« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
And once you tried the Muses too;
You fail'd, Sir: therefore now you turn,
As Captain is to Subaltern.
And careless what this hour may bring,
And Brummels, when they try to sting.
And waive a little of his claim ;
Is more than all poetic fame.
You never look but half content :
With moral breadth of temperament.
You cannot let a body be:
“They call this man as good as ine."
The merits of a spotless shirt,
If half the little soul is dirt ?
You talk of tinsel! Why we
The old mark of rouge upon your cheeks.
That spilt his life about the cliques.
A Timon you! Nay, nay, for shame:
It looks too arrogant a jest-
You bandbox. Off, and let him rest. (Punch, February 28, 1846)
BUT SHE TARRIES IN HER PLACE.
The last four of sixteen stanzas, the first twelve of which are incorporated in sect. xxvi of “Maud.”
'Tis a phantom fair and good;
So to guard my life from ill,
And be moved around me still
That is moved not of the will.
Let it pass, the dreary brow,
Let the dismal face go by.
Then I lose it : it will fly:
Can it overlive the eye ?
Till it fade and fail and die,
To embrace me in the sky. (The Tribute, 1837)
THE LADY OF SHALOTT
VERSES FROM THE ORIGINAL VERSION OF 1833,
A CLOUD-WHITE crown of pearl she dight,
Her wide eyes fixed on Camelot,
Lady of Shalott.
She looked down to Camelot.
The Lady of Shalott.
Blown shoreward ; so to Camelot
The well-fed wits at Camelot.
The Lady of Shalott."
THE LOTOS-EATERS CONCLUDING PASSAGE TO THE ORIGINAL VERSION OF 1833 We have had enough of motion, Weariness and wild alarm, Tossing on the tossing ocean, Where the tuskèd sea-horse walloweth In a stripe of grass-green calm, At noon tide beneath the lee; And the monstrous narwhale swalloweth His foam-fountains in the sea. Long enough the wine-dark wave our weary bark did carry. This is lovelier and sweeter, Men of Ithaca, this is meeter, In the hollow rosy vale to tarry, Like a dreamy Lotos-eater, a delirious Lotos-eater ! We will eat the Lotos, sweet As the yellow honeycomb, In the valley some, and some On the ancient heights divine; And no more roam, On the loud hoar foam, To the melancholy home At the limit of the brine, The little isle of Ithaca, beneath the day's decline. We'll lift no more the shattered oar, No more unfurl the straining sail ; With the blissful Lotos-eaters pale We will abide in the golden vale Of the Lotos-land till the Lotos fail ; We will not wander more. Hark! how sweet the horned ewes bleat On the solitary steeps, And the merry lizard leaps, And the foam-white waters pour ; And the dark pine weeps, And the lithe vine creeps, And the heavy melon sleeps On the level of the shore : Oh! islanders of Ithaca, we will not wander more. Surely, surely slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labour in the ocean, and rowing with the oar, Oh! islanders of Ithaca, we will return no more.