Слике страница
PDF
ePub

He did not feel the driver's whip,

Nor the burning heat of day;

For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,
And his lifeless body lay

A worn-out fetter, that the soul

Had broken and thrown away!

H. W. LONGFELLOW

315

THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing
Startles the villages with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death-angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere

Will mingle with their awful symphonies!

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan,
Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
In long reverberations reach our own.

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song,
And loud, amid the universal clamour,

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din,
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin;

The tumult of each sacked and burning village; The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage;

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade ;
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies ?

Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and

courts,

Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals or forts :

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!
And every nation that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain!

Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ;
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,

I hear once more the vcice of Christ say, 'Peace!'

Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies!
But beautiful as songs of the immortals,

The holy melodies of love arise.

316

H. W. LONGFELLOW

CHILDREN

Come to me, O ye children!
For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.

Ye open the eastern windows,
That look toward the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows
And the brooks of morning run.

In your

hearts are the birds and the sunshine, In your thoughts the brooklet's flow, But in mine is the wind of Autumn;

And the first fall of the snow.

Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.

What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood,

That to the world are children ;

Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.

Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear

What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.

For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses,
And the gladness of your looks?

Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;
For ye are the living poems,

And all the rest are dead.

H. W. LONGFELLOW

317

I do not love thee !-no! I do not love thee! And yet when thou art absent I am sad;

And envy even the bright blue sky above thee, Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.

I do not love thee !—yet, I know not why, Whate'er thou dost seems still well done, to me : And often in my solitude I sigh

That those I do love are not more like thee!

I do not love thee !-yet, when thou art gone, I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear) Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.

I do not love thee !-yet thy speaking eyes, With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue, Between me and the midnight heaven arise, Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.

I know I do not love thee! yet, alas! Others will scarcely trust my candid heart ; And oft I catch them smiling as they pass, Because they see me gazing where thou art.

CAROLINE E. S. NORTON

318

RUBAIYÁT OF OMAR KHAYYÁM OF
NAISHÁPÚR

I

Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultán's Turret in a Noose of Light.

II

Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky

I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,

6

Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup

Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry.'

III

And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted—' Open then the Door!
'You know how little while we have to stay,
'And, once departed, may return no more.'

IV

Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,

Where the White Hand of MOSES on the Bough Puts out, and Jesus from the ground suspires.

V

Irám indeed is gone with all its Rose,

And Jamshýd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows; But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,

And still a Garden by the Water blows.

VI

And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine

High-piping Pehleví, with Wine! Wine! Wine!

[ocr errors]

Red Wine!'-the Nightingale cries to the Rose That yellow Cheek of hers to incarnadine.

VII

Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.

VIII

And look-a thousand Blossoms with the Day
Woke and a thousand scatter'd into Clay :

And this first Summer Month that brings the Rose

Shall take Jamshýd and Kaikobád away.

« ПретходнаНастави »