Written by
Friedrich von Schiller |
A gentle was Fridolin,
And he his mistress dear,
Savern's fair Countess, honored in
All truth and godly fear.
She was so meek, and, ah! so good!
Yet each wish of her wayward mood,
He would have studied to fulfil,
To please his God, with earnest will.
From the first hour when daylight shone
Till rang the vesper-chime,
He lived but for her will alone,
And deemed e'en that scarce time.
And if she said, "Less anxious be!"
His eye then glistened tearfully.
Thinking that he in duty failed,
And so before no toil he quailed.
And so, before her serving train,
The Countess loved to raise him;
While her fair mouth, in endless strain,
Was ever wont to praise him.
She never held him as her slave,
Her heart a child's rights to him gave;
Her clear eye hung in fond delight
Upon his well-formed features bright.
Soon in the huntsman Robert's breast
Was poisonous anger fired;
His black soul, long by lust possessed,
With malice was inspired;
He sought the Count, whom, quick in deed,
A traitor might with ease mislead,
As once from hunting home they rode,
And in his heart suspicion sowed.
"Happy art thou, great Count, in truth,"
Thus cunningly he spoke;
"For ne'er mistrust's envenomed tooth
Thy golden slumbers broke;
A noble wife thy love rewards,
And modesty her person guards.
The tempter will be able ne'er
Her true fidelity to snare."
A gloomy scowl the Count's eye filled:
"What's this thou say'st to me?
Shall I on woman's virtue build,
Inconstant as the sea?
The flatterer's mouth with ease may lure;
My trust is placed on ground more sure.
No one, methinks, dare ever burn
To tempt the wife of Count Savern."
The other spoke: "Thou sayest it well,
The fool deserves thy scorn
Who ventures on such thoughts to dwell,
A mere retainer born,--
Who to the lady he obeys
Fears not his wishes' lust to raise."--
"What!" tremblingly the Count began,
"Dost speak, then, of a living man?"--
"Is, then, the thing, to all revealed,
Hid from my master's view?
Yet, since with care from thee concealed,
I'd fain conceal it too"--
"Speak quickly, villain! speak or die!"
Exclaimed the other fearfully.
"Who dares to look on Cunigond?"
"'Tis the fair page that is so fond."
"He's not ill-shaped in form, I wot,"
He craftily went on;
The Count meanwhile felt cold and hot,
By turns in every bone.
"Is't possible thou seest not, sir,
How he has eyes for none but her?
At table ne'er attends to thee,
But sighs behind her ceaselessly?"
"Behold the rhymes that from him came
His passion to confess"--
"Confess!"--"And for an answering flame,--
The impious knave!--to press.
My gracious lady, soft and meek,
Through pity, doubtless, feared to speak;
That it has 'scaped me, sore I rue;
What, lord, canst thou to help it do?"
Into the neighboring wood then rode
The Count, inflamed with wrath,
Where, in his iron foundry, glowed
The ore, and bubbled forth.
The workmen here, with busy hand,
The fire both late and early fanned.
The sparks fly out, the bellows ply,
As if the rock to liquefy.
The fire and water's might twofold
Are here united found;
The mill-wheel, by the flood seized hold,
Is whirling round and round;
The works are clattering night and day,
With measured stroke the hammers play,
And, yielding to the mighty blows,
The very iron plastic grows.
Then to two workmen beckons he,
And speaks thus in his ire;
"The first who's hither sent by me
Thus of ye to inquire
'Have ye obeyed my lord's word well?'
Him cast ye into yonder hell,
That into ashes he may fly,
And ne'er again torment mine eye!"
The inhuman pair were overjoyed,
With devilish glee possessed
For as the iron, feeling void,
Their heart was in their breast,
And brisker with the bellows' blast,
The foundry's womb now heat they fast,
And with a murderous mind prepare
To offer up the victim there.
Then Robert to his comrade spake,
With false hypocrisy:
"Up, comrade, up! no tarrying make!
Our lord has need of thee."
The lord to Fridolin then said:
"The pathway toward the foundry tread,
And of the workmen there inquire,
If they have done their lord's desire."
The other answered, "Be it so!"
But o'er him came this thought,
When he was all-prepared to go,
"Will she command me aught?"
So to the Countess straight he went:
"I'm to the iron-foundry sent;
Then say, can I do aught for thee?
For thou 'tis who commandest me."
To this the Lady of Savern
Replied in gentle tone:
"To hear the holy mass I yearn,
For sick now lies my son;
So go, my child, and when thou'rt there,
Utter for me a humble prayer,
And of thy sins think ruefully,
That grace may also fall on me."
And in this welcome duty glad,
He quickly left the place;
But ere the village bounds he had
Attained with rapid pace,
The sound of bells struck on his ear,
From the high belfry ringing clear,
And every sinner, mercy-sent,
Inviting to the sacrament.
"Never from praising God refrain
Where'er by thee He's found!"
He spoke, and stepped into the fane,
But there he heard no sound;
For 'twas the harvest time, and now
Glowed in the fields the reaper's brow;
No choristers were gathered there,
The duties of the mass to share.
The matter paused he not to weigh,
But took the sexton's part;
"That thing," he said, "makes no delay
Which heavenward guides the heart."
Upon the priest, with helping hand,
He placed the stole and sacred band,
The vessels he prepared beside,
That for the mass were sanctified.
And when his duties here were o'er,
Holding the mass-book, he,
Ministering to the priest, before
The altar bowed his knee,
And knelt him left, and knelt him right,
While not a look escaped his sight,
And when the holy Sanctus came,
The bell thrice rang he at the name.
And when the priest, bowed humbly too,
In hand uplifted high,
Facing the altar, showed to view
The present Deity,
The sacristan proclaimed it well,
Sounding the clearly-tinkling bell,
While all knelt down, and beat the breast,
And with a cross the Host confessed.
The rites thus served he, leaving none,
With quick and ready wit;
Each thing that in God's house is done,
He also practised it.
Unweariedly he labored thus,
Till the Vobiscum Dominus,
When toward the people turned the priest,
Blessed them,--and so the service ceased.
Then he disposed each thing again,
In fair and due array;
First purified the holy fane,
And then he went his way,
And gladly, with a mind at rest,
On to the iron-foundry pressed,
Saying the while, complete to be,
Twelve paternosters silently.
And when he saw the furnace smoke,
And saw the workmen stand,
"Have ye, ye fellows," thus he spoke,
"Obeyed the Count's command?"
Grinning they ope the orifice,
And point into the fell abyss:
"He's cared for--all is at an end!
The Count his servants will commend."
The answer to his lord he brought,
Returning hastily,
Who, when his form his notice caught,
Could scarcely trust his eye:
"Unhappy one! whence comest thou?"--
"Back from the foundry"--"Strange, I vow!
Hast in thy journey, then, delayed?"--
"'Twas only, lord, till I had prayed."
"For when I from thy presence went
(Oh pardon me!) to-day,
As duty bid, my steps I bent
To her whom I obey.
She told me, lord, the mass to hear,
I gladly to her wish gave ear,
And told four rosaries at the shrine,
For her salvation and for thine."
In wonder deep the Count now fell,
And, shuddering, thus spake he:
"And, at the foundry, quickly tell,
What answer gave they thee?"
"Obscure the words they answered in,--
Showing the furnace with a grin:
'He's cared for--all is at an end!
The Count his servants will commend.'"
"And Robert?" interrupted he,
While deadly pale he stood,--
"Did he not, then, fall in with thee?
I sent him to the wood."--
"Lord, neither in the wood nor field
Was trace of Robert's foot revealed."--
"Then," cried the Count, with awe-struck mien,
"Great God in heaven his judge hath been!"
With kindness he before ne'er proved,
He led him by the hand
Up to the Countess,--deeply moved,--
Who naught could understand.
"This child, let him be dear to thee,
No angel is so pure as he!
Though we may have been counselled ill,
God and His hosts watch o'er him still."
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SESTINA VII. Non ha tanti animali il mar fra l' onde. HE DESPAIRS OF ESCAPE FROM THE TORMENTS BY WHICH HE IS SURROUNDED. Nor Ocean holds such swarms amid his waves,Not overhead, where circles the pale moon,Were stars so numerous ever seen by night,Nor dwell so many birds among the woods,[Pg 208]Nor plants so many clothe the field or hill,As holds my tost heart busy thoughts each eve. Each day I hope that this my latest eveShall part from my quick clay the sad salt waves,And leave me in last sleep on some cold hill;So many torments man beneath the moonNe'er bore as I have borne; this know the woodsThrough which I wander lonely day and night. For never have I had a tranquil night,But ceaseless sighs instead from morn till eve,Since love first made me tenant of the woods:The sea, ere I can rest, shall lose his waves,The sun his light shall borrow from the moon,And April flowers be blasted o'er each hill. Thus, to myself a prey, from hill to hill,Pensive by day I roam, and weep at night,No one state mine, but changeful as the moon;And when I see approaching the brown eve,Sighs from my bosom, from my eyes fall waves,The herbs to moisten and to move the woods. Hostile the cities, friendly are the woodsTo thoughts like mine, which, on this lofty hill,Mingle their murmur with the moaning waves,Through the sweet silence of the spangled night,So that the livelong day I wait the eve,When the sun sets and rises the fair moon. Would, like Endymion, 'neath the enamour'd moon,That slumbering I were laid in leafy woods,And that ere vesper she who makes my eve,With Love and Luna on that favour'd hill,Alone, would come, and stay but one sweet night,While stood the sun nor sought his western waves. Upon the hard waves, 'neath the beaming moon,Song, that art born of night amid the woods,Thou shalt a rich hill see to-morrow eve! Macgregor. Count the ocean's finny droves;Count the twinkling host of stars.Round the night's pale orb that moves;Count the groves' wing'd choristers;[Pg 209]Count each verdant blade that grows;Counted then will be my woes. When shall these eyes cease to weep;When shall this world-wearied frame,Cover'd by the cold sod, sleep?—Sure, beneath yon planet's beam,None like me have made such moan;This to every bower is known. Sad my nights; from morn till eve,Tenanting the woods, I sigh:But, ere I shall cease to grieve,Ocean's vast bed shall be dry,Suns their light from moons shall gain.And spring wither on each plain. Pensive, weeping, night and day,From this shore to that I fly,Changeful as the lunar ray;And, when evening veils the sky,Then my tears might swell the floods,Then my sighs might bow the woods! Towns I hate, the shades I love;For relief to yon green height,Where the rill resounds, I roveAt the grateful calm of night;There I wait the day's decline,For the welcome moon to shine. Oh, that in some lone retreat,Like Endymion I were lain;And that she, who rules my fate,There one night to stay would deign;Never from his billowy bedMore might Phœbus lift his head! Song, that on the wood-hung streamIn the silent hour wert born,Witness'd but by Cynthia's beam.Soon as breaks to-morrow's morn,Thou shalt seek a glorious plain,There with Laura to remain! Dacre.
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Written by
Robert Southey |
The Raven croak'd as she sate at her meal,
And the Old Woman knew what he said,
And she grew pale at the Raven's tale,
And sicken'd and went to her bed.
'Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed,'
The Old Woman of Berkeley said,
'The Monk my son, and my daughter the Nun,
Bid them hasten or I shall be dead.'
The Monk her son, and her daughter the Nun,
Their way to Berkeley went,
And they have brought with pious thought
The holy sacrament.
The Old Woman shriek'd as they enter'd her door,
And she cried with a voice of despair,
'Now take away the sacrament,
For its presence I cannot bear!'
Her lip it trembled with agony,
The sweat ran down her brow,
'I have tortures in store for evermore,
But spare me, my children, now!'
Away they sent the sacrament,
The fit it left her weak,
She look's at her children with ghastly eyes,
And faintly struggled to speak.
'All kind of sin have I rioted in,
And the judgement now must be,
But I secured my children's souls,
Oh! pray, my children, for me!
'I have 'nointed myself with infant's fat,
The fiends have been my slaves,
From sleeping babes I have suck'd the breath,
And breaking by charms the sleep of death,
I have call'd the dead from their graves.
'And the Devil will fetch me now in fire,
My witchcrafts to atone;
And I who have troubled the dead man's grave
Shall never have rest in my own.
'Bless, I entreat, my winding sheet,
My children, I beg of you;
And with holy water sprinkle my shroud,
And sprinkle my coffin, too.
'And let me be chain'd in my coffin of stone,
And fasten it strong, I implore,
With iron bars, and with three chains,
Chain it to the church floor.
'And bless the chains and sprinkle them,
And let fifty Priests stand round,
Who night and day the mass may say
Where I lie on the ground.
'And see that fifty Choristers
Beside the bier attend me,
And day and night by the tapers' light,
With holy hymns defend me.
'Let the church bells all, both great and small,
Be toll'd by night and day,
To drive from thence the fiends who come
To bear my body away.
`And ever have the church door barr'd
After the even-song;
And I beseech you, children dear,
Let the bars and bolts be strong.
'And let this be three days and nights
My wretched corpse to save;
Till the fourth morning keep me safe,
And then I may rest in my grave.'
The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down,
And her eyes grew deadly dim,
Short came her breath, and the struggle of death
Did loosen every limb.
They blest the old woman's winding sheet
With rites and prayers due,
With holy water they sprinkled her shroud,
And they sprinkled her coffin too.
And they chain'd her in her coffin of stone,
And with iron barr'd it down,
And in the church with three strong chains
The chain'd it to the ground.
And they blest the chains and sprinkled them,
And fifty Priests stood round,
By night and day the mass to say
Where she lay on the ground.
And fifty sacred Choristers
Beside the bier attend her,
Who day and night by the taper's light
Should with holy hymns defend her.
To see the Priests and Choristers
It was a goodly sight,
Each holding, as it were a staff,
A taper burning bright.
And the church bells all, both great and small,
Did toll so loud and long;
And they have barr'd the church door hard,
After the even-song.
And the first night the tapers' light
Burnt steadily and clear,
But they without a hideous rout
Of angry fiends could hear;
A hideous roar at the church door
Like a long thunder peal;
And the Priests they pray'd, and the Choristers sung
Louder in fearful zeal.
Loud toll'd the bell, the Priests pray'd well,
The tapers they burnt bright,
The Monk her son, and her daughter the Nun,
They told their beads all night.
The cock he crew, the Fiends they flew
From the voice of the morning away;
Then undisturb'd the Choristers sing,
And the fifty Priests they pray;
As they had sung and pray'd all night,
They pray'd and sung all day.
The second night the tapers' light
Burnt dismally and blue,
And every one saw his neighbour's face
Like a dead man's face to view.
And yells and cries without arise
That the stoutest heart might shock,
And a deafening roar like a cataract pouring
Over a mountain rock.
The Monk and Nun they told their beads
As fast as they could tell,
And aye as louder grew the noise
The faster went the bell.
Louder and louder the Choristers sung
As they trembled more and more,
And the Priests as they pray'd to heaven for aid,
They smote their breasts full sore.
The cock he crew, the Fiends they flew
From the voice of the morning away;
Then undisturb'd the Choristers sing,
And the fifty Priests they pray;
As they had sung and pray'd all night,
The pray'd and sung all day.
The third night came, and the tapers' flame
A frightful stench did make;
And they burnt as though they had been dipt
In the burning brimstone lake.
And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean,
Grew momently more and more;
And strokes as of a battering ram
Did shake the strong church door.
The bellmen, they for very fear
Could toll the bell no longer;
And still as louder grew the strokes
Their fear it grew the stronger.
The Monk and Nun forgot their beads,
They fell on the ground in dismay;
There was not a single Saint in heaven
To whom they did not pray.
And the Choristers' song, which late was so strong,
Falter'd with consternation,
For the church did rock as an earthquake shock
Uplifed its foundation.
And a sound was heard like the trumpet's blast,
That shall one day wake the dead;
The strong church door could bear no more,
And the bolts and the bars they fled;
And the tapers' light was extinguish'd quite,
And the Choristers faintly sung,
And the Priests dismay'd, panted and pray'd,
And on all the Saints in heaven for aid
They call'd with trembling tongue.
And in He came with eyes of flame,
The Devil to fetch the dead,
And all the church with his presence glow'd
Like a fiery furnace red.
He laid his hand on the iron chains,
And like flax they moulder'd asunder,
And the coffin lid, which was barr'd so firm,
He burst with his voice of thunder.
And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise,
And some with her Master away;
A cold sweat started on that cold corpse,
At the voice she was forced to obey.
She rose on her feet in her winding sheet,
Her dead flesh quiver'd with fear,
And a groan like that which the Old Woman gave
Never did mortal hear.
She follow'd her Master to the church door,
There stood a black horse there;
His breath was red like furnace smoke,
His eyes like a meteor's glare.
The Devil he flung her on the horse,
And he leapt up before,
And away like the lightning's speed they went,
And she was seen no more.
They saw her no more, but her cries
For four miles round they could hear,
And children at rest at their mothers' breast
Started, and scream'd with fear.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XLII. Zefiro torna, e 'l bel tempo rimena. RETURNING SPRING BRINGS TO HIM ONLY INCREASE OF GRIEF. Zephyr returns; and in his jocund trainBrings verdure, flowers, and days serenely clear;Brings Progne's twitter, Philomel's lorn strain,With every bloom that paints the vernal year;Cloudless the skies, and smiling every plain;With joyance flush'd, Jove views his daughter dear;Love's genial power pervades earth, air, and main;All beings join'd in fond accord appear.But nought to me returns save sorrowing sighs,Forced from my inmost heart by her who boreThose keys which govern'd it unto the skies:The blossom'd meads, the choristers of air,Sweet courteous damsels can delight no more;Each face looks savage, and each prospect drear. Nott. [Pg 267] The spring returns, with all her smiling train;The wanton Zephyrs breathe along the bowers,The glistening dew-drops hang on bending flowers,And tender green light-shadows o'er the plain:And thou, sweet Philomel, renew'st thy strain,Breathing thy wild notes to the midnight grove:All nature feels the kindling fire of love,The vital force of spring's returning reign.But not to me returns the cheerful spring!O heart! that know'st no period to thy grief,Nor Nature's smiles to thee impart relief,Nor change of mind the varying seasons bring:She, she is gone! All that e'er pleased before,Adieu! ye birds ye flowers, ye fields, that charm no more! Woodhouselee. Returning Zephyr the sweet season brings,With flowers and herbs his breathing train among,And Progne twitters, Philomela sings,Leading the many-colour'd spring along;Serene the sky, and fair the laughing field,Jove views his daughter with complacent brow;Earth, sea, and air, to Love's sweet influence yield,And creatures all his magic power avow:But nought, alas! for me the season brings,Save heavier sighs, from my sad bosom drawnBy her who can from heaven unlock its springs;And warbling birds and flower-bespangled lawn,And fairest acts of ladies fair and mild,A desert seem, and its brute tenants wild. Dacre. Zephyr returns and winter's rage restrains,With herbs, with flowers, his blooming progeny!Now Progne prattles, Philomel complains,And spring assumes her robe of various dye;The meadows smile, heaven glows, nor Jove disdainsTo view his daughter with delighted eye;While Love through universal nature reigns,And life is fill'd with amorous sympathy!But grief, not joy, returns to me forlorn,And sighs, which from my inmost heart proceedFor her, by whom to heaven its keys were borne.[Pg 268]The song of birds, the flower-enamell'd mead,And graceful acts, which most the fair adorn,A desert seem, and beasts of savage prey! Charlemont.
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Written by
D. H. Lawrence |
Between the avenues of cypresses,
All in their scarlet cloaks, and surplices
Of linen, go the chaunting choristers,
The priests in gold and black, the villagers.
And all along the path to the cemetery
The round, dark heads of men crowd silently
And black-scarved faces of women-folk, wistfully
Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.
And at the foot of a grave a father stands
With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands;
And at the foot of a grave a woman kneels
With pale shut face, and neither hears not feels
The coming of the chaunting choristers
Between the avenues of cypresses,
The silence of the many villagers,
The candle-flames beside the surplices.
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Written by
D. H. Lawrence |
Along the avenue of cypresses,
All in their scarlet cloaks and surplices
Of linen, go the chanting choristers,
The priests in gold and black, the villagers. . .
And all along the path to the cemetery
The round dark heads of men crowd silently,
And black-scarved faces of womenfolk, wistfully
Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.
And at the foot of a grave a father stands
With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands;
And at the foot of a grave a mother kneels
With pale shut face, nor either hears nor feels
The coming of the chanting choristers
Between the avenue of cypresses,
The silence of the many villagers,
The candle-flames beside the surplices.
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Written by
Joyce Kilmer |
(For Kenton)
An iron hand has stilled the throats
That throbbed with loud and rhythmic glee
And dammed the flood of silver notes
That drenched the world in melody.
The blosmy apple boughs are yearning
For their wild choristers' returning,
But no swift wings flash through the tree.
Ye that were glad and fleet and strong,
Shall Silence take you in her net?
And shall Death quell that radiant song
Whose echo thrills the meadow yet?
Burst the frail web about you clinging
And charm Death's cruel heart with singing
Till with strange tears his eyes are wet.
The scented morning of the year
Is old and stale now ye are gone.
No friendly songs the children hear
Among the bushes on the lawn.
When babies wander out a-Maying
Will ye, their bards, afar be straying?
Unhymned by you, what is the dawn?
Nay, since ye loved ye cannot die.
Above the stars is set your nest.
Through Heaven's fields ye sing and fly
And in the trees of Heaven rest.
And little children in their dreaming
Shall see your soft black plumage gleaming
And smile, by your clear music blest.
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Written by
Victor Hugo |
("Puisqu'ici-bas tout âme.")
{XL, May 19, 1836.}
Since everything below,
Doth, in this mortal state,
Its tone, its fragrance, or its glow
Communicate;
Since all that lives and moves
Upon the earth, bestows
On what it seeks and what it loves
Its thorn or rose;
Since April to the trees
Gives a bewitching sound,
And sombre night to grief gives ease,
And peace profound;
Since day-spring on the flower
A fresh'ning drop confers,
And the fresh air on branch and bower
Its choristers;
Since the dark wave bestows
A soft caress, imprest
On the green bank to which it goes
Seeking its rest;
I give thee at this hour,
Thus fondly bent o'er thee,
The best of all the things in dow'r
That in me be.
Receive,-poor gift, 'tis true,
Which grief, not joy, endears,—
My thoughts, that like a shower of dew,
Reach thee in tears.
My vows untold receive,
All pure before thee laid;
Receive of all the days I live
The light or shade!
My hours with rapture fill'd,
Which no suspicion wrongs;
And all the blandishments distill'd
From all my songs.
My spirit, whose essay
Flies fearless, wild, and free,
And hath, and seeks, to guide its way
No star but thee.
No pensive, dreamy Muse,
Who, though all else should smile,
Oft as thou weep'st, with thee would choose,
To weep the while.
Oh, sweetest mine! this gift
Receive;—'tis throe alone;—
My heart, of which there's nothing left
When Love is gone!
Fraser's Magazine.
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Written by
Edmund Spenser |
OPen the temple gates vnto my loue,
Open them wide that she may enter in,
And all the postes adorne as doth behoue,
And all the pillours deck with girlands trim,
For to recyue this Saynt with honour dew,
That commeth in to you,
With trembling steps and humble reuerence,
She commeth in, before th'almighties vew,
Of her ye virgins learne obedience,
When so ye come into those holy places,
To humble your proud faces
Bring her vp to th'high altar that she may,
The sacred ceremonies there partake,
The which do endlesse matrimony make,
And let the roring Organs loudly play;
The praises of the Lord in liuely notes,
The whiles with hollow throates.
The Choristers the ioyous Antheme sing,
That al the woods may answere and their eccho ring
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