Seele             Indeed—whoever can call even one soul
  Sein nennt auf dem Erdenrund!          His own on this earth!
Und wer‘s nie gekonnt, der stehle      And whoever was never able to must creep
  Weinend sich aus diesem Bund!          Tearfully away from this circle!            20

Chor                                   Chorus
 Was den großen Ring bewohnet,          Those who dwell in the great circle,
   Huldige der Sympathie!                 Pay homage to sympathy!
   Zu den Sternen leitet sie,             It leads to the stars,
 Wo der Unbekannte thronet.             Where the Unknown reigns.

Freude trinken alle Wesen              Joy all creatures drink                       25
  An den Brüsten der Natur,              At nature‘s bosoms;
Alle Guten, alle Bösen                 All, Just and Unjust,
  Folgen ihrer Rosenspur.                Follow her rose-petalled path.
Küsse gab sie uns, und Reben,          Kisses she gave us, and Wine,
  Einen Freund, geprüft im Tod.          A friend, proven in death,                  30
Wollust ward dem Wurm gegeben,         Pleasure was given to the worm,
  Und der Cherub steht vor Gott.         And the Cherub stands before God.

Chor                                   Chorus
 Ihr stürzt nieder, Millionen?          You bow down, millions?
   Ahndest du den Schöpfer, Welt?         Can you sense the Creator, world?
   Such ihn überm Sternenzelt,            Seek him above the starry canopy.          35
 Über Sternen muß er wohnen.            Above the stars He must dwell.

Freude heißt die starke Feder          Joy is called the strong motivation
  In der ewigen Natur.                   In eternal nature.
Freude, Freude, treibt die Räder       Joy, joy moves the wheels
  In der großen Weltenuhr.               In the universal time machine.              40
Blumen lockt sie aus den Keimen,       Flowers it calls forth from their buds,
  Sonnen aus dem Firmament,              Suns from the Firmament,
Sphären rollt sie in den Räumen,       Spheres it moves far out in Space,
  Die des Sehers Rohr nicht kennt.       Where our telescopes cannot reach.

Chor                                   Chorus
 Froh, wie seine Sonnen fliegen,        Joyful, as His suns are flying,              45
   Durch des Himmels prächtgen Plan,      Across the Firmament‘s splendid design,
   Laufet, Brüder, eure Bahn,             Run, brothers, run your race,
 Freudig wie ein Held zum Siegen.       Joyful, as a hero going to conquest.

Aus der Wahrheit Feuerspiegel          As truth‘s fiery reflection
 Lächelt sie den Forscher an.           It smiles at the scientist.                  50
Zu der Tugend steilem Hügel            To virtue‘s steep hill
 Leitet sie des Dulders Bahn.           It leads the sufferer on.
Auf des Glaubens Sonnenberge            Atop faith‘s lofty summit
 Sieht man ihre Fahnen wehn,             One sees its flags in the wind,
Durch den Riß gesprengter Särge         Through the cracks of burst-open coffins,         55
 Sie im Chor der Engel stehn.            One sees it stand in the angels‘ chorus.

Chor                                    Chorus
 Duldet mutig, Millionen!                Endure courageously, millions!
   Duldet für die beßre Welt!              Endure for the better world!
   Droben überm Sternenzelt                Above the starry canopy
 Wird ein großer Gott belohnen.          A great God will reward you.                     60

Göttern kann man nicht vergelten,       Gods one cannot ever repay,
 Schön ists, ihnen gleich zu sein.       It is beautiful, though, to be like them.
Gram und Armut soll sich melden,        Sorrow and Poverty, come forth
 Mit den Frohen sich erfreun.            And rejoice with the Joyful ones
Groll und Rache sei vergessen,          Anger and revenge be forgotten,                   65
 Unserm Todfeind sei verziehn,           Our deadly enemy be forgiven,
Keine Träne soll ihn pressen,           Not one tear shall he shed anymore,
 Keine Reue nage ihn.                    No feeling of remorse shall pain him.

Chor                                    Chorus
 Unser Schuldbuch sei vernichtet!        The account of our misdeeds be destroyed!
   Ausgesöhnt die ganze Welt!              Reconciled the entire world!                   70
   Brüder, überm Sternenzelt               Brothers, above the starry canopy
 Richtet Gott, wie wir gerichtet.        God judges as we judged.

Freude sprudelt in Pokalen,             Joy is bubbling in the glasses,
 In der Traube goldnem Blut               Through the grapes‘ golden blood
Trinken Sanftmut Kannibalen,            Cannibals drink gentleness,                       75
 Die Verzweiflung Heldenmut—              And despair drinks courage—
Brüder, fliegt von euren Sitzen,        Brothers, fly from your seats,
 Wenn der volle Römer kreist,             When the full rummer is going around,
Laßt den Schaum zum Himmel sprützen:    Let the foam gush up to heaven:
 Dieses Glas dem guten Geist.             This glass to the good spirit.                  80

Chor                                    Chorus
 Den der Sterne Wirbel loben,            He whom star clusters adore,
   Den des Seraphs Hymne preist,           He whom the Seraphs‘ hymn praises,
   Dieses Glas dem guten Geist             This glass to him, the good spirit,
 Überm Sternenzelt dort oben!            Above the starry canopy!

Festen Mut in schwerem Leiden,          Resolve and courage for great suffering,          85
 Hülfe, wo die Unschuld weint,           Help there, where innocence weeps,
Ewigkeit geschwornen Eiden,             Eternally may last all sworn Oaths,
 Wahrheit gegen Freund und Feind,        Truth towards friend and enemy,
Männerstolz vor Königsthronen—          Men‘s pride before Kings‘ thrones—
 Brüder, gält es Gut und Blut—           Brothers, even it if meant our Life and blood,   90
Dem Verdienste seine Kronen,            Give the crowns to those who earn them,
 Untergang der Lügenbrut!                Defeat to the pack of liars!

Chor                                    Chorus
 Schließt den heilgen Zirkel dichter,    Close the holy circle tighter,
   Schwört bei diesem goldnen Wein:        Swear by this golden wine:
   Dem Gelübde treu zu sein,               To remain true to the Oath,                    95
 Schwört es bei dem Sternenrichter!      Swear it by the Judge above the stars!
Rettung von Tyrannenketten,                                Delivery from tyrants‘ chains,
 Großmut auch dem Bösewicht,                                Generosity also towards the villain,
Hoffnung auf den Sterbebetten,                             Hope on the deathbeds,
 Gnade auf dem Hochgericht!                                 Mercy from the final judge!                         100
Auch die Toten sollen leben!                               Also the dead shall live!
 Brüder, trinkt und stimmet ein,                            Brothers, drink and chime in,
Allen Sündern soll vergeben,                               All sinners shall be forgiven,
 Und die Hölle nicht mehr sein.                             And hell shall be no more.

Chor                                                       Chorus
 Eine heitre Abschiedsstunde!                               A serene hour of farewell!                          105
   Süßen Schlaf im Leichentuch!                               Sweet rest in the shroud!
   Brüder—einen sanften Spruch                                Brothers—a mild sentence
 Aus des Totenrichters Mund!                                From the mouth of the final judge!
                                                           Trans. from German (anonymous)
Steure, mutiger Segler! Es mag der Witz dich              Steer on, bold sailor—Wit may mock thy soul that
     verhönen,                                                 sees the land,
  Und der Schiffer am Steur senken die                      And hopeless at the helm may droop the weak and
     lässige Hand.                                             weary hand,
Immer, immer nach West! Dort muß die Küste                Yet ever—ever to the West, for there the coast
     sich zeigen,                                              must lie,
  Liegt sie doch deutlich und liegt schimmernd              And dim it dawns, and glimmering dawns before
     vor deinem Verstand.                                      thy reason‘s eye;
Traue dem leitenden Gott und folge dem                    Yea, trust the guiding God—and go along the
     schweigenden Weltmeer,                                    floating grave,                                   5
  Wär sie noch nicht, sie stieg‘ jetz aus den               Though hid till now—yet now behold the New
     Fluten empor.                                             World o‘er the wave!
Mit dem Genius steht die Natur in ewigen Bunde,           With genius Nature ever stands in solemn union still,
  Was der eine verspricht, leistet die andre gewiß.       And ever what the one foretells the other shall fulfill.
                                                  (c. 1800)
                                                           Trans. from German (anonymous)

Heinrich Heine (1797-1856; Germany)
Du bist wie eine Blume                                     You are like a flower
Du bist wie eine Blume,                                    You are like a flower,
So hold und schön und rein;                                So fair, so pure and smart;
Ich schau dich an, und Wehmut                              I gaze at you and melancholy
Schleicht mir ins Herz hinein.                             Sneaks into my heart.

Mir ist, als ob ich die Hände                              I feel I should be laying                            5
Aufs Haupt dir legen sollt,                                My hands upon your hair,
Betend, daß Gott dich erhalte                              Praying that God may preserve you
So rein und schön und hold.                                So pure and smart and fair.

                                                           Trans. from German by Joseph Massaad

Ich stand in dunkeln Träumen                Wrapped in somber dreams
Ich stand in dunkeln Träumen                I gazed upon her portrait,
Und starrte ihr Bildnis an,                 Wrapped in somber dreams,
Und das geliebte Antlitz                    And her beloved features
Heimlich zu leben begann.                   Lived again, it seems.

Um ihre Lippen zog sich                     I saw upon her lips                           5
Ein Lächeln wunderbar,                      A wonderful smile appear,
Und wie von Wehmutstränen                   And as with tears of sorrow,
Erglänzte ihr Augenpaar.                    Her twinkely eyes shone clear.

Auch meine Tränen flossen                   I too began to weep,
Mir von den Wangen herab—                   My tears began to flow;                       10
Und ach, ich kann es nicht glauben,         Alas, I cannot believe it,
Daß ich dich verloren hab!                  That I have lost you so!

                                            Trans. from German by Joseph Massaad

Adam der Erste                              Adam the First
Du schicktest mit dem Flammenschwert        You sent the divine gendarme
Den himmlischen Gendarmen,                  With his sword of flame;
Und jagtest mich aus dem Paradies,          You chased me out of Paradise entirely
Ganz ohne Recht und Erbarmen!               With no justice, mercy or shame!

Ich ziehe fort mit meiner Frau              Towards other lands, with my wife,            5
Nach andren Erdenländern;                   I am embarking on a voyage;
Doch daß ich genossen des Wissens Frucht,   However, you cannot alter the fact
Das kannst du nicht mehr ändern.            That I enjoyed the fruit of Knowledge.

Du kannst nicht ändern, daß ich weiß,       You cannot alter the fact that I know
Wie sehr du klein und nichtig,              How small and insignificant you are,          10
Und machst du dich auch noch so sehr        However important you try to make yourself,
Durch Tod und Donnern wichtig.              Through death and through thunder.

O Gott! wie erbärmlich ist doch dies        Oh God! How pitiful I find
Consilium abeundi!                          This Consilium abeundi, to be!
Das nenne ich einen Magnifikus              That‘s what I call a real Magnificus          15
Der Welt, ein lumen mundi!                  Of the world, a Lumen mundi!

Vermissen werde ich nimmermehr              I shall certainly never miss
Die paradiesischen Räume;                   Paradise, as it was;
Das war kein wahres Paradies—               It wasn‘t a true Paradise:
Es gab dort verbotene Bäume.                It had forbidden trees.                       20

Ich will mein volles Freiheitsrecht!        I want my full rights of freedom!
Find ich die g‘ringste Beschränknis,        If there is the slightest restriction,
Verwandelt sich mir das Paradies            For me, Paradise will turn
In Hölle und Gefängnis.                     Into a hell, into a prison.

                                            Trans. from German by Joseph Massaad

Marie Antoinette                               Marie Antoinette
Wie heiter im Tuilerienschloß                  How, in the Tuilleries palace,
Blinken die Spiegelfenster,                    The glass-windows gleam gay and bright!
Und dennoch dort am hellen Tag                 Yet, the familiar old specters,
Gehn um die alten Gespenster.                  Still wander there, in broad day-light.

Es spukt im Pavillon de Flor‘                  The famous flora pavilion                  5
Maria Antoinette;                              Is haunted by Marie Antoinette;
Sie hält dort morgens ihr Lever                She holds there her morning-rituals,
Mit strenger Etikette.                         With the strictest etiquette.

Geputzte Hofdamen. Die meisten stehn,          Fully dressed court-ladies are there,
Auf Taburetts andre sitzen;                    Standing or sitting around the place,      10
Die Kleider von Atlas und Goldbrokat,          Dressed in satin and gold brocade,
Behängt mit Juwelen und Spitzen.               Adorned by jewelry and lace.

Die Taille ist schmal, der Reifrock bauscht,   Their waists are tight, their petticoats
Darunter lauschen die netten                   Swell, and underneath them peep
Hochhackigen Füßchen so klug hervor—           Their pretty high-heeled small feet.       15
Ach, wenn sie nur Köpfe hätten!                If only their heads they could keep!

Sie haben alle keinen Kopf,                    None of the lot has a head on,
Der Königin selbst manquieret                  The queen herself is missing
Der Kopf, und Ihro Majestät                    A head, therefore her Majesty
Ist deshalb nicht frisieret.                   Goes around with no hair-dressing,         20

Ja, sie, die mit turmhohem Toupet              She, who had so much dignity,
So stolz sich konnte gebaren,                  With hair as high as a tower,
Die Tochter Maria Theresias,                   Maria Theresa‘s daughter,
Die Enkelin deutscher Cäsaren,                 Descendant of German power.

Sie muß jetzt spuken ohne Frisur               She is now reduced to haunt,               25
Und ohne Kopf, im Kreise                       Without a head, without her hair,
Von unfrisierten Edelfraun,                    Amongst all her maids of honor,
Die kopflos gleicherweise.                     Who, her grim fate, appear to share.

Das sind die Folgen der Revolution             The revolution is to blame,
Und ihrer fatalen Doktrine;                    With so pernicious a doctrine—             30
An allem ist schuld Jean Jacques Rousseau,     At fault are Jean Jacques Rousseau,
Voltaire und die Guillotine.                   Voltaire and the guillotine.

Doch sonderbar! es dünkt mich schier,          Yet, strange as it may be, I think
Als hätten die armen Geschöpfe                 That the poor creatures, though dead,
Gar nicht bemerkt, wie tot sie sind            Didn‘t realize how dead they are,          35
Und daß sie verloren die Köpfe.                Nor that they have lost their head!

Ein leeres Gespreize, ganz wie sonst,          Here the ladies bow and scrape,
Ein abgeschmacktes Scherwenzen—                Like always, falsely smiling,
Possierlich sind und schauderhaft              And all those curtsies with no heads
Die kopflosen Reverenzen.                      Are both funny and appalling.              40

Es knickst die erste Dame d‘atour              A first tirewoman brings a linen
Und bringt ein Hemd von Linnen;                Shirt and curtsies politely;
Die zweite reicht es der Königin,              A second hands it to the queen
Und beide knicksen von hinnen.            And both retire slowly.

Die dritte Dam‘ und die vierte Dam‘       The third and fourth ladies curtsy        45
Knicksen und niederknien                  And bend before the queen so low,
Vor Ihrer Majestät, um Ihr                As to be in a position,
Die Strümpfe anzuziehen.                  Her majesty‘s stockings to draw.

Ein Ehrenfräulein kommt und knickst       A maid of honor curtsying brings
Und bringt das Morgenjäckchen;            The queen‘s robe for the morning;         50
Ein andres Fräulein knickst und bringt    Another maid curtsying arrives,
Der Königin Unterröckchen.                The queen‘s petticoat, holding.

Die Oberhofmeisterin steht dabei,         The mistress of the robes stands there,
Sie fächert die Brust, die weiße,         She is fanning her white bosom,
Und in Ermanglung eines Kopfs             And in the absence of a head,             55
Lächelt sie mit dem Steiße.               Happily smiles with her bottom.

Wohl durch die verhängten Fenster wirft   The sun which through the window
Die Sonne neugierige Blicke,              Threw glances of inquisition,
Doch wie sie gewahrt den alten Spuk,      Shudders in fearful amazement,
Prallt sie erschrocken zurücke.           At such a dreadful apparition.            60

                                          Trans. from German by Joseph Massaad

Walküren                                  The Valkyres
Unten Schlacht. Doch oben schossen        While below opposing forces
Durch die Luft auf Wolkenrossen           Fight, above on cloudy horses
Drei Walküren, und es klang               Three Valkyres ride, their singing
Schilderklirrend ihr Gesang:              Like the clashing of shields, ringing:

»Fürsten hadern, Völker streiten,         ―Princes wrangle and people fight,        5
Jeder will die Macht erbeuten;            They are all contending for might;
Herrschaft ist das höchste Gut,           The highest prize is conquest,
Höchste Tugend ist der Mut.               Of all virtues, courage is best.

Heisa! vor dem Tod beschützen             All things to death will be subject,
Keine stolzen Eisenmützen,                For no proud helmet can protect,          10
Und das Heldenblut zerrinnt               And when the hero‘s blood has run,
Und der schlechtre Mann gewinnt.          The wicked one the day has won.

Lorbeerkränze, Siegesbogen!               Laurel wreaths, triumphal arches!
Morgen kommt er eingezogen,               In the morning in he marches,
Der den Bessern überwand                  He, who had the upper hand,               15
Und gewonnen Leut‘ und Land.              Winning the people and their land.

Bürgermeister und Senator                 Burgomaster and Senator
Holen ein den Triumphator,                Hasten to meet their victor,
Tragen ihm die Schlüssel vor,             To him they surrender the key,
Und der Zug geht durch das Tor.           And the train enters the city.            20

Hei! da böllert‘s von den Wällen,         From the city-walls cannons crash,
Zinken und Trompeten gellen,              Kettle-drums resound, trumpets clash,
Glockenklang erfüllt die Luft,            The ringing of bells fills the sky,
Und der Pöbel ›Vivat!‹ ruft.              And ‗hurrah‘, the people cry.
Lächelnd stehen auf Balkonen                     On the balconies are standing                          25
Schöne Fraun, und Blumenkronen                   Beauteous women who throw, smiling
Werfen sie dem Sieger zu.                        To the victor, wreaths of flowers.
Dieser grüßt mit stolzer Ruh‘.«                  He salutes with haughty manners!‖

                                                 Trans. from German by Joseph Massaad

Fragen                                           Questions
Am Meer, am wüsten, nächtlichen Meer             By the sea, the desolate night-time sea
Steht ein Jüngling-Mann,                         Stands someone, nearing manhood;
Die Brust voll Wehmut, das Haupt voll Zweifel,   His mind is full of doubts, his heart of melancholy;
Und mit düstern Lippen fragt er die Wogen:       His lips ask the waves, in the sadest mood:

»O löst mir das Rätsel des Lebens,               ―Oh, solve me the mistery of life, its riddle,  5
Das qualvoll uralte Rätsel,                      This eternal and agonising puzzle,
Worüber schon manche Häupter gegrübelt,          Over which so many heads have brooded,
Häupter in Hieroglyphenmützen,                   Heads with caps, heads that were hooded,
Häupter in Turban und schwarzem Barett,          Heads in turbans, in black birettas, periwigged
Perückenhäupter und tausend andre                And many a thousand, sweating human head.       10
Arme, schwitzende Menschenhäupter—               Tell me, what is the meaning of humanity?
Sagt mir, was bedeutet der Mensch?               Where did man come from? Where is his destiny?
Woher ist er kommen? Wo geht er hin?             And who lives in the golden stars in the sky?‖
Wer wohnt dort oben auf goldenen Sternen?«
                                                 The waves murmur with an eternal sigh,
Es murmeln die Wogen ihr ew‘ges Gemurmel,        The wind blows, the clouds continue to flee,           15
Es wehet der Wind, es fliehen die Wolken,        The stars twinkle, cold, indifferently,
Es blinken die Sterne, gleichgültig und kalt,    And a fool waits for an answer.
Und ein Narr wartet auf Antwort.

                                                 Trans. from German by Joseph Massaad

Der Kaiser von China                             The Emperor of China
Mein Vater war ein trockner Taps,                My father was one of those clumsy chaps,
Ein nüchterner Duckmäuser,                       Some kind of sober yes-man,
Ich aber trinke meinen Schnaps                   I, however, drink my schnapps
Und bin ein großer Kaiser.                       And, a great emperor I am.

Das ist ein Zaubertrank! Ich hab‘s               It is a magical drink!                                 5
Entdeckt in meinem Gemüte:                       In my heart, at its very bottom,
Sobald ich getrunken meinen Schnaps,             I discovered that after my schnapps is drunk,
Steht China ganz in Blüte.                       The whole of China is in blossom.

Das Reich der Mitte verwandelt sich dann         The empire of the middle does transform
In einen Blumenanger,                            Into a meadow with many a flower,                      10
Ich selber werde fast ein Mann,                  Myself, almost like a man, I can perform
Und meine Frau wird schwanger.                   And my wife can procreate an emperor.

Allüberall ist Überfluß,                         Everywhere, there is a great surplus
Und es gesunden die Kranken;                     And the sick people begin to heal;
Mein Hofweltweiser Confusius                     My court counsellor Confucius‘                         15
Bekömmt die klarsten Gedanken.                   Thinking becomes ever so clear.

Der Pumpernickel des Soldats                        The pumpernickel of the soldier
Wird Mandelkuchen—O Freude!                         Becomes an almond cake—Oh joy!
Und alle Lumpen meines Staats                       And all the rogues in the state can loiter
Spazieren in Samt und Seide.                        With all the velvet and silk they can deploy.     20

Die Mandarinenritterschaft,                         Every Mandarin knight,
Die invaliden Köpfe,                                Every handicapped head,
Gewinnen wieder Jugendkraft                         Regain their youth outright
Und schütteln ihre Zöpfe.                           And shake their pigtailed heads.

Die große Pagode, Symbol und Hort                   The great pagoda, shelter and symbol              25
Des Glaubens, ist fertig geworden;                  Of faith did finally arise;
Die letzten Juden taufen sich dort                  The last Jews are baptized in its hall,
Und kriegen den Drachenorden.                       The Order of the Dragon is their prize.

Es schwindet der Geist der Revolution,              Gone is the spirit of the revolution
Und es rufen die edelsten Mandschu:                 And the noblest Manchus claim:                    30
»Wir wollen keine Konstitution,                     We do not want any constitution,
Wir wollen den Stock, den Kantschu!«                We want the stick, the whip, and the chain!

Wohl haben die Schüler Äskulaps                     The disciples of Aesculapius have in vain
Das Trinken mir widerraten,                         Tried to divert me from my drinking fate,
Ich aber trinke meinen Schnaps                      I continue to drink my schnapps and maintain      35
Zum Besten meiner Staaten.                          That it is for the best of my state.

Und noch einen Schnaps, und noch einen Schnaps!     And more schnapps, and more, it must be!
Das schmeckt wie lauter Manna!                      Its taste is like pure manna.
Mein Volk ist glücklich, hat‘s auch den Raps,       My people have their rape, they are happy
Und jubelt: »Hosianna!«                             And they rejoice: Hosanna!                        40

                                                    Trans. from German by Joseph Massaad

Götterdämmerung                                     Twilight of the Gods
                                                    Trans. from German by Joseph Massaad

Der Mai ist da mit seinen goldnen Lichtern          Fair May has come with all her golden radiance,
Und seidnen Lüften und gewürzten Düften,            And silken breezes and warm, spicy fragrance,
Und freundlich lockt er mit den weißen Blüten,      She lures us kindly with her snow-white blossoms,
Und grüßt aus tausend blauen Veilchenaugen,         And greets us from a thousand blue-eyed violets,
Und breitet aus den blumreich grünen Teppich,       And spreads a wide flowery verdant carpet,         5
Durchwebt mit Sonnenschein und Morgentau,           Interwoven with sunshine and morning dew,
Und ruft herbei die lieben Menschenkinder.          And thus summons the well-loved human children.
Das blöde Volk gehorcht dem ersten Ruf.             The stupid folk blindly obeys this first call.
Die Männer ziehn die Nankinghosen an                The men in haste put on their fancy trousers,
Und Sonntagsröck‘ mit goldnen Spiegelknöpfen;       And Sunday coats with golden glassy buttons.       10
Die Frauen kleiden sich in Unschuldweiß;            The women all wear the white of innocence.
Jünglinge kräuseln sich den Frühlingsschnurrbart,   Young men take care to twirl their spring-mustachios;
Jungfrauen lassen ihre Busen wallen;                The maidens all begin heaving their bosom;
Die Stadtpoeten stecken in die Tasche               The city poets stuff into their pockets
Papier und Bleistift und Lorgnett‘;—und jubelnd     Paper and pencil and lorgnette, and gaily          15
Zieht nach dem Tor die krausbewegte Schar,          The confused moving crowds make for the gate,
Und lagert draußen sich auf grünem Rasen,           Camping outside upon the lush verdant turf,
Bewundert, wie die Bäume fleißig wachsen,           Amazed to see how quickly the trees have grown,
Spielt mit den bunten, zarten Blümelein,            Playing with the sweet colorful flowerets,

Horcht auf den Sang der lust‘gen Vögelein,            Hearing the songs of the merry birds above,        20
Und jauchzt hinauf zum blauen Himmelszelt.            And shouting exaltations towards heaven.

Zu mir kam auch der Mai. Er klopfte dreimal           To me came also May, and three times she knocked
An meine Tür und rief: «Ich bin der Mai,              Against my door, and cried: I am the May!
Du bleicher Träumer, komm, ich will dich küssen!»     You pallid dreamer, come, I fain would kiss you!
Ich hielt verriegelt meine Tür, und rief:             I kept my door tightly locked and answered:        25
Vergebens lockst du mich, du schlimmer Gast.          Your lures are all in vain, evil stranger.
Ich habe dich durchschaut, ich hab durchschaut        I have seen through you, I also have seen through
Den Bau der Welt, und hab zuviel geschaut,            The fabric of the world, I have seen too much,
Und viel zu tief, und hin ist alle Freude,            And far too deep, and all my pleasure is gone,
Und ew‘ge Qualen zogen in mein Herz.                  And eternal torments quiver in my heart.           30
Ich schaue durch die steinern harten Rinden           I see through all the hard and stony covers
Der Menschenhäuser und der Menschenherzen,            Of human houses and of human hearts,
Und schau in beiden Lug und Trug und Elend.           And see in both lies, deceit and misery.
Auf den Gesichtern les ich die Gedanken,              I read men‘s thoughts by looking at their faces,
Viel schlimme. In der Jungfrau Schamerröten           They‘re mostly evil! In the maiden‘s blushing      35
Seh ich geheime Lust begehrlich zittern;              I see the quivering of a hidden lust;
Auf dem begeistert stolzen Jünglingshaupt             On the inspired and haughty head of youth
Seh ich die lachend bunte Schellenkappe;              I see jiggle the cap-and-bells of folly;
Und Fratzenbilder nur und sieche Schatten             And caricatures and sickly shadows
Seh ich auf dieser Erde, und ich weiß nicht,          Are all I see upon this earth, I now doubt         40
Ist sie ein Tollhaus oder Krankenhaus.                If earth is a madhouse or a hospital.
Ich sehe durch den Grund der alten Erde,              I see too plainly through the old earth‘s crust,
Als sei sie von Kristall, und seh das Grausen,        As though it were crystal, I see the horrors
Das mit dem freud‘gen Grüne zu bedecken               Which May is vainly striving to conceal
Der Mai vergeblich strebt. Ich seh die Toten;         With pleasing green turf . There I see the dead;   45
Sie liegen unten in den schmalen Särgen,              They lie below in their narrow coffins,
Die Händ‘ gefaltet und die Augen offen,               With hands folded together, eyes wide open,
Weiß das Gewand und weiß das Angesicht,               White are their robes, and whiter are their faces,
Und durch die Lippen kriechen gelbe Würmer.           And out of their yellow lips, worms are crawling.
Ich seh, der Sohn setzt sich mit seiner Buhle         I see the son sitting beside his loved-one,        50
Zur Kurzweil nieder auf des Vaters Grab;—             Taking their pleasure upon his father‘s grave;
Spottlieder singen rings die Nachtigallen;—           The nightingales are singing derisive songs;
Die sanften Wiesenblümchen lachen hämisch;—           The tender meadow flowers laugh with malice,
Der tote Vater regt sich in dem Grab;—                And, deep in his grave, the dead father stirs,
Und schmerzhaft zuckt die alte Mutter Erde.           While the dear old mother-earth shudders with pain.

Du arme Erde, deine Schmerzen kenn ich!               Oh Earth, poor Earth, your sorrows, I know so well!
Ich seh die Glut in deinem Busen wühlen,              I see the glow that is heaving in your breast,
Und deine tausend Adern seh ich bluten,               And I see you bleeding from a thousand veins,
Und seh, wie deine Wunde klaffend aufreißt,           I see your gaping wound torn wide and open,
Und wild hervorströmt Flamm‘ und Rauch und Blut.      Pouring a wild stream of flame and smoke and blood.
Ich sehe deine trotz‘gen Riesensöhne,                 I see your proud defiant giant-children,
Uralte Brut, aus dunkeln Schlünden steigend,          A primeval brood, arising from dark gulfs
Und rote Fackeln in den Händen schwingend;—           And wildly swinging red torches in their hands.
Sie legen ihre Eisenleiter an                         They fix their iron ladders on the sky‘s edge
Und stürmen wild hinauf zur Himmelsfeste;—            And rush to storm the citadel of Heaven;            65
Und schwarze Zwerge klettern nach;—und knisternd      Black dwarfs swarm wildly after them; and, crackling,
Zerstieben droben alle goldnen Sterne.                All the golden stars above crumble to dust.
Mit frecher Hand reißt man den goldnen Vorhang        With daring hands, they tear the golden curtains
Vom Zelte Gottes, heulend stürzen nieder,             From God‘s own shrine; the blessed troop of angels
Aufs Angesicht, die frommen Engelscharen.             Fall upon their faces, shrieking at this sight.     70
Auf seinem Throne sitzt der bleiche Gott,             The pallid God sits upon his dreadful throne,
Reißt sich vom Haupt die Kron‘, zerrauft sein Haar—   Plucks his crown off his head and tears his hair,
Und näher drängt heran die wilde Rotte.               And still nearer and nearer draws the wild horde.
Die Riesen werfen ihre roten Fackeln                  The giants fiercely hurl their blazing torches
Ins weite Himmelreich, die Zwerge schlagen            Into the realms of Heaven, the dwarfs belabor     75
Mit Flammengeißeln auf der Englein Rücken;—           With flaming scourges on the angel‘s backs;
Die winden sich und krümmen sich vor Qualen,          They bend and they twist in agonizing pain,
Und werden bei den Haaren fortgeschleudert;—          And they are seized by the hair and whirled away;
Und meinen eignen Engel seh ich dort,                 And my own angel likewise, I do see there,
Mit seinen blonden Locken, süßen Zügen,               With his blond locks and ever charming features, 80
Und mit der ew‘gen Liebe um den Mund,                 And with everlasting love around his mouth,
Und mit der Seligkeit im blauen Auge—                 And with great beatitude in his blue eyes.
Und ein entsetzlich häßlich schwarzer Kobold          A fearful hideous black goblin comes along,
Reißt ihn vom Boden, meinen bleichen Engel,           Tears my pallid trembling angel from the ground,
Beäugelt grinsend seine edlen Glieder,                Grins as he ogles his fair and noble limbs,       85
Umschlingt ihn fest mit zärtlicher Umschlingung—      And clasps him firmly in a tender embrace.
Und gellend dröhnt ein Schrei durchs ganze Weltall,   A horror shriek echoes through the universe,
Die Säulen brechen, Erd‘ und Himmel stürzen           The pillars topple, Earth and Heaven collapse,
Zusammen, und es herrscht die alte Nacht.             And the ancient night resumes its long dark rule.

Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855; Poland)
Romantyczność                                         Romanticism
        Methinks, I see . . . where?                  Methinks, I see . . . where?
        —In my mind‟s eyes.                           —In my mind‟s eyes.
                      Shakespeare                                   Shakespeare
        Zdaj mi się, że widzę . . . gdzie?
        Przed oczyma duszy mojej.

Słuchaj, dzieweczko!                                  Listen, maiden!
—Ona nie słucha—                                      —She is not listening—
To dzień biały! to miasteczko!                        It‘s broad daylight! In a town!
Przy tobie nie ma żywego ducha.                       Near you there‘s no living soul.
Co tam wkoło siebie chwytasz?                         What are your grasping all around?                  5
Kogo wołasz, z kim się witasz?                        Whom are you calling, whom are you greeting?
—Ona nie słucha.—                                     —She does not listen—

To jak martwa opoka                                   Now like a dead stone
Nie zwróci w stronę oka,                              She is oblivious,
To strzela wkoło oczyma,                              Now she casts glances around,                     10
To się łzami zaleje;                                  Now her eyes spill over with tears;
Coś niby chwyta, coś niby trzyma;                     As if holding something, as if keeping something;
Rozpłacze się i zaśmieje.                             She will burst into tears and laughter.

―Tyżeś to w nocy?—To ty, Jasieńku!                    ―Are you there in the night? It‘s you, Jasieniek!
Ach! i po śmierci kocha!                              Oh! after death he still loves!                     15
Tutaj, tutaj, pomaleńku,                              This way, this way quietly,
Czasem usłyszy macocha!                               Or else stepmother will hear!

―Niech sobie słyszy, już nie ma ciebie!               ―Let her hear, you are no more!
Już po twoim pogrzebie!                               It‘s already after your funeral!
Ty już umarłeś? Ach! ja się boję!                     You‘ve already died? Oh! I‘m afraid!                20
Czego się boję mego Jasieńka?                         Why am I afraid of my Jasieniek?
Ach, to on! lica twoje, oczki twoje!                  Oh, it is he! your face, your eyes!
Twoja biała sukienka!                                 Your white shirt!
―I sam ty biały jak chusta,                    ―And you too are as white as linen,
Zimny, jakie zimne dłonie!                     Cold, how cold your hands!                           25
Tutaj połóż, tu na łonie,                      Put them here, on my breast,
Przyciśnij mnie, do ust usta!                  Hug me, press your lips to mine!

―Ach, jak tam zimno musi bzć w grobie!         ―Ah, how cold it must be in the grave!
Umarłeś! tak, dwa lata!                        You died! Yes, two years ago!
Weż mię, ja umrę przy tobie,                   Take me, I will die near you,                        30
Nie lubię świata.                              I don‘t like the world.

―Żle mnie w złych ludzi tłumie,                ―Miserable I am in this mob of evil people,
Płwaczę, a oni szydzą;                         I cry, and they scoff;
Mówię, nikt nie rozumie;                       I speak, nobody understands;
Widzę, oni nie widzą!                          I see, they don‘t see!                               35

―Sród dnia przyjdż kiedy . . . To może         ―Come some time during the day . . . Or perhaps
   we śnie?                                        in a dream?
Nie, nie . . . trzymam ciebie w ręku.          No, no . . . I must keep hold of you.
Gdzie znikasz, gdzie, mój Jasieńku?            Where are you going, where, my Jasieniek!
Jeszcze wcześnie, jeszcze wcześnie!            It‘s still early, it‘s still early!

―Mój Boże! kur się odzywa,                     ―My God! The cock is crowing,                        40
Zorza błyska w okienku.                        The morning star is glittering in the window.
Gdzie znikleś? Ach! stój, Jasieńku!            Where have you gone! ah! wait, Jasieniek!
Ja nieszczęśliwa.‖                             I am so unhappy.‖

Tak się dziewczyna z kochankiem pieści,        So the girl embraces her lover,
Bieży za nim, krzyczy, pada;                   Runs after him, shouts, falls;                       45
Na ten upadek, na głos boleści,                Seeing her fall, hearing the voice of her grief,
Skupia się ludzi gromada.                      A crowd of people gathers.

―Mówcie pacierze!—krzyczy prostota—            ―Say your prayers!‖ shout the simple folk,
Tu jego dusza być musi.                        ―His soul must be here.
Jasio być musi przy swej Karusi,               Jasio must be near his Karusia,                      50
On ją kochał za żywota!‖                       He loved her in life!‖

  I ja to słyszę, i ja tak wierzę,             I also hear this, I also believe this,
Płaczę i mówię pacierze.                       I cry and say my prayers.
―Słuchaj, dzieweczko!‖—krzyknie śród zgiełku   ―Listen, maiden!‖ shouts amid the uproar
Starzec i na lud zawoła:                       An old man, and exclaims to the people:              55
―Ufajcie memu oku i szkiełku,                  ―Trust my sight and my lenses,
Nic tu nie widzę dokoła.                       I see nothing here.

―Duchy karczemnej tworem gawiedzi,             ―The ghosts are the creation of this tavern crowd,
W głupstwa wywarzone kużni.                    Forged in the smithy of foolishness.
Dziewczyna duby smalone bredzi,                The girl is raving utter nonsense,                   60
A gmin rozumowi blużni.‖                       And the peasants blaspheme against reason.‖

―Dziewczyna czuje—odpowiadam skromnie—         ―The girl feels,‖ I modestly answer,
A gawiedż wierzy głęboko;                      ―And the crowd believes profoundly;
Czucie i wiara silniej mówi do mnie            Feeling and faith speak more clearly to me
Niż mędrca szkiełko i oko.                     Than the lenses and eye of the sage.                 65

―Marwe znasz prawdy, nieznane dla ludu,            ―You know dead truths, unknown to the people.
Widzisz świat w proszku, w każdej gwiazd           You see the world in details, in each spark of the stars;
   iskierce;                                       You don‘t know the living truth, you‘ll never see a
Nie znasz prawd żywych, nie obaczysz cudu!           miracle!
Miej serce i patrzaj w serce!‖                     Have a heart and look into your heart!‖
                                                   Trans. from Polish by Angela Britlinger

Dionysios Solomos (1798-1857; Greece)
Ύμνος είς την Ελεσθερίαν                           Hymn to Liberty (Stanzas 1-4 of 158)
Σὲ γλφρίδφ ἀπὸ ηὴλ θόυη                            I know you by the sharp blade
ηοῦ ζπαζηοῦ ηὴλ ηροκερή,                           Of your terrifying sword,
ζὲ γλφρίδφ ἀπὸ ηὴλ ὄυη                             I know you by the form you made
ποὺ κὲ βία κεηράεη ηὴλ γῆ.                         Taking the earth as victor lord.

Ἀπ‘ ηὰ θόθαια βγαικέλε                             Sprung from Grecian bones scattered                   5
ηῶλ ἗ιιήλφλ ηὰ ἱερά,                               Hallowed on every vale,
θαὶ ζὰλ πρῶηα ἀλδρεηφκέλε,                         With your old valor unshattered,
ταῖρε, ὢ ταῖρε, ἖ιεσζερηά!                         Liberty, hail to you, hail!

἖θεῖ κέζα ἐθαηοηθοῦζες                             In there you lived neglected
πηθρακέλε, ἐληροπαιή,                              Amid bitterness and shame,                            10
θη ἕλα ζηόκα ἀθαρηεροῦζες,                         Awaiting a voice expected
«ἔια πάιη», λά ζοσ πῇ.                             ―You come back‖ to exclaim.

Ἄργεηε λάιζῃ ἐθείλε ἡ κέρα,                        Slow was that day in coming,
θη ἦηαλ ὅια ζηφπειά,                               Silence reigned over all
γηαηί ηὰ 'ζθηαδε ἡ θοβέρα                          Fearful they were becoming                            15
θαὶ ηὰ πιάθφλε ἡ ζθιαβηά. . . .                    And oppressed by slavery all. . . .
                                                   Trans. from Greek by Marios Byron Raizis

Alexsander Pushkin (1799-1837; Russia)
From “The Reminiscences at Tsarskoe Selo”: “The Land of Moscow . . .”
   Края Москвы, края родные,                           The land of Moscow—the land that is my native,
   Где на заре цветущих лет                            Where in the dawn of my best years,
Часы беспечности я тратил золотые,                 I spared the hours of carelessness, attractive,
   Не зная горести и бед,                              Free of unhappiness and fears.
И вы их видели, врагов моей отчизны!               And you had seen the foes of my great nation,    5
И вас багрила кровь и пламень пожирал!             And you were burned and covered with blood!
И в жертву не принес я мщенья вам и жизни;         And I did not give up my life in immolation,
   Вотще лишь гневом дух пылал! . . .                  My wrathful spirit just was wild! . . .

   Где ты, краса Москвы стоглавой,                     Where is the Moscow of hundred golden domes,
   Родимой прелесть стороны?                           The dear beauty of the native land?             10
Где прежде взору град являлся величавый,           Where yore was the real peer to Rome,
   Развалины теперь одни;                              The ruins, miserable, lied.
Москва, сколь русскому твой зрак унылый страшен!   Oh, how, Moscow, for us, your sight, is awful!
Исчезли здания вельможей и царей,                  The buildings of landlords and kings are fully swept,
Все пламень истребил. Венцы затмились башен,       All perished in a flame. The towers are mournful, 15
   Чертоги пали богачей.                               The villas of the rich are felled.
   И там, где роскошь обитала                         And where the luxury was thriving,
   В сенистых рощах и садах,                          In shady parks and gardens, in the past,
Где мирт благоухал и липа трепетала,              Where myrtle was fragrant, limes were shining,
   Там ныне угли, пепел, прах.                    There now are just coals, ash, and dust.        20
В часы безмолвные прекрасной, летней              At charming summer nights, when silent darkness
       ночи                                                roves,
Веселье шумное туда не полетит,                   The noisy gaiety would not appear there,
Не блещут уж в огнях брега и светлы рощи:         The lights are vanished over lakes and groves,
   Все мертво, все молчит.                            All dead and silent. All unfair.

   Утешься, мать градов России,                       Be calm, o, Russia‘s banner‘s holder,           25
   Воззри на гибель пришлеца.                         Look at the stranger‘s quickly coming end,
Отяготела днесь на их надменны выи                On their proud necks and void of labor shoulders,
   Десница мстящая творца.                        The Lord‘s vindictive arm is laid.
Взгляни: они бегут, озреться не дерзают,          Behold: they promptly run, without look at road,
Их кровь не престает в снегах реками течь;        In Russian snows their blood like river‘s flood,    30
Бегут—и в тьме ночной их глад и смерть сретают,   They run in dark of night, felled by famine and cold,
   А с тыла гонит русский меч.                        And swords of Russians, from behind.
                                                  Trans. from Russian by Yevgeny Bonver

Волность: Ода                                     Liberty: An Ode, 1817
Беги, сокройся от очей,                           Begone, be hidden from my eyes,
Цитеры слабая царица!                             delicate Queen of Cythera!
Где ты, где ты, гроза царей,                      Where are you, where are you, the terror
Свободы гордая певица?                             of Kings, the proud chantress of Freedom?
Приди, сорви с меня венок,                        Arrive; pluck off my garland; break                5
Разбей изнеженную лиру,                           the lyre of mollitude! I wish
Хочу воспеть Свободу миру,                        Freedom to sing unto the world
На тронах поразить порок.                         and smite iniquity on thrones.

Открой мне благородный след                       Reveal to me the noble track
Того возвышенного Галла,                          of that exalted Gaul, to whom                      10
Кому сама средь славных бед                       you, ‘midst awesome calamities,
Ты гимны смелые внушала.                          yourself courageous hymns inspired.
Питомцы ветреной Судьбы,                          Nurslings of fickle Destiny,
Тираны мира, трепещите!                           you, tyrants of the universe,
А вы, мужайтесь и внемлите,                       shudder! and you take heart and hearken,           15
Восстаньте, падшие рабы!                          resuscitate, ye fallen slaves!

Увы! куда ни брошу взор—                          Alas! where‘er my gaze I cast
Везде бичи, везде железы,                         —everywhere whips, everywhere irons;
Законов гибельный позор,                          the perilous disgrace of laws,
Неволи немощные слезы;                            the helpless tears of servitude.                   20
Везде неправедная Власть                          Unrighteous Power everywhere
В сгущенной мгле предрассуждений                  in condensed fog of prejudices
Воссела — Рабства грозный Гений                   has been enthroned—the awesome Genius
И славы роковая страсть.                          of slavery, and fame‘s fatal passion.

Лишь там над царскою главой                       There only on the kingly head                      25
Народов не легло страданье,                       does not lie the distress of nations
Где крепко с Вольностью святой                    where firm with sacred liberty
Законов мощных сочетанье;                         is the accord of mighty laws;
Где всем простерт их твердый щит,   where spread to all is their strong shield;
Где сжатый верными руками           where, grasped by trusty hands, above         30
Граждан над равными главами         the equal heads of citizens
Их меч без выбора скользит          their sword without preferment glides,

И преступленье свысока              and from that elevation strikes
Сражает праведным размахом;         wrongdoing with a righteous sweep;
Где не подкупна их рука             where their arm is unbribable                 35
Ни алчной скупостью, ни страхом.    by ravenous avarice or fear.
Владыки! вам венец и трон           Rulers! to you the crown and throne
Дает Закон—а не природа;            the Law gives and not Nature. Higher
Стоите выше вы народа,              than the People you stand, but higher
Но вечный выше вас Закон.           than you is the eternal Law.                  40

И горе, горе племенам,              And woe, woe to the races where
Где дремлет он неосторожно,         imprudently it slumbers; where
Где иль народу, иль царям           either the People or the Kings
Законом властвовать возможно!       to dominate the Law are able!
Тебя в свидетели зову,              As witness, you I call, O martyr              45
О мученик ошибок славных,           of glorious errors, who laid down
За предков в шуме бурь недавных     for ancestors a kingly head
Сложивший царскую главу.            in the tumult of recent tempests.

Восходит к смерти Людовик           Louis ascends to death, in sight
В виду безмолвного потомства,       of mute posterity. His head,                  50
Главой развенчанной приник          now crownless, he has sunk upon
К кровавой плахе Вероломства.       the bloody block of Broken Faith.
Молчит Закон—народ молчит,          The Law is silent; silent is
Падет преступная секира . . .       the People. The criminal blade
И се—злодейская порфира             now falls and lo! a villainous                55
На Галлах скованных лежит.          purple has clothed the shackled Gauls.

Самовластительный Злодей!           Autocratic villain! you,
Тебя, твой трон я ненавижу,         your throne I view with detestation;
Твою погибель, смерть детей         your downfall, your descendants‘ death
С жестокой радостию вижу.           I see with cruel jubilation.                  60
Читают на твоем челе                The Peoples read upon your brow
Печать проклятия народы,            the stamp of malediction. You
Ты ужас мира, стыд природы,         are the world‘s horror, nature‘s shame,
Упрек ты Богу на земле.             upon earth a reproach to God.

Когда на мрачную Неву               When down upon the gloomy Neva                65
Звезда полуночи сверкает            the star Polaris scintillates
И беззаботную главу                 and peaceful slumber overwhelms
Спокойный сон отягощает,            the head that is devoid of cares,
Глядит задумчивый певец             the pensive poet contemplates
На грозно спящий средь тумана       the grimly sleeping in the mist               70
Пустынный памятник тирана,          forlorn memorial of a tyrant,
Забвенью брошенный дворец—          a palace to obvlivion cast,

И слышит Клии страшный глас         and hears the dreadful voice of Clio
За сими страшными стенами,          above yon gloom-pervaded walls
Калигулы последний час              and vividly before his eyes                   75
Он видит живо пред очами,           he sees Caligula‘s last hours.
Он видит—в лентах и звездах,        He sees: beribanded, bestarred,
Вином и Злобой упоенны,                       with Wine and Hate intoxicated,
Идут убийцы потаенны,                         they come, the furtive assassins,
На лицах дерзость, в сердце страх.            their faces brazen, hearts afraid.            80

Молчит неверный часовой,                      Silent is the untrusty watchman,
Опущен молча мост подъемный,                  the drawbridge silently is lowered,
Врата отверсты в тьме ночной                  the gate is opened in the dark
Рукой предательства наемной . . .             of night by hired treachery‘s hand.
О стыд! о ужас наших дней!                    O shame! O horror of our days!                85
Как звери, вторглись Янычары! . .             Like animals, the Janizeries
Падут бесславные удары . . .                  burst in. The infamous blows fall,
Погиб увенчанный злодей.                      and perished has the crownèd villain!

И днесь учитесь, о цари:                      And nowadays keep learning, Kings!
Ни наказанья, ни награды,                     Not punishment, not recompenses,              90
Ни кров темниц, ни алтари                     not altars, and not prison vaults,
Не верные для вас ограды.                     provide you with secure defenses.
Склонитесь первые главой                      Be you the first to bow your heads
Под сень надежную Закона,                     beneath the Law‘s trustworthy shelter
И станут вечной стражей трона                 and guard eternally the throne                95
Народов вольность и покой.                    shall liberty and peace of Peoples.
                                              Trans. from Russian by Vladimir Nabokov

Птичка                                        Little Bird
В чужбине свято наблюдаю                      In a strange country I religiously observe
Родной обычай старины:                        my own land‘s ancient custom:
На волю птичку выпускаю                       I set at liberty a little bird
При светлом празднике весны.                  on the bright holiday of spring.

Я стал доступен утешенью;                     I have become accessible to consolation;      5
За что на бога мне роптать,                   why should I murmur against God
Когда хоть одному творенью                    if even to a single creature
Я мог свободу даровать!                       the gift of freedom I could grant!
                                              Trans. from Russian by Vladimir Nabokov

Пророк                                        The Prophet
Духовной жаждою томим,                        Longing for spiritual springs,
В пустыне мрачной я влачился,—                I dragged myself through desert sands . . .
И шестикрылый серафим                         An angel with three pairs of wings
На перепутье мне явился.                      Arrived to me at cross of lands;
Перстами легкими как сон                      With fingers so light and slim                5
Моих зениц коснулся он.                       He touched my eyes as in a dream:
Отверзлись вещие зеницы,                      And opened my prophetic eyes
Как у испуганной орлицы.                      Like eyes of eagle in surprise.
Моих ушей коснулся он,—                       He touched my ears in movement, single,
И их наполнил шум и звон:                     And they were filled with noise and jingle:   10
И внял я неба содроганье,                     I heard a shuddering of heavens,
И горний ангелов полет,                       And angels‘ flight on azure heights
И гад морских подводный ход,                  And creatures‘ crawl in long sea nights,
И дольней лозы прозябанье.                    And rustle of vines in distant valleys.
И он к устам моим приник,                     And he bent down to my chin,                  15

И вырвал грешный мой язык,                   And he tore off my tongue of sin,
И празднословный и лукавый,                  In cheat and idle talks aroused,
И жало мудрыя змеи                           And with his hand in bloody specks
В уста замершие мои                          He put the sting of wizard snakes
Вложил десницею кровавой.                    Into my deadly stoned mouth.                     20
И он мне грудь рассек мечом,                 With his sharp sword he cleaved my breast,
И сердце трепетное вынул,                    And plucked my quivering heart out,
И угль, пылающий огнем,                      And coals flamed with God‘s behest,
Во грудь отверстую водвинул.                 Into my gaping breast were ground.
Как труп в пустыне я лежал,                  Like dead I lay on desert sands,                 25
И бога глас ко мне воззвал:                  And listened to the God‘s commands:
«Восстань, пророк, и виждь, и внемли,        ‗Arise, O prophet, hark and see,
Исполнись волею моей,                        Be filled with utter My demands,
И, обходя моря и земли,                      And, going over Land and Sea,
Глаголом жги сердца людей».                  Burn with your Word the humane hearts.‘          30
                                             Trans. from Russian by Yevgeny Bonver

«Во глубине сибирских руд . . .»             “Deep in Siberian mines”
Во глубине сибирских руд                     Deep in Siberian mines
Храните гордое терпенье,                     preserve proud patience:
Не пропадет ваш скорбный труд                not lost shall be your woeful toil,
И дум высокое стремленье.                    and the high surging of your meditations.

Несчастью верная сестра,                     Misfortune‘s faithful sister, Hope,              5
Надежда в мрачном подземелье                 within the gloomy underearth
Разбудит бодрость и веселье,                 shall waken energy and gladness;
Придет желанная пора:                        the longed-for time shall come.

Любовь и дружество до вас                    Love and Friendship shall reach
Дойдут сквозь мрачные затворы,               you through the gloomy bolts,                    10
Как в ваши каторжные норы                    as now into your penal burrows
Доходит мой свободный глас.                  my free voice reaches.

Оковы тяжкие падут,                          The heavy chains shall fall,
Темницы рухнут—и свобода                     prisons shall crumble down, and Freedom
Вас примет радостно у входа,                 shall welcome you, rejoicing, at the entrance,   15
И братья меч вам отдадут.                    and brothers shall return your sword to you.
                                             Trans. from Russian by Vladimir Pushkin

To Dawe, Esqr.                               To Dawe, Esqr.
Зачем твой дивный карандаш                   Why draw with your pencil sublime
Рисует мой арапский профиль?                 My Negro profile? Though transmitted
Хоть ты векам его предашь,                   By you it be to future time,
Его освищет Мефистофель.                     It will be by Mephisto twitted.

Рисуй Олениной черты.                        Draw fair Olenin‘s features, in the glow         5
В жару сердечных вдохновений,                Of heart-engendered inspiration:
Лишь юности и красоты                        Only on youth and beauty should bestow
Поклонником быть должен гений.               A genius its adoration.
                                             Trans. from Russian by Vladimir Nabokov

Я вас любил . . .                                           “I worshipped you . . .”
Я вас любил: любовь еще, быть может,                        I worshipped you. My love‘s reluctant ember
В душе моей угасла не совсем;                               is in my heart still glimmering, may be,
Но пусть она вас больше не тревожит;                        but let it not break on your peace; remember,
Я не хочу печалить вас ничем.                               I should not want to have you sad through me.

Я вас любил безмолвно, безнадежно,                          I worshipped you in silent hopeless fashion,          5
То робостью, то ревностью томим;                            shy was my love, jealous, but always true;
Я вас любил так искренно, так нежно,                        I worshipped you with such a tender passion
Как дай вам бог любимой быть другим.                        as I should want all men to worship you.
                                                            Trans. from Russian by Vladimir Nabokov

(Из Пиндемонти)                                             “I value little those much-vaunted rights”
Не дорого ценю я громкие права,                             I value little those much-vaunted rights
От коих не одна кружится голова.                            that have for some the lure of dizzy heights;
Я не ропщу о том, что отказали боги                         I do not fret because the gods refuse
Мне в сладкой участи оспоривать налоги                      to let me wrangle over revenues,
Или мешать царям друг с другом воевать;                     or thwart the wars of kings; and ‘tis to me        5
И мало горя мне, свободно ли печать                         of no concern whether the press be free
Морочит олухов, иль чуткая цензура                          to dupe poor oafs or whether censors cramp
В журнальных замыслах стесняет балагура.                    the current fancies of some scribbling scamp.
Все это, видите ль, слова, слова, слова!                    These things are words, words, words. My spirit fights
Иные, лучшие, мне дороги права;                             for deeper Liberty, for better rights.
Иная, лучшая, потребна мне свобода:                         Whom shall we serve—the people or the State?
Зависеть от царя, зависеть от народа—                       The poet does not care—so let them wait.
Не все ли нам равно? Бог с ними.                            To give account to none, to be one‘s own
          Никому                                            vassal and liege, to please oneself alone,
Отчета не давать, себе лишь самому                          to bend neither one‘s neck nor inner schemes       10
Служить и угождать; для власти, для ливреи                  nor conscience for obtaining that which seems
Не гнуть ни совести, ни помыслов, ни шеи;                   power but is a flunkey‘s coat; to stroll
По прихоти своей скитаться здесь и там,                     in one‘s own wake, admiring the divine
Дивясь божественным природы красотам,                       beauties of Nature and to feel one‘s soul
И пред созданьями искусств и вдохновенья                    melt in the glow of man‘s inspired design          15
Трепеща радостно в восторгах умиленья.                      —this is the blessing, these are rights!
Вот счастье! вот права . . .
                                       (1836)               Trans. from Russian by Vladimir Nabokov

Victor Hugo (1802-1885; France)
Clair de lune                                               Moonlight
La lune était sereine et jouait sur les flots.              The moon was calm, and flecked the ocean streams.
La fenêtre enfin libre est ouverte à la brise,              The casement opens freely to the breeze;
La sultane regarde, et la mer qui se brise,                 While the sultana watches, breaking seas
Là-bas, d‘un flot d‘argent brode les noirs îlots.           Weave the black isles below with silver seams.

De ses doigts en vibrant s‘échappe la guitare.              The lute slips from her fingers as she plays.          5
Elle écoute . . . Un bruit sourd frappe les sourds échos.   She listens: . . . echoes, dull, from some dull sound.
Est-ce Un lourd vaisseau turc qui vient des eaux            Is it a Turkish ship, full, homeward bound,
   de Cos,                                                  Whose Tartar oars beat the Greek waterways?
Battant l‘archipel grec de sa rame tartare?
                                                            Are cormorants plunging successively,
Sont-ce des cormorans qui plongent tour à tour,          Cleaving the waves, whose pearls roll from their
Et coupent l‘eau, qui roule en perles sur leur aile?        wings?                                            10
Est-ce un djinn qui là-haut siffle d‘une voix grêle,     Perhaps a djinn, with reedy whispers, flings
Et jette dans la mer les créneaux de la tour?            The tower‘s battlements into the sea?

Qui trouble ainsi les flots près du sérail des femmes?   Who is thus troubling the seraglio‘s shores?—
Ni le noir cormoran, sur la vague bercé,                 Neither the cormorant cradled on the flow,
Ni les pierres du mur, ni le bruit cadencé               Nor the wall‘s capstones, nor the to-and-fro         15
Du lourd vaisseau, rampant sur l‘onde avec des rames.    Of heavy vessels with their dipping oars.

Ce sont des sacs pesants, d‘où partent des sanglots.     Merely full sacks emitting muffled screams;
On verrait, en sondant la mer qui les promène,           And as they sink, there might perhaps be spied
Se mouvoir dans leurs flancs comme une forme             Something like human forms moving inside. . . .
   humaine . . .                                         The moon was calm, and flecked the ocean streams.
La lune était sereine et jouait sur les flots.
                                             (1829)      Trans. from French by by E. H. and A. M. Blackmore

L’Enfant                                                 The Child
Les Turcs ont passé là. Tout est ruine et deuil.         The Turks have been. Destruction everywhere.
Chio, l‘île des vins, n‘est plus qu‘un sombre écueil,    Chios, the isle of vines, lies black and bare—
  Chio, qu‘ombrageaient les charmilles,                     Chios, in the leaves‘ shade,
Chio, qui dans les flots reflétait ses grands bois,      Whose seas used to reflect its wooded height,
Ses coteaux, ses palais, et le soir quelquefois          Its slopes and villas, and sometimes at night        5
  Un choeur dansant de jeunes filles.                       The girls who danced and played.

Tout est désert. Mais non; seul près des murs noircis,   Deserted. No: beside the blackened stone
Un enfant aux yeux bleus, un enfant grec, assis,         A blue-eyed child, a Greek child, sits alone,
   Courbait sa tête humiliée;                               And bows his downcast head.
Il avait pour asile, il avait pour appui                 His only stronghold and security                     10
Une blanche aubépine, une fleur, comme lui               Is a white hawthorn—a bloom equally
   Dans le grand ravage oubliée.                            Ignored among the dead.

Ah! pauvre enfant, pieds nus sur les rocs anguleux!      Poor boy, barefooted on such crags and tors!
Hélas! pour essuyer les pleurs de tes yeux bleus         To wipe the tears from those clear eyes of yours
  Comme le ciel et comme l‘onde,                           Hued like the sea and sky,                         15
Pour que dans leur azur, de larmes orageux,              So that their blue, stormy with weeping, may
Passe le vif éclair de la joie et des jeux,              Be lit with lightning-shafts of joy and play,
  Pour relever ta tète blonde,                             To lift your fair head high,

Que veux-tu? Bel enfant, que te faut-il donner           What do you want? What must we give you, child,
Pour rattacher gaîment et gaîment ramener                To tie and tidy pleasantly those wild           20
  En boucles sur ta blanche épaule                         Ringlets of hair that billow
Ces cheveux, qui du fer n‘ont pas subi l‘affront,        About you, never shamed by steel—that shed
Et qui pleurent épars autour de ton beau front,          Themselves in tears over your lovely head
  Comme les feuilles sur le saule?                         Like the leaves on a willow?

Qui pourrait dissiper tes chagrins nébuleux?             What could relieve you, lad, from all your woes?     25
Est-ce d‘avoir ce lys, bleu comme tes yeux bleus,        The lily, blue as your blue eyes, that grows
  Qui d‘Iran borde le puits sombre?                        By dark pools in Iran?
Ou le fruit du tuba, de cet arbre si grand,              Or the fruit of the Tuba, that huge tree
Qu‘un cheval au galop met, toujours en courant,          Whose shade a horse, galloping constantly,
  Cent ans à sortir de son ombre?                          Takes centuries to span?                           30

Veux-tu, pour me sourire, un bel oiseau des bois,        Or might a lovely woodbird make you smile—
Qui chante avec un chant plus doux que le hautbois,      Singing like neys, but in a sweeter style,
  Plus éclatant que les cymbales?                          Or like cymbals but louder?
Que veux-tu? fleur, beau fruit, ou l‘oiseau merveilleux? Flower, fruit, or wondrous bird—which is for you?
—Ami, dit l‘enfant grec, dit l‘enfant aux yeux bleus,    ―My friend,‖ says the Greek boy with eyes of blue, 35
  Je veux de la poudre et des balles.                      ―I want bullets and powder.‖
                                                               Trans. from French by by E. H. and A. M. Blackmore

La Ville prise                                                 The Captured City
La flamme par ton ordre, ô Roi, luit et dévore.                At your command, great King, the fire devours,
De ton peuple en grondant elle étouffe les cris,               And suffocates your howling subjects‘ cries;
Et, rougissant les toits comme une sombre aurore,              It reddens rooftops like dawn‘s grimmest hours,
Semble en son vol joyeux danser sur leurs débris.              And seems to dance on debris as it flies.

Le meurtre aux mille bras comme un géant se lève;              Thousand-armed Murder, like a giant, stirs;           5
Les palais embrasés se changent en tombeaux;                   The saber strikes—bride, groom, and father fall;
Pères, femmes, époux, tout tombe sous le glaive;               Whole burning mansions become sepulchers,
Autour de la cité s‘appellent les corbeaux.                    And ravens cry around the city wall.

Les mères ont frémi; les vierges palpitantes,                  The mothers shudder, Caliph, while the quaking
Ô calife! ont pleuré leurs jeunes ans flétris,                 Virgins mourn for their youthful days now spent; 10
Et les coursiers fougueux ont traîné hors des tentes           Our fiery steeds have dragged their bodies, aching
Leurs corps vivants, de coups et de baisers meurtris.          With blows and kisses, living, from each tent.

Vois d‘un vaste linceul la ville enveloppée;                   A mighty gravecloth shrouds the village horde;
Vois! quand ton bras puissant passe, il fait tout plier.       See! when your strong arm passes, all things yield.
Les prêtres qui priaient ont péri par l‘épée,                  The priests who prayed have perished by the sword,
Jetant leur livre saint comme un vain bouclier.                Dropping their holy book like a vain shield!

Les tout petits enfants, écrasés sous les dalles,              The babes are crushed by stones; their blood bedews
Ont vécu; de leur sang le fer s'abreuve encor . . .            Our swordblades still; their days are now complete.—
Ton peuple baise, ô Roi, la poudre des sandales                Your subjects kiss the dust beneath the shoes
Qu‘à ton pied glorieux attache un cercle d‘or!                 Bound by gold ankles to your glorious feet!        20
                                                               Trans. from French by by E. H. and A. M. Blackmore

A Albert Durer                                                 To Albrecht Dürer
                                                               Trans. from French by E. H. and A. M. Blackmore

Dans les vieilles forêts où la sève à grands flots        In the old forests where huge sap-waves roll
Court du fût noir de l‘aulne au tronc blanc des bouleaux, Through pallid birch-trunk and dark alder-bole,
Bien des fois, n‘est-ce pas? à travers la clairière,      How often, past some patch of open ground,
Pâle, effaré, n‘osant regarder en arrière,                Fearful, not venturing to look around,
Tu t‘es hâté, tremblant et d‘un pas convulsif,            You must have scurried, pale and growing fainter,              5
O mon maître Albert Dure, ô vieux peintre pensif!         Old Master Dürer, you reflective painter!

On devine, devant tes tableaux qu‘on vénère,                   In your illustrious scenes we too can see
Que dans les noirs taillis ton oeil visionnaire                What your prophetic gaze saw vividly:
Voyait distinctement, par l‘ombre recouverts,                  In that dark covert veiled by shadow lies
Le faune aux doigts palmés, le sylvain aux yeux verts,         The webfoot faun or sylvan with green eyes,           10
Pan, qui revêt de fleurs l‘antre où tu te recueilles,          While Pan adorns your haunt with floral sheaves,
Et l‘antique dryade aux mains pleines de feuilles.             And ancient dryads fill their hands with leaves.

Une forêt pour toi, c‘est un monstre hideux.                  A forest is a dreadful world to you;
Le songe et le réel s‘y mêlent tous les deux.                 There the fantastic merges with the true.
Là se penchent rêveurs les vieux pins, les grands ormes       Old pines bend dreamily, and might elms             15
Dont les rameaux tordus font cent coudes difformes,           Writhe myriad malformed branches, in those realms;
Et, dans ce groupe sombre agité par le vent,                  Against the wind the somber thickets strive—
Rien n‘est tout à fait mort ni tout à fait vivant.            Nothing is quite dead, nothing quite alive.
Le cresson boit; l‘eau court; les frênes sur les pentes,      Weeds drink, streams ripple; ash trees on the slope
Sous la broussaille horrible et les ronces grimpantes,        Draw in their gnarled dark feet, and slowly grope 20
Contractent lentement leurs pieds noueux et noirs.            Back from the dismal scrubs and crawling brakes,
Les fleurs au cou de cygne ont des lacs pour miroirs;         While swan-necked flowers are mirrored in the lakes;
Et sur vous qui passez et l‘avez réveillée,                   Many a strange and scaly beast that paws
Mainte chimère étrange à la gorge écaillée,                   The massive knots of a tree between its claws
D‘un arbre entre ses doigts serrant ses larges nœuds,         Views you in darkness with a gleaming eye,          25
Du fond d‘un antre obscur fixe un oeil lumineux.              If you should rouse it up as you pass by.
O végétation! esprit! matière! force!                         Ah, plant life—soul and matter! vital spark
Couverte de peau rude ou de vivante écorce!                   Covered with rough skin, or with living bark!

Aux bois, ainsi que toi, je n‘ai jamais erré,                 Every time I have roamed the woods like you,
Maître, sans qu‘en mon cœur l‘horreur ait pénétré,            Master, my heart has throbbed with horror too;   30
Sans voir tressaillir l‘herbe, et, par le vent bercées,       I have seen the grass quaking, and the breeze-
Pendre à tous les rameaux de confuses pensées.                Lulled branches laden with dim reveries.
Dieu seul, ce grand témoin des faits mystérieux,              God alone knows—God, who alone can trace
Dieu seul le sait, souvent, en de sauvages lieux,             Strange things—how often, in some savage place,
J‘ai senti, moi qu‘échauffe une secrète flamme,               Stirred by a deep flame, I have felt aware       35
Comme moi palpiter et vivre avec une âme,                     That the huge oaks in this dark wooded lair
Et rire, et se parler dans l‘ombre à demi-voix                Quivered, and lived with spirits like my own,
Les chênes monstrueux qui remplissent les bois.               And laughed, and spoke together in an undertone.

X. « Comme dans les étangs assoupis                           X. ―In souls, as in pools
     sous les bois . . . »                                        slumbering beneath trees . . .‖
                                                              Trans. from French by E. H. and A. M. Blackmore

Comme dans les étangs assoupis sous les bois,                 In souls, as in pools slumbering beneath trees,
Dans les plus d‘une âme on voit deux choses à la fois:        Often there are two things a viewer sees:
Le ciel,—qui teint les eaux à peine remuées                   The heavens—coloring their tranquil flow
Avec tous ses rayons et toutes ses nuées,                     With all their cloudiness and all their glow—
Et la vase,—fond morne, affreux, sombre et dormant,           And mud—dank, dismal, sluggish, dark, and deep,      5
Où des reptiles noirs fourmillent vaguement.                  Where dingy reptiles indistinctly creep.

From L’Expiation (section I)                                  From The Expiation (section I)
         I                                                             I
Il neigeait. On était vaincu par sa conquête.                 Snow. Their own victory had defeated them.
Pour la première fois l‘aigle baissait la tête.               The eagle hung its head for the first time.
Sombres jours! l‘empereur revenait lentement,                 Wretched days! Slowly, then, the emperor
Laissant derrière lui brûler Moscou fumant.                   Returned; Moscow was left in flames behind him.
Il neigeait. L‘âpre hiver fondait en avalanche.               Snow. The harsh winter thawed into an avalanche. 5
Après la plaine blanche une autre plaine blanche.             One white plain on another. Neither leaders
On ne connaissait plus les chefs ni le drapeau.               Nor flag could be made out; what yesterday
Hier la grande armée, et maintenant troupeau.                 Had been the army was a flock of sheep.
On ne distinguait plus les ailes ni le centre.                You couldn‘t tell the center from the flank.
Il neigeait. Les blessés s‘abritaient dans le ventre          Snow. Wounded soldiers sheltered in dead horses‘ 10
Des chevaux morts; au seuil des bivouacs désolés              Bellies; by the deserted bivouacs
On voyait des clairons à leur poste gelés,                 Buglers were visible, still standing, frozen
Restés debout, en selle et muets, blancs de givre,         At their posts, silent, in the saddle, white
Collant leur bouche en pierre aux trompettes de            With frost, bronze trumpets glued to stone lips.
    cuivre.                                                    Cannonballs,                                    15
Boulets, mitraille, obus, mêlés aux flocons blancs,        Grapeshot, shrapnel, and snowflakes, drizzled down;
Pleuvaient; les grenadiers, surpris d‘être tremblants,     Surprised at their own tremulousness, grenadiers
Marchaient pensifs, la glace à leur moustache grise.       Slunk deep in thought, with ice on their gray whiskers.
Il neigeait, il neigeait toujours! La froide bise          Snow—and more snow! The chill wind howled; in
Sifflait; sur le verglas, dans des lieux inconnus,             unknown
On n‘avait pas de pain et l‘on allait pieds nus.           Places they went, through sleet, barefoot and
Ce n‘étaient plus des cœurs vivants, des gens de guerre:       breadless—                                      20
C‘était un rêve errant dans la brume, un mystère,          No longer living souls or soldiers,
Une procession d‘ombres sous le ciel noir.                 Merely a dream roaming the mists, a mystery,
La solitude vaste, épouvantable à voir,                    A procession of shadows in the darkness.
Partout apparaissait, muette vengeresse.                   The immense solitude—a mute avenger,
Le ciel faisait sans bruit avec la neige épaisse           A fearful thing to look at—lay on all sides.        25
Pour cette immense armée un immense linceul.               The sky soundlessly wove this mighty army
Et chacun se sentant mourir, on était seul.                A mighty shroud of heavy snow. And all of them
—Sortira-t-on jamais de ce funeste empire?                 Felt they were dying: they were all alone.—
Deux ennemis! le czar, le nord. Le nord est pire.          Would anyone ever get out of this deadly realm?
On jetait les canons pour brûler les affûts.               Two enemies! the tsar, and (worse) the north.       30
Qui se couchait, mourait. Groupe morne et confus,          They threw the cannons out to burn the carriages.
Ils fuyaient; le désert dévorait le cortège.               If you lay down, you died. The fled, a wretched
On pouvait, à des plis qui soulevaient la neige,           Confused mass; tundra swallowed up the columns.
Voir que des régiments s‘étaient endormis là.              From the mounds in the snow, you could see regiments
Ô chutes d‘Annibal! lendemains d‘Attila!                   Were sleeping there. Such Hannibalian falls!        35
Fuyards, blessés, mourants, caissons, brancards,           Attilan consequences! Fleeing, wounded
    civières,                                              And dying soldiers, wagons, stretchers, litters,
On s‘écrasait aux ponts pour passer les rivières,          Crushed at the bridges when they crossed the streams.
On s‘endormait dix mille, on se réveillait cent.           Then thousand went to sleep, a hundred woke.
Ney, que suivait naguère une armée, à présent              Ney, whom an army once had followed,                40
S‘évadait, disputant sa montre à trois cosaques.           Fled—squabbled with Cossacks for his watch.
Toutes les nuits, qui vive! alerte, assauts! attaques!     Every night—look out! there‘s an attack coming!—
Ces fantômes prenaient leur fusil, et sur eux              The phantoms grabbed their guns, and saw
Ils voyaient se ruer, effrayants, ténébreux,               Horrible squadrons, whirlwinds of wild men,
Avec des cris pareils aux voix des vautours chauves,       Shadowy, dreadful, hurling themselves at them       45
D‘horribles escadrons, tourbillons d‘hommes fauves.        With cries like savage vultures. A whole army
Toute une armée ainsi dans la nuit se perdait.             Was thus lost in the night. The emperor
L‘empereur était là, debout, qui regardait.                Was there; he stood and watched, like an axed tree.
Il était comme un arbre en proie à la cognée.              Catastrophe, that dreadful lumberjack,
Sur ce géant, grandeur jusqu‘alors épargnée,               Had climbed the giant spared till then; and he,     50
Le malheur, bûcheron sinistre, était monté;                A living oak, assaulted by the ax,
Et lui, chêne vivant, par la hache insulté,                Shuddered beneath this ghost‘s dismal revenge.
Tressaillant sous le spectre aux lugubres revanches,       He saw his branches fall around him. Officers
Il regardait tomber autour de lui ses branches.            And soldiers—all were dying, in turn.
Chefs, soldats, tous mouraient. Chacun avait son tour.     Those who remained—who gathered around his tent
Tandis qu‘environnant sa tente avec amour,                 Devotedly, and watched his shadow passing
Voyant son ombre aller et venir sur la toile,              Back and forth on the canvas—still believed
Ceux qui restaient, croyant toujours à son étoile,         In his good fortune, accused destiny
Accusaient le destin de lèse-majesté,                      Of treason. He felt utterly
Lui se sentit soudain dans l‘âme épouvanté.                Stunned; not knowing what to think,                 60
Stupéfait du désastre et ne sachant que croire,            The emperor, man of glory, turned
L‘empereur se tourna vers Dieu; l‘homme de gloire          To God and trembled; then Napoleon sensed
Trembla; Napoléon comprit qu‘il expiait                    He might be expiating something; pale,
Quelque chose peut-être, et, livide, inquiet,              Anxious, he asked, with legions strewed around him
Devant ses légions sur la neige semées:                    In the snow: ―Lord of hosts, is this the punishment?‖
« Est-ce le châtiment, dit-il. Dieu des armées? »          He heard himself addressed by name, then; someone
Alors il s‘entendit appeler par son nom                    Spoke to him in the shadows, and said: ―No.‖
Et quelqu‘un qui parlait dans l‘ombre lui dit: Non.
                                                  (1853)   Trans. from French by E. H. and A. M. Blackmore

José de Espronceda (1808-1842; Spain)

Canción del pirata                                         Canción of the Pirate
Con diez cañones por banda,                                The breeze fair aft, all sails on high,
viento en popa, a toda vela,                               Ten guns on each side mounted seen,
no corta el mar, sino vuela                                She does not cut the sea, but fly,
un velero bergantín.                                       A swiftly sailing brigantine;
Bajel pirata que llaman,                                   A pirate bark, the ―Dreaded‖ name,                  5
por su bravura, El Temido,                                 For her surpassing boldness famed,
en todo mar conocido                                       On every sea well-known and shore,
del uno al otro confín.                                    From side to side their boundaries o‘er.

La luna en el mar riela                                    The moon in streaks the waves illumes
en la lona gime el viento,                                 Hoarse groans the wind the rigging through;         10
y alza en blando movimiento                                In gentle motion raised assumes
olas de plata y azul;                                      The sea a silvery shade with blue;
y va el capitán pirata,                                    Whilst singing gaily on the poop
cantando alegre en la popa,                                The pirate Captain, in a group,
Asia a un lado, al otro Europa,                            Sees Europe here, there Asia lies,                  15
y allá a su frente Istambul:                               And Stamboul in the front arise.

Navega, velero mío                                         ―Sail on, my swift one! nothing fear;
sin temor,                                                 Nor calm, nor storm, nor foeman‘s force,
que ni enemigo navío                                       Shall make thee yield in thy career
ni tormenta, ni bonanza                                    Or turn thee from thy course.                       20
tu rumbo a torcer alcanza,
ni a sujetar tu valor.                                     Despite the English cruisers fleet
                                                           We have full twenty prizes made;
Veinte presas                                              And see their flags beneath my feet
hemos hecho                                                A hundred nations laid.
a despecho
del inglés                                                 My treasure is my gallant bark,                     25
y han rendido                                              My only God is liberty;
sus pendones                                               My law is might, the wind my mark,
cien naciones                                              My country is the sea.
a mis pies.
                                                           ―There blindly kings fierce wars maintain,
Que es mi barco mi tesoro,                                 For palms of land, when here I hold                 30
que es mi dios la libertad,                                As mine, whose power no laws restrain,
mi ley, la fuerza y el viento,                             Whate‘er the seas infold.
mi única patria, la mar.
                                                           Nor is there shore around whate‘er,
Allá; muevan feroz guerra                                  Or banner proud, but of my might
ciegos reyes                                               Is taught the valorous proofs to bear,              35
por un palmo más de tierra;                                And made to feel my right.
que yo aquí; tengo por mío
cuanto abarca el mar bravío,                               My treasure is my gallant bark,
a quien nadie impuso leyes.                                My only God is liberty;
                                 My law is might, the wind my mark,
Y no hay playa,                  My country is the sea.                     40
sea cualquiera,
ni bandera                       ―Look when a ship our signals ring,
de esplendor,                    Full sail to fly how quick she‘s veered!
que no sienta                    For of the sea I am the king,
mi derecho                       My fury‘s to be feared;
y dé pechos mi valor.
                                 But equally with all I share               45
Que es mi barco mi tesoro,       Whate‘er the wealth we take supplies;
que es mi dios la libertad,      I only seek the matchless fair,
mi ley, la fuerza y el viento,   My portion of the prize.
mi única patria, la mar.
                                 My treasure is my gallant bark,
A la voz de ―¡barco viene!‖      My only God is liberty;                    50
es de ver                        My law is might, the wind my mark,
cómo vira y se previene          My country is the sea.
a todo trapo a escapar;
que yo soy el rey del mar,       ―I am condemned to die!—I laugh;
y mi furia es de temer.          For, if my fates are kindly sped,
                                 My doomer from his own ship‘s staff        55
En las presas                    Perhaps I‘ll hang instead.
yo divido                        And if I fall, why what is life?
lo cogido                        For lost I gave it then as due,
por igual;                       When from slavery‘s yoke in strife
sólo quiero                      A rover! I withdrew.                       60
por riqueza
la belleza                       My treasure is my gallant bark,
sin rival.                       My only God is liberty;
                                 My law is might, the wind my mark,
Que es mi barco mi tesoro,       My country is the sea.
que es mi dios la libertad,
mi ley, la fuerza y el viento,   ―My music is the Northwind‘s roar;         65
mi única patria, la mar.         The noise when round the cable runs,
                                 The bellowings of the Black Sea‘s shore,
¡Sentenciado estoy a muerte!     And rolling of my guns.
Yo me río
no me abandone la suerte,        And as the thunders loudly sound,
y al mismo que me condena,       And furious the tempests rave,             70
colgaré de alguna antena,        I calmly rest in sleep profound,
quizá; en su propio navío        So rocked upon the wave.
Y si caigo,
¿qué es la vida?                 My treasure is my gallant bark,
Por perdida                      My only God is liberty;
ya la di,                        My law is might, the wind my mark,         75
cuando el yugo                   My country is the sea.
del esclavo,
como un bravo,                   Trans. from Spanish by James Kennedy

Que es mi barco mi tesoro,
que es mi dios la libertad,
mi ley, la fuerza y el viento,
mi única patria, la mar.

Son mi música mejor
el estrépito y temblor
de los cables sacudidos,
del negro mar los bramidos
y el rugir de mis cañones.

Y del trueno
al son violento,
y del viento
al rebramar,
yo me duermo
por el mar.

Que es mi barco mi tesoro,
que es mi dios la libertad,
mi ley, la fuerza y el viento,
mi única patria, la mar.

El Mendigo                             The Beggar
Mío es el mundo: como el aire libre,   The world is mine; I am free as air;
otros trabajan porque coma yo;         Let others work that I may eat;
todos se ablandan si doliente pido     All shall melt at my piteous prayer:—
una limosna por amor de Dios.          ―An alms, for God‘s sake, I entreat.‖
El palacio, la cabaña                  The cabin, the palace,                        5
son mi asilo,                          Are my resort;
si del ábrego el furor                 If the threat of the thunder
troncha el roble en la montaña,        Shall break from the mountain,
o que inunda la campaña                Or the torrent‘s quick fountain
El torrente asolador.                  Shall drive me under,                         10

Y a la hoguera                         Within their shelter
me hacen lado                          The shepherds make place,
los pastores                           Lovingly asking me
con amor.                              Food to grace;
Y sin pena                             Or by the rich hearthstone                    15
y descuidado                           I take my ease
de su cena                             Fanned by the odors
ceno yo,                               Of burning trees;
o en la rica                           With the luscious banquet
chimenea,                              And cushioned store,                          20
que recrea                             Upon the couch
con su olor,                           Of some proud señor.
me regalo
codicioso                              And I say to myself:—
del banquete                           ―Let the breezes blow
suntüoso                               And the tempest rage                          25
con las sobras                         In the world without:
de un señor.                           Let the branches crack
                                       Where the high winds go,
Y me digo: el viento brama,            As I slumber with nothing to trouble about.
caiga furioso turbión;                      The world is mine; I am free as air!‖        30
que al son que cruje de la seca leña,
libre me duermo sin rencor ni amor.         All are my patrons,
Mío es el mundo como el aire libre . . .    And for all I ask
                                            My God as I daily pray;
Todos son mis bienhechores,                 From peasant and noble
y por todos                                 I get my pay,                                35
a Dios ruego con fervor;                    And I take their favors
de villanos y señores                       Both great and small.
yo recibo los favores                       I never ask them
sin estima y sin amor.                      Who they be,
                                            Nor stop to task them                        40
Ni pregunto                                 With thanks for fee.
quiénes sean,                               If they desire
ni me obligo                                To give me alms,
a agradecer;                                ‘Tis but their duty
que mis rezos                               To tip my palms.                             45
si desean,                                  Their wealth is sinful
dar limosna                                 They must see;
es un deber.                                And a holy state
Y es pecado                                 Is my poverty,
la riqueza:                                 And he is a miser                            50
la pobreza                                  Who would deny
santidad:                                   An alms, and a beggar
Dios a veces                                Blest am I.
es mendigo,
y al avaro                                  For I am poor and they grieve to note
da castigo,                                 How I groan beneath my pain;                 55
que le niegue                               They never see that their wealth is a mine
caridad.                                    Where I my treasures gain.
                                            The world is mine; I am free as air!
Yo soy pobre y se lastiman
todos al verme plañir,                      A rebel and a discontent
sin ver son mías sus riquezas todas,        Amid my rags am I;                           60
qué mina inagotable es el pedir.            To satirise their ease I‘m sent
Mío es el mundo: como el aire libre . . .   And with a sour-set eye
Mal revuelto y andrajoso,                   I boldly stare at the potentate
entre harapos                               Who dares to pass me in his state.
del lujo sátira soy,
y con mi aspecto asqueroso                  The lovely maid                              65
me vengo del poderoso,                      Of a thousand scents
y a donde va, tras él voy.                  In her joy arrayed
                                            With her love-locks blent—
Y a la hermosa                              ‘Tis she I follow
que respira                                 Till she turns around,                       70
cien perfumes,                              And my evil smells
gala, amor,                                 Her sense astound.
la persigo                                  At the feasts and spreads
hasta que mira,                             My voice is heard
y me gozo                                   And they bow their heads                     75
cuando aspira                               At my merest word.
mi punzante                                 Their joy and revel
mal olor.                                   I come to stay,
Y las fiestas                               At the sight of my rags
y el contento                               And my voice‘s brags                         80

con mi acento                               Their music dies away.
turbo yo,
y en la bulla                               Showing how near
y la alegría                                Dwell pain and joy;
interrumpen                                 No joy without tear
la armonía                                  No pain sans glad alloy.                      85
mis harapos                                 The world is mine; I am free as air!
y mi voz:
                                            For me no morrow
Mostrando cuán cerca habitan                Nor yesterday;
el gozo y el padecer,                       I forget the sorrow
que no hay placer sin lágrimas, ni pena     And the welladay.                             90
que no traspire en medio del placer.        There‘s nought to trouble
Mío es el mundo; como el aire libre . . .   Or weary me here,—
                                            It‘s a palace tomorrow
Y para mí no hay mañana,                    Or a hospital‘s cheer.
ni hay ayer;                                I live a stranger                             95
olvido el bien como el mal,                 To thoughts of care;
nada me aflige ni afana;                    Let others seek glory
me es igual para mañana                     Or riches rare!
un palacio, un hospital.                    My one concern
                                            Is to pass today;                             100
Vivo ajeno                                  Let the laws prevail
de memorias,                                Where the monarchs sway!
de cuidados                                 For I am a beggar
libre estoy;                                And a poor man proud;
busquen otros                               ‘Tis through fear of me                       105
oro y glorias,                              There are alms allowed.
yo no pienso
sino en hoy.                                A soft asylum
Y do quiera                                 Where‘er it be,
vayan leyes,                                And a hospital bed
quiten reyes,                               Will be ready for me;                         110
reyes den;                                  And a cosy ditch
yo soy pobre,                               Where my bones shall lie
y al mendigo,                               Will cover me over
por el miedo                                When I die.
del castigo,
todos hacen                                 The world is mine; I am free as air;          115
siempre bien.                               Let others work that I may eat!
Y un asilo donde quiera                     All hearts must melt at my piteous prayer:—
y un lecho en el hospital                   ―An alms, for God‘s sake, I entreat!‖
siempre hallaré, y un hoyo donde caiga
mi cuerpo miserable al espirar.             Trans. from Spanish by Thomas Walsh

Mío es el mundo: como el aire libre,
otros trabajan porque coma yo;
todos se ablandan, si doliente pido
una limosna por amor de Dios.

Fyodor Ivanovich Tiutchev (1808-1873; Russia)

Не то, что мните вы, природа . . .               Nature is not as you imagine her . . .
Не то, что мните вы, природа:                    Nature is not as you imagine her:
Не слепок, не бездушный лик—                     She‘s not a mold, nor yet a soulless mask—
В ней есть душа, в ней есть свобода,             She is made up of soul and freedom
В ней есть любовь, в ней есть язык...            She is made up of love and speech . . .
................                                 ................
Вы зрите лист и цвет на древе:                   Observe the leaves and flowers on a tree:             5
Иль их садовник приклеил?                        Was it some gardener glued them there?
Иль зреет плод в родимом чреве                   And is a growing child in the womb
Игрою внешних, чуждых сил?..                     The work of alien, external forces? . . .
................                                 ................
Они не видят и не слышат,                        They do not see and do not hear
Живут в сем мире, как впотьмах,                  They live in this world as if in darkness,            10
Для них и солнцы, знать, не дышат,               For them, it seems, the stars don‘t breathe
И жизни нет в морских волнах.                    And ocean waves are not alive.
Лучи к ним в душу не сходили,                    The sun‘s rays have not reached their soul,
Весна в груди их не цвела,                       Spring‘s never bloomed within their breast,
При них леса не говорили,                        The forest does not speak to them                     15
И ночь в звездах нема была!                      And starry nights are always mute!
И языками неземными,                             And, roiling woods and rivers
Волнуя реки и леса,                              With unearthly speech,
В ночи не совещалась с ними                      No storm‘s engaged them in the night
В беседе дружеской гроза!                        In friendly conversation!                             20
Не их вина: пойми, коль может,                   They‘re not to blame: how can the deaf
Органа жизнь, глухонемой!                        Perceive an organ‘s sound!
Души его, ах, не встревожит                      Alas, their souls can not be touched
И голос матери самой!                            Not even by a mother‘s voice!
                                                 Trans. from Russian by Tatiana Tulchinsky et al.

Последняя любовь                                 Last Love
О, как на склоне наших лет                       O, how in our waning days
Нежней мы любим и суеверней...                   We love more tenderly and more obsessively. . .
Сияй, сияй, прощальный свет                      Shine on, shine on, the parting rays
Любви последней, зари вечерней!                  Of our last love, our setting sun!
Полнеба обхватила тень,                          Shadow‘s embraced the heavens,                        5
Лишь там, на западе, бродит сиянье,—             A glow still wanders in the West,—
Помедли, помедли, вечерний день,                 Hold back, hold back, o dying day,
Продлись, продлись, очарованье.                  Prolong, prolong enchantment.
Пускай скудеет в жилах кровь,                    The blood may thin within our veins,
Но в сердце не скудеет нежность...               But in our hearts some tenderness still reigns. . .   10
О ты, последняя любовь!                          O you, our final love!
Ты и блаженство, и безнадежность.                You are both paradise and bane.
                                                 Trans. from Russian by Tatiana Tulchinsky et al.

Певучесть есть в морских волнах . . .              In ocean waves there’s melody . . .
       Est in arundineis modulatio musica ripis             Est in arundineis modulatio musica ripis

Певучесть есть в морских волнах,                   In ocean waves there‘s melody
Гармония в стихийных спорах,                       There‘s harmony within the clash of elements,
И стройный мусикийский шорох                       And a harmonious tuneful whisper
Струится в зыбких камышах.                         Streams through the rippling rushes.
Невозмутимый строй во всем,                        There‘s unperturbable order everywhere,         5
Созвучье полное в природе,—                        Full consonance in nature,
Лишь в нашей призрачной свободе                    And only our illusory freedom
Разлад мы с нею сознаем.                           Is out of tune with her.
Откуда, как разлад возник?                         Whence, how did this dischord arise?
И отчего же в общем хоре                           And why, amidst the universal chorus,           10
Душа не то поет, что море,                         Do human souls not sing as does the sea,
И ропщет мыслящий тростник?                        Why does the sentient reed sigh?
И от земли до крайних звезд                        And from the earth unto the highest stars
Всѐ безотвотен и поныне                            Unanswered to this very day
Глас вопиющего в пустыне,                          A voice lamenting in the wilderness,            15
Души отчаянный протест?                            The soul protests despairingly?
                                11 мая 1865                                           May 11, 1865
                                                   Trans. from Russian by Tatiana Tulchinsky et al.

Mihail Lermontov (1814-1841; Russia)

Небо и звезды                                      The Sky and the Stars
   Чисто вечернее небо,                              Fair is the evening sky,
   Ясны далекие звезлы,                              clear are the stars in the distance,
   Ясны, как счастье ребенка.                        as clear as the joy of an infant.
О, для чего мне нельзя и подумать:                 Oh, why can‘t I tell myself even in thought:
Звезды, вы ясны, как счастье мое!                  The stars are as clear as my joy!                        5

   Чем ты несчастлив?                                 What is your trouble—
   Скажут мне люди.—                                  people might query.
   Тем я несчастлив,                                  Just this is my trouble,
Добрые люди, что звезды и небо—                    excellent people: the sky and the stars
Звезды и небо! а я—человек! . .                    are the stars and sky, whereas I am a man.               10

  люди друг к другу                                   People are envious
  Зависть питают;                                     of one another.
  Я же, напротив,                                     I, on the contrary,—
Только завидую звездам прекрасным,                 only the beautiful stars do I envy,
Только их место занять бы хотел.                   only to be in their place do I wish.                     15
                                                   Trans. from Russian by Vladimir Nabokov

И скучно и грустно                                 Bored and sad . . .
И скучно и грустно, и некому руку подать           It‘s boring and sad, and there‘s no one around
В минуту душевной невзгоды...                      In times of my spirit‘s travail...
Желанья!.. что пользы напрасно и вечно желать?..   Desires!... What use is our vain and eternal desire?..
А годы проходят—все лучшие годы!                   While years pass on by—all the best years!

Любить... но кого же?.. на время—не стоит труда,   To love...but love whom?.. a short love is vexing,       5
А вечно любить невозможно.                       And permanent love‘s just a myth.
В себя ли заглянешь?—там прошлого нет и следа:   Perhaps look within?—The past‘s left no trace:
И радость, и муки, и всѐ там ничтожно...         All trivial, joys and distress...

Что страсти?—ведь рано иль поздно их сладкий     What good are the passions? For sooner or later
  недуг                                          Their sweet sickness ends when reason speaks up;     10
Исчезнет при слове рассудка;                     And life, if surveyed with cold-blooded regard,—
И жизнь, как посмотришь с холодным вниманьем     Is stupid and empty—a joke . . .
Такая пустая и глупая шутка...
                                                 Trans. from Russian by Tatiana Tulchinsky et al.

Сон                                              The Triple Dream
В полдневный жар в долине Дагестана              I dreamt that with a bullet in my side
С свинцом в груди лежал недвижим я;              in a hot gorge of Daghestan I lay.
Глубокая еще дымилась рана;                      Deep was the wound and steaming, and the tide
По капле кровь точилася моя.                     of my life-blood ebbed drop by drop away.

Лежал один я на песке долины;                    Alone I lay amid a silent maze                       5
Уступы скал теснилися кругом,                    of desert sand and bare cliffs rising steep,
И солнце жгло их желтые вершины                  their tawny summits burning in the blaze
И жгло меня,—но спал я мертвым сном.             that burned me too; but lifeless was my sleep.

И снился мне сияющий огнями                      And in a dream I saw the candle-flame
Вечерний пир в родимой стороне.                  of a gay supper in the land I knew;             10
Меж юных жен, увенчанных цветами,                young women crowned with flowers . . . And my name
Шел разговор веселый обо мне.                    on their light lips hither and thither flew.

Но в разговор веселый не вступая,                But one of them sat pensively apart,
Сидела там задумчиво одна,                       not joining in the light-lipped gossiping,
И в грустный сон душа ее младая                  and there alone, God knows what made her heart,      15
Бог знает чем была погружена;                    her young heart dream of such a hidden thing . . .

И снилась ей долина Дагестана;                   For in her dream she saw a gorge, somewhere
Знакомый труп лежал в долине той;                in Daghestan, and knew the man who lay
В его груди дымясь чернела рана,                 there on the sand, the dead man, unaware
И кровь лилась хладеющей струей.                 of steaming wound and blood ebbing away.             20
                                                 Trans. from Russian by Vladimir Nabokov

Nikolay Alekseevich Nekrasov (1821-1877; Russia)
“Внимая ужасам войны”                            “As I hearken to the horrors of war”
Внимая ужасам войны,                             As I hearken to the horrors of war,
При каждой новой жертве боя                      at the news of every death
Мне жаль не друга, не жены,                      I pity not the friend, nor the wife,
Мне жадь не самого героя . . .                   nor even the hero himself.
Увы! утешится жена,                              Alas—the widow will be consoled                      5
И друга лучший друг забудет;                     and the best friend will forget his friend,
Но где-то есть душа одна—                        but there is in the world one soul
Она до гроба помнить будет!                      that will remember for ever.
Средь лицемерных наших дел                       Amid our hypocritical affairs
И всякой пошлости, и прозы,                      and all kinds of matters, platitudinous and prosaic,
Одни я в мире подсмотрел                              the only sacred and sincere tears I have observed
Святые, искренние слезы—                              are the tears of unfortunate mothers.
То слезы бедных матерей!                              For them to forget their children slain in battle
Им не забыть своих детей,                             is as impossible as for a weeping willow
Погибших на кровавой ниве,                            to lift its drooping branches.                      15
Как не поднять плакучей иве
Своих поникнувших ветвей . . .                        Trans. from Russian by Vladimir Nabokov

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer (1836-1870; Spain)
Saeta que voladora . . .                              An Arrow Flying Past . . .
  Saeta que voladora                                     An arrow flying past,
Cruza, arrojada al azar,                              a shaft shot in the dark
Y que no se sabe dónde                                without a thought of where
Temblando se clavará;                                 its trembling point will strike;

  Hoja que del árbol seca                                A dry leaf from the tree                         5
Arrebata el vendaval,                                 tossed by the autumn gales,
Y que no hay quien diga el surco                      and no one knows what furrow
Donde al polvo volverá;                               will catch it when it falls;

  Gigante ola que el viento                              A giant wave that the wind
Riza y empuja en el mar,                              whips and drives through the sea,                   10
Y rueda y pasa y se ignora                            that rolls on without knowing
Qué playa buscando va;                                which is the shore it seeks;

  Luz que en cercos temblorosos                          Lamp that, as it expires,
Brilla, próxima a expirar,                            casts trembling rings of light
Y que no se sabe de ellos                             and knows not which will prove                      15
Cuál el último será;                                  its final shining out.

  Eso soy yo, que al acaso                              All these am I who wander
Cruzo el mundo, sin pensar                            across the world, nor see
De dónde vengo, ni adónde                             whence I have come or whither
Mis pasos me llevarán.                                my steps will carry me.                             20

                                                      Trans. from Spanish by J. M. Cohen

¿De dónde vengo? . . .                                Where Do I Come From? . . .
   ¿De dónde vengo? . . .                               Where do I come from? . . .
El más horrible y áspero de los senderos busca:       Seek the roughest and most hideous of paths:
las huellas de unos pies ensangrentados sobre         the prints of bleeding feet on cruel rocks,
    la roca dura;                                     the remains of a soul made tatters on sharp thorns,
los despojos de un alma hecha jirones en las zarzas   will tell you the road that leads to my cradle.     5
te dirán el camino que conduce a mi cuna.               Where am I going? . . .
                                                      Cross the saddest and most somber of the steppes;
  ¿Adónde voy?                                        the valley of eternal snows and of eternal melancholy
El mas sombío y triste de las páramos cruza;             mists.
valle de eternas nieves y de eternas melancólicas     Where there is a solitary stone without the least
   brumas.                                               inscription,
En donde esté una piedra solitaria sin inscripción    where oblivion abides, there will be my tomb.       10
donde habite el olvido, allí estará mi tumba.         Trans. from Spanish by Edward F. Gahan
Rosalía de Castro (1837-1885; Spain)
Candente está la atmósfera . . .               The Atmosphere Is Incandescent . . .
Candente está la atmósfera;                    The atmosphere is incandescent;
explora el zorro la desierta vía;              The fox explores an empty road;
      insalubre se torna                            Sick grow the waters
del limpio arroyo el agua cristalina,          That sparkled in the clear arroyo,
      y el pino aguarda inmóvil                     Unfluttered stands the pine                    5
los besos inconstantes de la brisa.            Waiting for fickle winds to blow.

     Imponente silencio                             A majesty of silence
     agobia la campiña;                             Overpowers the meadow;
sólo el zumbido del insecto se oye             Only the hum of an insect troubles
en las extensas y húmedas umbrías;             The spreading, dripping forest shadow,              10
     monótono y constante                           Relentless and monotonous
como el sordo estertor de la agonía.           As muffled rattle in a dying throat.

Bien pudiera llamarse, en estío,               In such a summer the hour of midday
     la hora del mediodía,                          Could as well go
noche en que al hombre de luchar cansado,      By the name of night, to struggle-weary             15
     más que nunca le irritan                       Man who has never known
de la materia la imponente fuerza              Greater vexation from the vast cares
y del alma las ansias infinitas.               Of the soul, or from matter‘s majestic force.

Volved, ¡oh noches del invierno frío,          Would it be winter again! The nights! The cold!
nuestras viejas amantes de otras días!         O those old loves of ours so long ago!               20
Tornad con vuestros hielos y crudezas          Come back to make this fevered blood run fresh,
a refrescar la sangre enardecida               Bring back your sharp severities and snows
por el estío insoportable y triste. . . .      To these intolerable summer sorrows . . .
¡Triste! . . . ¡Lleno de pámpanos y espigas!   Sorrows! . . . While vine and corn stand thick and gold!

Frío y calor, otoño o primavera,               The cold, the heat; the autumn or the spring;       25
¿dónde . . . dónde se encuentra la alegría?    Where, where has delight set up its home?
Hermosas son las estaciones todas              Beautiful are all seasons to the man
para el mortal que en sí guarda la dicha;      Who shelters happiness within his soul;
mas para el alma desolada y huérfana,          But the deserted, orphaned spirit feels
no hay estación risueña ni propicia.           No season smile upon its luckless door.             30

                                               Trans. from Spanish by Edwin Morgan

Yo no sé lo que busco eternamente              I Know Not What I Seek Eternally
Yo no sé lo que busco eternamente              I know not what I seek eternally
en la tierra, en el aire y en el cielo;        on earth, in air, and sky;
yo no sé lo que busco; pero es algo            I know not what I seek; but it is something
que perdí no sé cuándo y que no encuentro,     that I have lost, I know not when,
aun cuando sueñe que invisible habita          and cannot find, although in dreams invisibly       5
en todo cuanto toco y cuanto veo.              it dwells in all I touch and see.

¡Felicidad, no he de volver a hallarte         Ah, bliss! Never can I recapture you
en la tierra, en el aire, ni en el cielo,      either on earth, in air, or sky,
      aun cuando sé que existes                      although I know you have reality
      y no eres vano sueño!                          and are no futile dream!
                                               Trans. from Spanish by Muriel Kittel

Romanticism in Latin America
Gonçalves Dias (1823-1864; Brazil)
Canção do exílio                                 Song of Exile
Minha terra tem palmeiras,                       In my country there are palm trees,
Onde canta o Sabía;                              Where the Sabía sings fair;
As aves, que aqui gorjeiam,                      And the birds, which here do warble,
Não gorjeiam como lá.                            Do not warble like those there.

Nosso céu tem mais estrelas,                     In our skies there are more stars,                  5
Nossas várzeas têm mais flores,                  In our fields more flowers abound,
Nossos bosques têm mais vida,                    In our forests there‘s more life,
Nossa vida mais amores.                          In our life more love is found.

Em cismar, sozinho à noite,                      As I dream, alone, at evening,
Mais prazer encontro eu lá;                      Much more joy do I find there;                      10
Minha terra tem palmeiras,                       In my country there are palm trees,
Onde canta o Sabía.                              Where the Sabía sings fair.

Minha terra tem primores,                        In my country there are beauties,
Que tais não encontro eu cá;                     I can‘t find here anywhere;
Em cismar—sozinho, à noite—                      As I dream—alone, at evening—                       15
Mais prazer encontro eu lá;                      Much more joy do I find there;
Minha terra tem palmeiras,                       In my country there are palm trees,
Onde canta o Sabía.                              Where the Sabía sings fair.

Não permita Deus que eu morra,                   May God not permit my dying,
Sem que eu volte para lá;                        Without first returning there;                      20
Sem que desfrute os primores                     Without savoring the beauties
Que não encontro por cá;                         I can‘t find anywhere;
Sem qu‘inda aviste as palmeiras,                 Without seeing still the palm trees,
Onde canta o Sabía.                              Where the Sabía sings fair.

                                                 Trans. for Portuguese by Frederick G. Williams

Desejo                                           Desire
Ah! que eu não morra sem provar ao menos         Oh please! don‘t let me die without first tasting
Sequer por um instante, nesta vida               If only for an instant, in this life
    Amor igual ao meu!                                A love as strong as mine!
Dá, Senhor Deus, que eu sobre a terra encontre   Oh grant, dear God, that on this earth I find
Um anjo, uma mulher, uma obra tua,               An angel, or a woman, your creation,                5
    Que sinta o meu sentir;                           Who feels the way I feel;
Uma alma que me entenda, irmã da minha,          A soul who‘ll understand, a kindred spirit,
Que escute o meu silêncio, que me siga           Who‘ll listen to my silence, follow me
    Dos ares na amplidão!                             Through vast immensities!
Que em laço estreito unidas, juntas, presas,     And bound as one, united, joined together,          10
Deixando a terra e o lodo, aos céus remontem     We‘d leave the earth and to the heavens fly
    Num êxtase de amor!                               In ecstasy of love!

                                                 Trans. for Portuguese by Frederick G. Williams

Vicente Riva Palacio (1832-1896; Mexico)
Al viento                                         To the Wind
Cuando era niño, con pavor te oía                 When I was a child I lay in dread,
en las puertas gemir de mi aposento;              listening to you moaning at my door,
doloroso, tristísimo lamento                      and fancying I heard the sorrowful
de misteriosos seres te creía.                    and grievous dirge of some unearthly being.

Cuando era joven, tu rumor decía                  When I was a youth your tumult spoke               5
frases que adivino mi pensamiento,                phrases with meaning that my mind divined;
y cruzando después el campamento,                 and, blowing through the camp, in after years
―Patria‖, tu ronca voz me repetía.                your harsh voice kept on crying ―Fatherland.‖

Hoy te siento azotando, en las oscuras            Now, in the dark nights, I hear you beating
noches, de mi prisión las fuertes rejas;          against my incoercible prison-bars;                10
pero hánme dicho ya mis desventuras               but my misfortunes have already told me

que eres viento, no más, cuando te quejas,        that you are wind, no more, when you complain,
eres viento si ruges o murmuras,                  wind when raging, wind when murmuring,
viento si llegas, viento si te alejas.            wind when you come and wind when you depart.

                                                  Trans. from Spanish by Samuel Beckett

Ignacio Manuel Altamirano (1834-1893; Mexico)
Atoyac                                            To the Atoyac
Abrase el sol de julio las playas arenosas        July sun burns down on the sandy beaches
Que azota con sus tumbos embravecido el mar;      lashed by the breakers of the angry sea,
Y opongan en su lucha las aguas orgullosas        and in their turbulence the arrogant waters
Al encendido rayo su ronco rebramar.              pit their harsh roar against the ardent rays.

Tú corres blandamente bajo la fresca sombra       You flow softly in the pleasant shade              5
Que el mangle con sus ramas espesas te formó;     shed for you by the branchy-mangrove tree:
Y duermen tus remansos en la mullida alfombra     and on the mossy carpet spangled o‘er
Que dulce Primavera de flores matizó.             with sweet spring flowers your sleeping pools repose.

Tú juegas en las grutas que forman tus riberas    You frolic in the grots your banks recess
De ceibas y parotas el bosque colosal;            among the vast wood‘s mahoes and cotton-trees,     10
Y plácido murmuras al pie de las palmeras,        and murmur tranquilly beneath the palms
Que esbeltas se retratan en tu onda de cristal.   slenderly mirrored in your crystal wave.

En este Edén divino, que esconde aquí la costa,   This heavenly Eden that here the coast secludes
El sol ya no penetra con rayo abrasador;          is sheltered from the sun‘s candescent rays;
Su luz, cayendo tibia, los árboles no agosta,     its light falls warm and gentle through the trees   15
Y en tu enramada espesa se tiñe de verdor.        and takes a green tinge from their spreading boughs.

Aquí sólo se escuchan murmullos mil suaves,       Here all is hush of sweet unnumbered murmurs,
El blando son que forman tus linfas al correr,    the whisper softly flowing of your waters,
La planta cuando crece, y el canto de las aves,   the growing plant, the music of the birds,
Y el aura que suspira, las ramas al mecer.        the sighing breeze and rocking of the branches.    20

Osténtanse las flores que cuelgan de tu techo     The flowers flaunt that from your canopy hang
En mil y mil guirnaldas para adornar tu sien;     its countless garlands to adorn your brow,
Y el gigantesco loto, que brota de tu lecho,             and the huge lotus, springing from your bed,
Con frescos ramilletes inclínase también.                with its fresh clusters bends towards you too.

Se dobla en tus orillas, cimbrándose, el papayo,         The papaw-tree stoops quivering to your lap,      25
El mango con sus pomas de oro y de carmín;               the mango with its gold and carmine drupes.
Y en los ilamos saltan, gozoso el papagayo,              And in the poplars the gay parrot flutters
El ronco carpintero y el dulce colorín.                  with the harsh pecker and the tuneful linnet.

A veces tus cristales se apartan bulliciosos             Sometimes your glassy sheen is struck to foam
De tus morenas ninfas jugando en derredor;               on every side by your dark wantoning nymphs;      30
Y amante les prodigas abrazos misteriosos,               you fondle them with many a secret clasp
Y lánguido recibes sus ósculos de amor.                  and languidly receive their loving kisses.

Y cuando el sol se oculta detrás de los palmares,        And when the sun is hidden by the palms
Y en tu salvaje templo comienza a obscurecer,            and in your wilding temple darkness gathers,
Del ave te saludan los últimos cantares                  the birds salute you with their parting songs     35
Que lleva de los vientos el vuelo postrimer.             borne by the last breath of the wind away.

La noche viene tibia; se cuelga ya brillando             Night falls warm; already the white moon
La blanca luna, en medio de un cielo de zafir,           hangs shining in the midst of the sapphire sky,
Y todo allá en los bosques se encoge y va callando,      and in your wildwood all is rapt and stilled
Y todo en tus riberas empieza ya a dormir.               and on your margins all begins to sleep.          40

Entonces en tu lecho de arena, aletargado,               Then in your sandy bed, bemused, beneath
Cubriéndose las palmas con lúgubre capuz,                the melancholy mantle of the palms,
También te vas durmiendo, apenas alumbrado               scarcely illumined by the silver light
Del astro de la noche por la argentada luz.              of the great star of night, you also sleep.

Y así resbalas muelle; ni turban tu reposo               Thus soft you glide; and neither the faint stir   45
Del remo de las barcas el tímido rumor,                  of boats and oars disturb your rest, nor yet
Ni el repentino brinco del pez que huye medroso          the sudden leaping of the fish that flies
En busca de las peñas que esquiva el pescador.           in fear towards the rocks the fisher shuns;

Ni el silbo de los grillos que se alza en los esteros,   nor the chirp of crickets from the creeks,
Ni el ronco que a los aires los caracoles dan,           nor the snails‘ roundelay upon the air,           50
Ni el hueco vigilante que en gritos lastimeros           nor the curassow, whose plaintive cries
Inquieta entre los juncos el sueño del caimán.           distract the cayman‘s sleep among the reeds.

En tanto los cocuyos en polvo refulgente                 What time the fireflies with gleaming dust
Salpican los umbrosos yerbajes de huamil,                sprinkle the shady herbage of the canes
Y las oscuras malvas de algodón naciente,                and the dark mallows of the springing cotton      55
Que crece de las cañas de maíz entre el carril.          that grows in the ditch, amid the stalky maize.

Y en tanto en la cabaña, la joven que se mece            And the maiden in the cabin, rocking
En la ligera hamaca y en lánguido vaivén.                on the light hammock languid to and fro,
Arrúllase cantando la zamba que entristece               sings the samba‘s saddening lullaby
Mezclado con las trovas el suspirar también.             and singing sighs and sighing ever sings.         60

Mas de repente, al aire resuenan los bordones            But of a sudden from the shore a harp
Del arpa de la costa con incitante son;                  sounds on the air with urgent clanging strings,
Y agítanse y preludian la flor de las canciones,         tumultuous prelude to the flower of songs,
La dulce malagueña que alegra el corazón.                the sweet malagueña that makes glad the heart.

Entonces, de los Barrios la turba placentera             Then from the villages hard upon the harp         65
En pos del arpa el bosque comienza a recorrer,           the joyour throng begins to scour the woods,
Y todo en breve es fiestas y danza en tu ribera,         and soon upon your margin all is joy
Y todo amor y cantos y risas y placer.                   and dance and song and love and merriment.

Así transcurren breves y sin sentir las horas;           So haste away the brief unheeded hours.
Y de tus blandos sueños en medio del sopor               And from the torpor of your gentle dreams                70
Escuchas a tus hijas, morenas seductoras,                you hearken to your dark enticing daughters
Que entonan a la luna sus cántigas de amor.              intoning to the moon their hymns of love.

Las aves en sus nidos, de dicha se estremecen,           The nestling birds are tremulous with joy;
Los floripondios se abren su esencia a derramar;         the opening magnolias shed their nectar;
Los céfiros despiertan, y suspirar parecen;              the zephyrs wake and seem to sigh; your waters           75
Tus aguas en el álveo se sienten palpitar.               feel how they palpitate within their bed.

¡Ay! ¿Quién en estas horas en que el insomnio ardiente   Alas! in these hours when burning sleeplessness
Aviva los recuerdos del eclipsado bien,                  revives the memory of blessings gone,
No busca el blando seno de la querida ausente            who does not seek the absent love‘s soft breast
Para posar los labios y reclinar la sien?                wheron to press his lips and lay his head?               80

Las palmas se entrelazan, la luz en sus caricias         The palms together twine; caressing light
Destierra de tu lecho la triste oscuridad:               evinces dismal darkness from your bed;
Las flores a las auras inundan de delicias. . . .        the flowers flood the breezes with their sweets. . . .
Y sólo el alma siente su triste soledad.                 The soul alone feels its sad solitude!

Adiós, callado río: tus verdes y risueñas                Farewell, quiet stream; the doles of sorrow              85
Orillas, no entristezcan las quejas del pesar;           do not grieve your green and smiling banks;
Que oírlas sólo deben las solitarias peñas               for they are for the lonely rocks alone,
Que azota, con sus tumbos, embravecido el mar.           lashed by the breakers of the angry sea.

Tú queda reflejando la luna en tus cristales,            The moon sleeps mirrored in your crystal waters
Que pasan en tus bordes tupidos a mecer                  that overlap your shrubby banks and rock                 90
Los verdes ahuejotes y azules carrizales,                the bluey sedges and green galingale
Que al sueño ya rendidos volviéronse a caer.             drooping now in drowsiness again.

Tú corre blandamente bajo la fresca sombra               You flow softly in the pleasant shade
Que el mangle con sus ramas espesas te formó;            shed by you by the branchy mangrove-tree;
Y duermen tus remansos en la mullida alfombra            and on the mossy carpet spangled o‘er              95
Que alegre Primavera de flores matizó.                   with sweet spring flowers your sleeping pools repose.

                                                         Trans. from Spanish by Samuel Beckett

Castro Alves (1847-1871; Brazil)
A mão do cativo                                          The Slave Mother
I                                                        I
Ó mão de cativo! que alegre balanças                     Oh slave mother! you there so happily swinging
A rede que ataste nos galhos da selva!                   The hammock you tied to the trees so green and lush!
Melhor tu farias se à pobre criança                      Far better ‘twould be for your poor little baby
Cavasses a cova por baixo da relva.                      If you‘d dig a hole for him under the brush.

Ó mão do cativo! que fias à noite                        Oh slave mother! you who at night are found weaving
As roupas do filho na choça da palha!                    The clothes of your son in that hut made of hay!
Melhor tu farias se ao pobre pequeno                     Far better ‘twould be for this poor little fellow
Tecesses o pano da branca mortalha.                      If you‘d weave the cloth for his white shroud today.

Misérrima! E ensinas ao triste menino               So miserably poor! Yet you teach this sad youngster
Que existem virtudes e crimes no mundo.             That virtue and crime in this world are both found. 10
E ensinas ao filho que seja brioso,                 You teach him that he should be honest and upright,
Que evite dos vícios o abismo profundo . . .        That he must shun vice whose abyss is profound . . .

E louca, sacodes nesta alma, inda em trevas,        And crazy, you stir in this soul still in shadows,
O raio da espr‘ança . . . Cruel ironia!             A ray of bright hope . . . What cruel irony, though!
E ao pássaro mandas voar no infinito,               You send forth a bird to go flying in freedom,       15
Enquanto que o prende cadeia sombria! . . .         While locked in a prison of darkness below! . . .

II                                                  II
Ó Mãe! não despertes est‘alma que dorme,            Oh Mother! don‘t waken this soul which lies sleeping,
Com o verbo sublime do Mártir da Cruz!              With words from the Martyr of Calvary‘s dark night!
O pobre que rola no abismo sem termo                The miserable creature that grovels beneath us
P‘ra qu‘há de sondá-lo . . . Que morra sem luz.     Why should he reach out . . . Let him die without light.

Não vês no futuro seu negro fadário,                Can you not discern the black future before him,
Ó cega divina que cegas de amor?!                   Oh blind one who‘s blinded by love that‘s insane?!
Ensina a teu filho—desonra, misérias,               Come teach him instead—of dishonor and misery,
A vida nos crimes—a morte na dor.                   A life filled with crime—and his death filled with pain.

Que seja covarde . . . que marche encurvado . . .   Let him be a coward . . . let him walk stooped over . . .
Que de homem se torne sombrio reptil.               From man let him turn to a somber reptile.
Nem core de pejo, nem trema de raiva                Not flushing with shame, nor yet trembling in anger
Se a face lhe cortam com o látego vil.              When cut on his face by the whip cursed and vile.

Arranca-o do leito . . . seu corpo habitue-se       Come thrust him from bed . . . let his body get used to
Ao frio das noites, aos raios do sol.               The cold of the night, and the sun‘s burning rays.    30
Na vida—só cabe-lhe a tanga rasgada!                In life—all he‘ll get is a worn, ragged loincloth!
Na morte—só cabe-lhe o roto lençol.                 In death—all he get‘s a torn sheet where he lays.

Ensina-o que morda . . . mas pérfido                You teach him to strike . . . but his treachery
  oculte-se                                            kept hidden
Bem como a serpente por baixo da chã                Like that of the snake who lies close to the plain
Que impávido veja seus pais desonrados,             Impassive in seeing his parents dishonored,        35
Que veja sorrindo mancharem-lhe a irmã.             He merely should smile when his sister they stain.

Ensina-lhe as dores de um fero trabalho . . .       Come teach him what pains his fierce work will afford
                                                       him . . .
Trabalho que pagam com pútrido pão.                 For work they‘ll reward him with stale, putrid bread.
Depois que os amigos açoite no tronco . . .         This after his friends at the post he has whipped . . .
Depois que adormeça co‘o sono de um cão.            This after, dog tired, he‘s asleep in his bed.          40

Criança—não trema dos transes de um mártir!         As infant—no quaking with throes of a martyr!
Mancebo—não sonhe delírios de amor!                 As young man—no wild dreams of love in his head!
Marido—que a esposa conduza sorrindo                As husband—escort his sweet wife with a smile
Ao leito devasso do próprio senhor! . . .           To his very own master‟s licentious, foul bed! . . .

São estes os cantos que deves na                    These then are the songs on this earth you should
   terra                                               only                                             45
Ao mísero escravo somente ensinar.                  Be teaching the miserable slave as his psalms.
Ó Mãe que balanças a rede selvagem                  Oh Mother who‘s swinging the wild, savage hammock
Que ataste nos troncos do vasto palmar.             You tied to the trunks in this vast grove of palms.

III                                                               III
Ó Mãe do cativo, que fias à noite                                 Oh slave Mother, you who at night are found weaving
À luz da candeia na choça de palha!                               By lamp light aglow in that hut made of hay!        50
Embala teu filho com essas cantigas . . .                         With these lullabies come and rock your child gently. ..
Ou tece-lhe o pano da branca mortalha.                            Or weave him the cloth for his white shroud today.
                                                                  Trans. from Portuguese by Frederick G. Williams

Manuel González Prada (1848-1918; Peru)
Vivir y morir                                                     Living and Dying
  Humo y nada el soplo de sér:                                      Smoke and nothing the breath of being:
Mueren hombre, pájaro y flor,                                     Blossom, bird and man must die,
Corre a mar de olvido el amor,                                    Love in a sea of forgetfulness lie,
Huye a breve tumba el placer.                                     To a brief gravestone pleasure fleeing.

  ¿Dónde están las luces de ayer?                                   Of yesterday what light still radiates?           5
Tiene ocaso todo esplendor,                                       Twilight every splendor steals;
Hiel esconde todo licor,                                          What liquor but its gall conceals?
Todo expía el mal de nacer.                                       The evil of birth all expiates.

  ¿Quién rïó sin nunca gemir,                                       Who has laughed who has known no pain?
Siendo el goce un dulce penar?                                    Joy is with sweet sorrow fraught,                   10
¡Loco y vano ardor el sentir!                                     Feeling an ardor mad and vain!

  ¡Vano y loco anhelo el pensar!                                   Vain and mad the care of thought!
¿Qué es vivir? soñar sin dormir.                                  What is life? To dream without sleep.
¿Qué es morir? dormir sin soñar.                                  What is death? To sleep without dreams.

                                                                  Trans. from Spanish by Kate Flores

El Mitayo                                                         The Mitayo3
   — ―Hijo, parto: la mañana                                        ―Son, I am going: the morning
reverbera en el volcán;                                           Will reverberate in the volcano:
dame el báculo de chonta,                                         Give me my chonta walking stick,
las sandalias de jaguar.‖                                         My sandals of jaguar skin.‖

   —―Padre, tienes las sandalias,                                   ―Father, you have your sandals,                   5
tienes el báculo ya:                                              You have your staff already;
mas ¿por qué me ves y lloras?                                     But why do you see me and weep?
¿A qué regiones te vas?                                           To what region are you going?

  —―La injusta ley de las Blancos                                    ―The unjust law of the white man
me arrebata del hogar:                                            Tears me from my home.                              10
voy al trabajo y al hambre,                                       I am going to work and to hunger,
voy a la mina fatal.‖                                             I am going to the deadly mines.‖

  —―Tú que partes hoy en día,                                       ―You who are leaving this very day,
dime ¿cuándo volverás?‖                                           When, when will you come back?‖
—―Cuando el llama de las punas                                    ―When the llama of the high plateau                 15
ame el desierto arenal.‖                                          Loves the desert sands.‖
    Mitayo = An Indian serving his enforced labor, called mita.
   —―¿Cuándo el llama de las punas           ―When will the llama of the high plateau
las arenas amará?‖                         Love the desert sands?‖
—―Cuando el tigre de los bosques           ―When the tiger of the forests
beba en las aguas del mar.‖                Drinks the waters of the sea.‖                     20

  —―¿Cuándo el tigre de los bosques          ―When will the tiger of the forests
en los mares beberá?‖                      Drink the waters of the sea?‖
—―Cuando de huevo de un cóndor             ―When the egg of the condor
nazca la sierpa mortal.‖                   Hatches a deadly snake.‖

  —―¿Cuándo del huevo de un cóndor           ―When will the egg of a condor                   25
Una sierpe nacerá?                         Give forth a deadly snake?‖
—―Cuando el pecho de los Blancos           ―When the breast of the white man
Se conmeuva de piedad.‖                    With compassion is moved.‖

  —―¿Cuándo el pecho de los Blancos          ―When will the breast of the white man
Piadoso y tierno será?‖                    Be pitying and tender?‖                            30
—―Hijo, el pecho de los Blancos            ―Son, the breast of the white man
No se conmueve jamás.‖                     Will be moved with compassion never.‖

                                           Trans. from Spanish by Kate Flores

Las flechas del Inca                       The Inca’s Arrows
   Tuvo tres flechas en la mano el Inca,       The Inca had three arrows in his hand,
Y, alegre, a la primera preguntó:          And joyfully he asked the first:
— ―Amiga fiel, envenenada flecha,          ―Faithful friend, poisoned arrow,
        Di ¿qué me pides hoy?‖                      Tell me, what would you will of me today?‖
—―Fuerte guerrero de infalible pulso,      ―Strong warrior of infallible eye                  5
        De bravo corazón,                           And valiant heart,
Te pido sólo destrozar las alas            I ask you but to shatter the wings
        De cóndor volador.‖                         Of the flying condor.‖

   Tuvo tres flechas en la mano el Inca,       The Inca had three arrows in his hand,
Y, alegre, a la segunda preguntó:          And joyfully he asked the second:                  10
—―Amiga fiel, envenenada flecha,           ―Faithful friend, poisoned arrow,
        Di ¿qué me pides hoy?‖                      Tell me, what would you will of me today?‖
—―Fuerte guerrero de infalible pulso,      ―Strong warrior of infallible eye,
        De bravo corazón,                           And valiant heart,
Te pido sólo desgarrar el seno             I ask you but to shatter the breast                15
        De tigre acechador.‖                        Of the stalking tiger.‖

   Tuvo tres flechas en la mano el Inca,       The Inca had three arrows in his hand,
Y, alegre, a la tercera preguntó:          And joyfully he asked the third:
—―Amiga fiel, envenenada flecha,           ―Faithful friend, poisoned arrow,
        Di ¿qué me pides hoy?‖                      Tell me, what would you will of me today?‖
—―Fuerte guerrero de infalible pulso,      ―Strong warrior of infallible eye
        De bravo corazón,                           And valiant heart,
Te pido sólo atravesar el pecho            I ask you but to pierce the breast
        De vil conquistador.‖                       Of the vile Conquistador.‖

                                           Trans. from Spanish by Kate Flores

Romanticism in Africa
José Pedro da Silva Campos e Oliveira (1847-1911; Mozambique)
À Elvira                                                    To Elvira
És meu prazer, minha vida,                                  Thou art my joy, thou art my life,
Terna amiga, meu amor,                                      A tender friend, my dearest love,
Enleio do peito meu,                                        The soul mate to my bosom tied,
Linda e perfumada flor;                                     My perfumed flower, turtledove;
Virgem bela, por ti morro,                                  Oh lovely maid, for thee I die,                      5
Ingrata não sejas, não!                                     Oh no, I pray, don‘t be unkind!
Nume meu, por ti darei                                      Sweet numen, I would give for thee
A vida—o céu—a razão.                                       My life—the heavens—and my mind.
                                                            Trans. from Portuguese by Frederick G. Williams

Ode sáfica                                                  Sapphic Ode
Se de teus olhos tentadores, vivos,                         If from your eyes temptingly, lively looking,
um doce olhar me desses de ternura,                         a tender glance over my way were sent me,
abrandaras a mágoa que em meu peito                         you would touch my bosom and dull the pain that‘s
    férvido lava!                                                fervently burning!

Se os teus carmíneos, perfumados lábios                     If upon your carmine and perfumed lips there‘s       5
meigo sorriso para mim abrissem,                            found a kind smile lovingly formed for me then
cessar podiam as que verto agora                            all the tears I sorrowing shed would soon be
    lágrimas tristes!                                            over and done with!

Se beijar-te pudesse a face linda,                          If allowed to kiss your sweet lovely face where
em que rebrilha tímida inocência,                           always shines bright innocence smiling shyly,        10
eu sentira talvez reviver minha alma                        then perhaps I‘d feel my own soul reviving
    gélida e negra!                                              black now and freezing!

Se, alfim me desses teu amor de virgem,                     If your love you‘d finally given to me,
—amor, que por um cetro não trocara—                        —love for which I never would trade a scepter—
eu fora alegre, e achara nesta vida                         happy I would be for I‘d found in living             15
     célicas ditas!                                              fortune celestial!
                                                            Trans. from Portuguese by Frederick G. Williams

A ti                                                        To You
Em troca de um amor imenso e acrisolado                     In exchange for my immense love purified
teus afectos pedi sonhando áurea ventura;                   I asked for yours and dreamed the golden bliss I sought;
―não!‖ disseste-me; bem cedo a minha vida                   ―No!‖ you said to me; and early took my life
esmagá-la quiseste em trances de amargura!                  to crush it bitterly with singleness of thought!

Dilaceraste-me a alma! e tu nem mesmo pensas                You rent my very soul! And yet you‘ve no idea       5
quanto dói um martíro incógnito e sem meta...               what pain a secret martyr feels, no, you don‘t know it...
Mas não te culpo enfim! culpo o destino apenas              But I don‘t blame you, though! I just blame destiny
que a ti te fez tão linda, e a mim me fez poeta!            who made you oh so beautiful, and me he made a poet!
                                                            Trans. from Portuguese by Frederick G. Williams
      Appendix: Glossary of Scottish Words in the Poetry of
                         Robert Burns
1.    a‘ = all                                      32.   gude = good
2.    aboon = above                                 33.   hae = have, here
3.    ae = one                                      34.   halesome = wholesome
4.    aft = oft, often                              35.   hamely = homely, simple, unpretentious
5.    amang = among                                 36.   haughs = meadows, low-lying lands
6.    auld = old                                    37.   he maunna fa‘ that = he must not claim that
7.    bear the gree = win the prize                 38.   hing = to hang
8.    bield = shelter                               39.   hoddin-grey = coarse cloth of undyed wool
9.    birk = birch                                  40.   howes = hollows
10.   birken = birchen                              41.   ilka = each, every
11.   birkie = brisk young fellow                   42.   ingle = the fire, fireside
12.   blaws = blows                                 43.   knave = fool
13.   blaws na = blows not                          44.   lammies = lambs
14.   bonie = bonnie, pretty, beautiful             45.   lane = alone
15.   bonie howes and haughs = pretty hollows and   46.   lang = long
      meadows                                       47.   lass = girl, sweetheart
16.   bonnie lass = pretty girl                     48.   linties = linnets
17.   brae = slope of a hill                        49.   luve = love
18.   cauld = cold                                  50.   maunna = must not
19.   clamb = climbed                               51.   my Mary‘s sweet cot
20.   cleeding o‘ your braes                        52.   na = not
21.   coof = dolt, fool                             53.   nae = not
22.   craig = crag; throat, neck                    54.   nae lang syne = not long since
23.   ducal = duke                                  55.   naething = nothing
24.   eastlin = eastern                             56.   sae = so
25.   Fare-thee-weel = farewell                     57.   simmer = summer
26.   fareweeli = farewell                          58.   sugh = a rushing sound, sigh, wail
27.   fause = false                                 59.   syne = since, then
28.   gane = gone                                   60.   wee = a little; a wee = a short space or time
29.   gang = to go                                  61.   wha = who
30.   gie = give                                    62.   yon = yonder
31.   gowd = gold


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