Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

An' raise a din;

For me, an aim I never fash! I rhyme for fun.

The star that rules my luckless lot,
Has fated me the russet coat,
An' damned my fortune to the groat;
But in requit,

Has blessed me wi' a random shot
O' countra wit.

BURNS.

THE MUSE.

THE Muse doth tell me where to bor

row

Comfort in the midst of sorrow;
Makes the desolatest place
To her presence be a grace;
And the blackest discontents
Be her fairest ornaments.
In my former days of bliss,
Her divine skill taught me this,
That, from every thing I saw,
I could some invention draw;
And raise pleasure to her height,
Through the meanest object's sight.
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustling,
By a daisy, whose leaves spread,
Shut, when Titan goes to bed,
Or a shady bush, or tree,
She could more infuse in me,
Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man.
By her help, I also now
Make this churlish place allow
Some things that may sweeten glad-

ness,

In the very gall of sadness.

The dull loneness, the black shade, That these hanging vaults have made;

The strange music of the waves
Beating on these hollow caves;
This black den which rocks emboss
Overgrown with eldest moss;
The rude portals which give light
More to terror than delight
This my chamber of Neglect,
Walled about with Disrespect;
From all these, and this dull air,
A fit object for despair,
She hath taught me by her might
To draw comfort and delight.
Therefore, thou best earthly bliss,
I will cherish thee for this;

Poesy, thou sweet'st content,
That e'er Heaven to mortals lent,
Though they as a trifle leave thee,
Whose dull thoughts cannot con-
ceive thee,

Though thou be to them a scorn
Who to nought but earth are born;
Let my life no longer be

Than I am in love with thee. GEORGE WITHER.

THE POET.

AND also, beau sire, of other things,
That is, thou hasté no tidings
Of Love's folk, if they be glade,
Ne of nothing else that God made,
And not only fro far countree,
That no tidings come to thee,
Not of thy very neighbors,
That dwellen almost at thy dores,
Thou hearest neither that ne this,
For when thy labor all done is,
And hast made all thy reckonings
Instead of rest and of new things,
Thou goest home to thine house
anone,

And also dumbé as a stone,
Thou sittest at another booke,
Till fully dazèd is thy looke,
And livest thus as an hermite.

CHAUCER.

PRAYER TO APOLLO.

GOD of science and of light,
Apollo through thy greate might,
This littell last booke now thou gie,*
Now that I will for maistrie,
Here art potenciall be shewde,
But for the rime is light and lewde,
Yet make it somewhat agreeable,
Though some verse fayle in a sillable,
And that I do no diligence,
To shewe craft, but sentence,
And if divine vertue thou
Wilt helpe me to shewe now,
That in my heed ymarked is,
Lo, that is for to meanen this,
The House of Fame for to discrive, --
Thou shalt see me go as blive†
Unto the next laurel I see
And kisse it, for it is thy tree,
Now enter in my brest anon.

[blocks in formation]

CHAUCER.

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]
[blocks in formation]

To men as they are men within themselves.

How oft high service is performed within,

When all the external man is rude in show:

Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold,

But a mere mountain chapel that protects

Its simple worshippers from sun and shower!

Of these, said I, shall be my song; of these,

If future years mature me for the task, Will I record the praises, making verse Deal boldly with substantial things, -in truth

And sanctity of passion speak of these, That justice may be done, obeisance paid

Where it is due. Thus haply shall I teach,

Inspire, through unadulterated ears Pour rapture, tenderness, and hope; my theme

No other than the very heart of man, As found among the best of those who live,

Not unexalted by religious faith,
Nor uninformed by books, good books,

though few,

In Nature's presence: thence may I select Sorrow that is

delight,

not sorrow, but

And miserable love that is not pain To hear of, for the glory that redounds

Therefrom to human kind, and what we are.

Be mine to follow with no timid step Where knowledge leads me; it shall

be my pride

That I have dared to tread this holy ground,

Speaking no dream, but things oracu

lar,

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

Amid the vast creation; why ordained

Through life and death to dart his piercing eye,

With thoughts beyond the limits of his frame,

But that the Omnipotent might send him forth

In sight of mortal and immortal powers,

As on a boundless theatre to run
The great career of justice; to exalt
His generous aim to all diviner
deeds;

To chase each partial purpose from his breast;

And through the mists of passion and of sense,

And through the tossing tide of chance and pain,

To hold his course unfaltering, while the voice

Of Truth and Virtue, up the steep ascent

Of nature, calls him to his high reward,

The applauding smile of heaven? else wherefore burns,

In mortal bosoms, this unquenched hope

That breathes from day to day sublimer things,

And mocks possession? wherefore darts the mind,

With such resistless ardor to embrace Majestic forms; impatient to be free,

Spurning the gross control of wilful might;

Proud of the strong contention of

her toils;

Proud to be daring? Who but rather

turns

To heaven's broad fire his unconstrained view,

Than to the glimmering of a waxen flame?

Who that, from Alpine heights, his laboring eye

Shoots round the wide horizon to

survey

Nilus or Ganges rolling his broad tide Through mountains, plains, through empires black with shade, And continents of sand,-will turn his gaze

To mark the windings of a scanty rill

That murmurs at his feet? The high-born soul

Disdains to rest her heaven-aspiring wing

Beneath its native quarry. Tired of earth

And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft,

Through fields of air pursues the flying storm;

Rides on the volleyed lightning through the heavens; Or, yoked with whirlwinds and the northern blast,

Sweeps the long track of day. Then high she soars

The blue profound, and hovering o'er the sun

Beholds him pouring the redundant

[blocks in formation]
« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »