« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
In the low, stifling armory,
Since the first hill-scouts panted in,
We knew, when the first tidings came,
Their spears shook like ripe, standing corn,
Against our walls their flood was dammed,
Our men dwelt on the walls and towers,
Where the hung temples showed their lights,
Some women prayed upon the heights;
And where the rooms were heaped with stores,
Because the stringless bows were scores,
And when the darkness on us crept We lay, each in her place, and slept.
Quick as we worked, we could not make
Six days we wound the cords with speed;
Faint with thirst,
No food was brought us.
Some wailed that the town gates were burst?
If, later, to the last embraces
Of child or mother, from their places
I cursed them through the door unbarred;
I would wind, were the hair mine own.
A sudden shiver shook my frame,
He buckled on a fresh cuirass, -
Each moment, all my blood areel,
More cowards left. Few now remained.
He sprinkles all the sterile fields with gold,
And all the rustic trees wear royal crowns.
The straggling fences all are interlaced With pink and purple morning-glory blooms;
The starry asters glorify the waste,
While grasses stand on guard with pikes and plumes.
Yet still amid the splendor of decay
The chill winds call for blossoms that are dead,
The cricket chirps for sunshine passed away,
The lovely summer songsters that have fled.
And lonesome in a haunt of withered vines, Amid the flutter of her withered leaves, Pale Summer for her perished kingdom pines,
And all the glories of her golden sheaves.
In vain October wooes her to remain
Within the palace of his scarlet bowers,— Entreats her to forget her heart-break pain,
And weep no more above her faded flowers.
At last November, like a conqueror, comes To storm the golden city of his foe;
We hear his rude winds like the roll of drums,
Bringing their desolation and their woe.
The sunset, like a vast vermilion flood, Splashes its giant glowing waves on high, The forest flames with blazes red as blood,
A conflagration sweeping to the sky.
Then all the treasures of that brilliant state
Are gathered in a mighty funeral pyre; October, like a King resigned to fate, Dies in his forests with their sunset fire.
HE WHO HATH LOVED
HE who hath loved hath borne a vassal's chain,
And worn the royal purple of a king; Hath shrunk beneath the icy Winter's sting,
Then revelled in the golden Summer's reign; He hath within the dust and ashes lain, Then soared o'er mountains on an eagle's wing;
A hut hath slept in, worn with wandering, And hath been lord of castle-towers in Spain.
He who hath loved hath starved in beggar's cell,
Then in Aladdin's jewelled chariot driven; He hath with passion roamed a demon fell,
And had an angel's raiment to him given; His restless soul hath burned with flames of hell,
And winged through ever-blooming fields of heaven.
Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce "mustache" to eat Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns The modest worth of the sailor boys- the lads who serve the guns.
But say not a word till the shot is heard that tells the fight is on,
Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the ships of "Yank" and "Don,"
Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting shell,
And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living hell;
Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the midday suns, You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps - the men behind the guns!