Written by
Robert Burns |
GUID-MORNIN’ to our Majesty!
May Heaven augment your blisses
On ev’ry new birth-day ye see,
A humble poet wishes.
My bardship here, at your Levee
On sic a day as this is,
Is sure an uncouth sight to see,
Amang thae birth-day dresses
Sae fine this day.
I see ye’re complimented thrang,
By mony a lord an’ lady;
“God save the King” ’s a cuckoo sang
That’s unco easy said aye:
The poets, too, a venal gang,
Wi’ rhymes weel-turn’d an’ ready,
Wad gar you trow ye ne’er do wrang,
But aye unerring steady,
On sic a day.
For me! before a monarch’s face
Ev’n there I winna flatter;
For neither pension, post, nor place,
Am I your humble debtor:
So, nae reflection on your Grace,
Your Kingship to bespatter;
There’s mony waur been o’ the race,
And aiblins ane been better
Than you this day.
’Tis very true, my sovereign King,
My skill may weel be doubted;
But facts are chiels that winna ding,
An’ downa be disputed:
Your royal nest, beneath your wing,
Is e’en right reft and clouted,
And now the third part o’ the string,
An’ less, will gang aboot it
Than did ae day.
1
Far be’t frae me that I aspire
To blame your legislation,
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire,
To rule this mighty nation:
But faith! I muckle doubt, my sire,
Ye’ve trusted ministration
To chaps wha in barn or byre
Wad better fill’d their station
Than courts yon day.
And now ye’ve gien auld Britain peace,
Her broken shins to plaister,
Your sair taxation does her fleece,
Till she has scarce a tester:
For me, thank God, my life’s a lease,
Nae bargain wearin’ faster,
Or, faith! I fear, that, wi’ the geese,
I shortly boost to pasture
I’ the craft some day.
I’m no mistrusting Willie Pitt,
When taxes he enlarges,
(An’ Will’s a true guid fallow’s get,
A name not envy spairges),
That he intends to pay your debt,
An’ lessen a’ your charges;
But, God-sake! let nae saving fit
Abridge your bonie barges
An’boats this day.
Adieu, my Liege; may freedom geck
Beneath your high protection;
An’ may ye rax Corruption’s neck,
And gie her for dissection!
But since I’m here, I’ll no neglect,
In loyal, true affection,
To pay your Queen, wi’ due respect,
May fealty an’ subjection
This great birth-day.
Hail, Majesty most Excellent!
While nobles strive to please ye,
Will ye accept a compliment,
A simple poet gies ye?
Thae bonie bairntime, Heav’n has lent,
Still higher may they heeze ye
In bliss, till fate some day is sent
For ever to release ye
Frae care that day.
For you, young Potentate o’Wales,
I tell your highness fairly,
Down Pleasure’s stream, wi’ swelling sails,
I’m tauld ye’re driving rarely;
But some day ye may gnaw your nails,
An’ curse your folly sairly,
That e’er ye brak Diana’s pales,
Or rattl’d dice wi’ Charlie
By night or day.
Yet aft a ragged cowt’s been known,
To mak a noble aiver;
So, ye may doucely fill the throne,
For a’their clish-ma-claver:
There, him 2 at Agincourt wha shone,
Few better were or braver:
And yet, wi’ funny, ***** Sir John, 3
He was an unco shaver
For mony a day.
For you, right rev’rend Osnaburg,
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,
Altho’ a ribbon at your lug
Wad been a dress completer:
As ye disown yon paughty dog,
That bears the keys of Peter,
Then swith! an’ get a wife to hug,
Or trowth, ye’ll stain the mitre
Some luckless day!
Young, royal Tarry-breeks, I learn,
Ye’ve lately come athwart her—
A glorious galley, 4 stem and stern,
Weel rigg’d for Venus’ barter;
But first hang out, that she’ll discern,
Your hymeneal charter;
Then heave aboard your grapple airn,
An’ large upon her quarter,
Come full that day.
Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a’,
Ye royal lasses dainty,
Heav’n mak you guid as well as braw,
An’ gie you lads a-plenty!
But sneer na British boys awa!
For kings are unco scant aye,
An’ German gentles are but sma’,
They’re better just than want aye
On ony day.
Gad bless you a’! consider now,
Ye’re unco muckle dautit;
But ere the course o’ life be through,
It may be bitter sautit:
An’ I hae seen their coggie fou,
That yet hae tarrow’t at it.
But or the day was done, I trow,
The laggen they hae clautit
Fu’ clean that day.
Note 1.
The American colonies had recently been lost.
[back]
Note 2.
King Henry V.
—R.
B.
[back]
Note 3.
Sir John Falstaff, vid.
Shakespeare.
—R.
B.
[back]
Note 4.
Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain Royal sailor’s amour.
—R.
B.
This was Prince William Henry, third son of George III, afterward King William IV.
[back]
|
Written by
Walt Whitman |
1
OVER the western sea, hither from Niphon come,
Courteous, the swart-cheek’d two-sworded envoys,
Leaning back in their open barouches, bare-headed, impassive,
Ride to-day through Manhattan.
Libertad!
I do not know whether others behold what I behold,
In the procession, along with the nobles of Asia, the errand-bearers,
Bringing up the rear, hovering above, around, or in the ranks marching;
But I will sing you a song of what I behold, Libertad.
2
When million-footed Manhattan, unpent, descends to her pavements;
When the thunder-cracking guns arouse me with the proud roar I love;
When the round-mouth’d guns, out of the smoke and smell I love, spit their salutes;
When the fire-flashing guns have fully alerted me—when heaven-clouds canopy my city with a
delicate thin haze;
When, gorgeous, the countless straight stems, the forests at the wharves, thicken with
colors;
When every ship, richly drest, carries her flag at the peak;
When pennants trail, and street-festoons hang from the windows;
When Broadway is entirely given up to foot-passengers and foot-standers—when the mass is
densest;
When the façades of the houses are alive with people—when eyes gaze, riveted, tens of
thousands
at a time;
When the guests from the islands advance—when the pageant moves forward, visible;
When the summons is made—when the answer that waited thousands of years, answers;
I too, arising, answering, descend to the pavements, merge with the crowd, and gaze with
them.
3
Superb-faced Manhattan!
Comrade Americanos!—to us, then, at last, the Orient comes.
To us, my city,
Where our tall-topt marble and iron beauties range on opposite sides—to walk in the space
between,
To-day our Antipodes comes.
The Originatress comes,
The nest of languages, the bequeather of poems, the race of eld,
Florid with blood, pensive, rapt with musings, hot with passion,
Sultry with perfume, with ample and flowing garments,
With sunburnt visage, with intense soul and glittering eyes,
The race of Brahma comes!
4
See, my cantabile! these, and more, are flashing to us from the procession;
As it moves, changing, a kaleidoscope divine it moves, changing, before us.
For not the envoys, nor the tann’d Japanee from his island only;
Lithe and silent, the Hindoo appears—the Asiatic continent itself appears—the Past, the
dead,
The murky night morning of wonder and fable, inscrutable,
The envelop’d mysteries, the old and unknown hive-bees,
The North—the sweltering South—eastern Assyria—the Hebrews—the Ancient of Ancients,
Vast desolated cities—the gliding Present—all of these, and more, are in the
pageant-procession.
Geography, the world, is in it;
The Great Sea, the brood of islands, Polynesia, the coast beyond;
The coast you, henceforth, are facing—you Libertad! from your Western golden shores
The countries there, with their populations—the millions en-masse, are curiously here;
The swarming market places—the temples, with idols ranged along the sides, or at the
end—bonze,
brahmin, and lama;
The mandarin, farmer, merchant, mechanic, and fisherman;
The singing-girl and the dancing-girl—the ecstatic person—the secluded Emperors,
Confucius himself—the great poets and heroes—the warriors, the castes, all,
Trooping up, crowding from all directions—from the Altay mountains,
From Thibet—from the four winding and far-flowing rivers of China,
From the Southern peninsulas, and the demi-continental islands—from Malaysia;
These, and whatever belongs to them, palpable, show forth to me, and are seiz’d by me,
And I am seiz’d by them, and friendlily held by them,
Till, as here, them all I chant, Libertad! for themselves and for you.
5
For I too, raising my voice, join the ranks of this pageant;
I am the chanter—I chant aloud over the pageant;
I chant the world on my Western Sea;
I chant, copious, the islands beyond, thick as stars in the sky;
I chant the new empire, grander than any before—As in a vision it comes to me;
I chant America, the Mistress—I chant a greater supremacy;
I chant, projected, a thousand blooming cities yet, in time, on those groups of
sea-islands;
I chant my sail-ships and steam-ships threading the archipelagoes;
I chant my stars and stripes fluttering in the wind;
I chant commerce opening, the sleep of ages having done its work—races, reborn, refresh’d;
Lives, works, resumed—The object I know not—but the old, the Asiatic, renew’d, as it must
be,
Commencing from this day, surrounded by the world.
6
And you, Libertad of the world!
You shall sit in the middle, well-pois’d, thousands of years;
As to-day, from one side, the nobles of Asia come to you;
As to-morrow, from the other side, the Queen of England sends her eldest son to you.
7
The sign is reversing, the orb is enclosed,
The ring is circled, the journey is done;
The box-lid is but perceptibly open’d—nevertheless the perfume pours copiously out of the
whole
box.
8
Young Libertad!
With the venerable Asia, the all-mother,
Be considerate with her, now and ever, hot Libertad—for you are all;
Bend your proud neck to the long-off mother, now sending messages over the archipelagoes
to
you;
Bend your proud neck low for once, young Libertad.
9
Were the children straying westward so long? so wide the tramping?
Were the precedent dim ages debouching westward from Paradise so long?
Were the centuries steadily footing it that way, all the while unknown, for you, for
reasons?
They are justified—they are accomplish’d—they shall now be turn’d the other way also, to
travel toward you thence;
They shall now also march obediently eastward, for your sake, Libertad.
|
Written by
William Blake |
84 Thee the ancientest peer, Duke of Burgundy, rose from the monarch's right hand, red as wines
85 From his mountains; an odor of war, like a ripe vineyard, rose from his garments,
86 And the chamber became as a clouded sky; o'er the council he stretch'd his red limbs,
87 Cloth'd in flames of crimson; as a ripe vineyard stretches over sheaves of corn,
88 The fierce Duke hung over the council; around him crowd, weeping in his burning robe,
89 A bright cloud of infant souls; his words fall like purple autumn on the sheaves:
90 "Shall this marble built heaven become a clay cottage, this earth an oak stool and these mowers
91 From the Atlantic mountains mow down all this great starry harvest of six thousand years?
92 And shall Necker, the hind of Geneva, stretch out his crook'd sickle o'er fertile France
93 Till our purple and crimson is faded to russet, and the kingdoms of earth bound in sheaves,
94 And the ancient forests of chivalry hewn, and the joys of the combat burnt for fuel;
95 Till the power and dominion is rent from the pole, sword and sceptre from sun and moon,
96 The law and gospel from fire and air, and eternal reason and science
97 From the deep and the solid, and man lay his faded head down on the rock
98 Of eternity, where the eternal lion and eagle remain to devour?
99 This to prevent--urg'd by cries in day, and prophetic dreams hovering in night,
100 To enrich the lean earth that craves, furrow'd with plows, whose seed is departing from her--
101 Thy nobles have gather'd thy starry hosts round this rebellious city,
102 To rouze up the ancient forests of Europe, with clarions of cloud breathing war,
103 To hear the horse neigh to the drum and trumpet, and the trumpet and war shout reply.
104 Stretch the hand that beckons the eagles of heaven; they cry over Paris, and wait
105 Till Fayette point his finger to Versailles; the eagles of heaven must have their prey!"
106 He ceas'd, and burn'd silent; red clouds roll round Necker; a weeping is heard o'er the palace.
107 Like a dark cloud Necker paus'd, and like thunder on the just man's burial day he paus'd;
108 Silent sit the winds, silent the meadows, while the husbandman and woman of weakness
109 And bright children look after him into the grave, and water his clay with love,
110 Then turn towards pensive fields; so Necker paus'd, and his visage was covered with clouds.
111 The King lean'd on his mountains, then lifted his head and look'd on his armies, that shone
112 Through heaven, tinging morning with beams of blood; then turning to Burgundy, troubled:
113 "Burgundy, thou wast born a lion! My soul is o'ergrown with distress.
114 For the nobles of France, and dark mists roll round me and blot the writing of God
115 Written in my bosom.
Necker rise! leave the kingdom, thy life is surrounded with snares.
116 We have call'd an Assembly, but not to destroy; we have given gifts, not to the weak;
117 I hear rushing of muskets, and bright'ning of swords, and visages redd'ning with war,
118 Frowning and looking up from brooding villages and every dark'ning city.
119 Ancient wonders frown over the kingdom, and cries of women and babes are heard,
120 And tempests of doubt roll around me, and fierce sorrows, because of the nobles of France.
121 Depart! answer not! for the tempest must fall, as in years that are passed away.
"
|
Written by
Anne Bradstreet |
Proem.
1.
1 Although great Queen, thou now in silence lie,
1.
2 Yet thy loud Herald Fame, doth to the sky
1.
3 Thy wondrous worth proclaim, in every clime,
1.
4 And so has vow'd, whilst there is world or time.
1.
5 So great's thy glory, and thine excellence,
1.
6 The sound thereof raps every human sense
1.
7 That men account it no impiety
1.
8 To say thou wert a fleshly Deity.
1.
9 Thousands bring off'rings (though out of date)
1.
10 Thy world of honours to accumulate.
1.
11 'Mongst hundred Hecatombs of roaring Verse,
1.
12 'Mine bleating stands before thy royal Hearse.
1.
13 Thou never didst, nor canst thou now disdain,
1.
14 T' accept the tribute of a loyal Brain.
1.
15 Thy clemency did yerst esteem as much
1.
16 The acclamations of the poor, as rich,
1.
17 Which makes me deem, my rudeness is no wrong,
1.
18 Though I resound thy greatness 'mongst the throng.
The Poem.
2.
1 No Ph{oe}nix Pen, nor Spenser's Poetry,
2.
2 No Speed's, nor Camden's learned History;
2.
3 Eliza's works, wars, praise, can e're compact,
2.
4 The World's the Theater where she did act.
2.
5 No memories, nor volumes can contain,
2.
6 The nine Olymp'ades of her happy reign,
2.
7 Who was so good, so just, so learn'd, so wise,
2.
8 From all the Kings on earth she won the prize.
2.
9 Nor say I more than truly is her due.
2.
10 Millions will testify that this is true.
2.
11 She hath wip'd off th' aspersion of her Sex,
2.
12 That women wisdom lack to play the Rex.
2.
13 Spain's Monarch sa's not so, not yet his Host:
2.
14 She taught them better manners to their cost.
2.
15 The Salic Law had not in force now been,
2.
16 If France had ever hop'd for such a Queen.
2.
17 But can you Doctors now this point dispute,
2.
18 She's argument enough to make you mute,
2.
19 Since first the Sun did run, his ne'er runn'd race,
2.
20 And earth had twice a year, a new old face;
2.
21 Since time was time, and man unmanly man,
2.
22 Come shew me such a Ph{oe}nix if you can.
2.
23 Was ever people better rul'd than hers?
2.
24 Was ever Land more happy, freed from stirs?
2.
25 Did ever wealth in England so abound?
2.
26 Her Victories in foreign Coasts resound?
2.
27 Ships more invincible than Spain's, her foe
2.
28 She rack't, she sack'd, she sunk his Armadoe.
2.
29 Her stately Troops advanc'd to Lisbon's wall,
2.
30 Don Anthony in's right for to install.
2.
31 She frankly help'd Franks' (brave) distressed King,
2.
32 The States united now her fame do sing.
2.
33 She their Protectrix was, they well do know,
2.
34 Unto our dread Virago, what they owe.
2.
35 Her Nobles sacrific'd their noble blood,
2.
36 Nor men, nor coin she shap'd, to do them good.
2.
37 The rude untamed Irish she did quell,
2.
38 And Tiron bound, before her picture fell.
2.
39 Had ever Prince such Counsellors as she?
2.
40 Her self Minerva caus'd them so to be.
2.
41 Such Soldiers, and such Captains never seen,
2.
42 As were the subjects of our (Pallas) Queen:
2.
43 Her Sea-men through all straits the world did round,
2.
44 Terra incognitæ might know her sound.
2.
45 Her Drake came laded home with Spanish gold,
2.
46 Her Essex took Cadiz, their Herculean hold.
2.
47 But time would fail me, so my wit would too,
2.
48 To tell of half she did, or she could do.
2.
49 Semiramis to her is but obscure;
2.
50 More infamy than fame she did procure.
2.
51 She plac'd her glory but on Babel's walls,
2.
52 World's wonder for a time, but yet it falls.
2.
53 Fierce Tomris (Cirus' Heads-man, Sythians' Queen)
2.
54 Had put her Harness off, had she but seen
2.
55 Our Amazon i' th' Camp at Tilbury,
2.
56 (Judging all valour, and all Majesty)
2.
57 Within that Princess to have residence,
2.
58 And prostrate yielded to her Excellence.
2.
59 Dido first Foundress of proud Carthage walls
2.
60 (Who living consummates her Funerals),
2.
61 A great Eliza, but compar'd with ours,
2.
62 How vanisheth her glory, wealth, and powers.
2.
63 Proud profuse Cleopatra, whose wrong name,
2.
64 Instead of glory, prov'd her Country's shame:
2.
65 Of her what worth in Story's to be seen,
2.
66 But that she was a rich Ægyptian Queen.
2.
67 Zenobia, potent Empress of the East,
2.
68 And of all these without compare the best
2.
69 (Whom none but great Aurelius could quell)
2.
70 Yet for our Queen is no fit parallel:
2.
71 She was a Ph{oe}nix Queen, so shall she be,
2.
72 Her ashes not reviv'd more Ph{oe}nix she.
2.
73 Her personal perfections, who would tell,
2.
74 Must dip his Pen i' th' Heliconian Well,
2.
75 Which I may not, my pride doth but aspire
2.
76 To read what others write and then admire.
2.
77 Now say, have women worth, or have they none?
2.
78 Or had they some, but with our Queen is't gone?
2.
79 Nay Masculines, you have thus tax'd us long,
2.
80 But she, though dead, will vindicate our wrong.
2.
81 Let such as say our sex is void of reason
2.
82 Know 'tis a slander now, but once was treason.
2.
83 But happy England, which had such a Queen,
2.
84 O happy, happy, had those days still been,
2.
85 But happiness lies in a higher sphere.
2.
86 Then wonder not, Eliza moves not here.
2.
87 Full fraught with honour, riches, and with days,
2.
88 She set, she set, like Titan in his rays.
2.
89 No more shall rise or set such glorious Sun,
2.
90 Until the heaven's great revolution:
2.
91 If then new things, their old form must retain,
2.
92 Eliza shall rule Albian once again.
Her Epitaph.
3.
1 Here sleeps T H E Queen, this is the royal bed
3.
2 O' th' Damask Rose, sprung from the white and red,
3.
3 Whose sweet perfume fills the all-filling air,
3.
4 This Rose is withered, once so lovely fair:
3.
5 On neither tree did grow such Rose before,
3.
6 The greater was our gain, our loss the more.
Another.
4.
1 Here lies the pride of Queens, pattern of Kings:
4.
2 So blaze it fame, here's feathers for thy wings.
4.
3 Here lies the envy'd, yet unparallel'd Prince,
4.
4 Whose living virtues speak (though dead long since).
4.
5 If many worlds, as that fantastic framed,
4.
6 In every one, be her great glory famed
|
Written by
William Blake |
Come, kings, and listen to my song:
When Gwin, the son of Nore,
Over the nations of the North
His cruel sceptre bore;
The nobles of the land did feed
Upon the hungry poor;
They tear the poor man's lamb, and drive
The needy from their door.
`The land is desolate; our wives
And children cry for bread;
Arise, and pull the tyrant down!
Let Gwin be humbl?d!'
Gordred the giant rous'd himself
From sleeping in his cave;
He shook the hills, and in the clouds
The troubl'd banners wave.
Beneath them roll'd, like tempests black,
The num'rous sons of blood;
Like lions' whelps, roaring abroad,
Seeking their nightly food.
Down Bleron's hills they dreadful rush,
Their cry ascends the clouds;
The trampling horse and clanging arms
Like rushing mighty floods!
Their wives and children, weeping loud,
Follow in wild array,
Howling like ghosts, furious as wolves
In the bleak wintry day.
`Pull down the tyrant to the dust,
Let Gwin be humbl?d,'
They cry, `and let ten thousand lives
Pay for the tyrant's head.
'
From tow'r to tow'r the watchmen cry,
`O Gwin, the son of Nore,
Arouse thyself! the nations, black
Like clouds, come rolling o'er!'
Gwin rear'd his shield, his palace shakes,
His chiefs come rushing round;
Each, like an awful thunder cloud,
With voice of solemn sound:
Like rear?d stones around a grave
They stand around the King;
Then suddenly each seiz'd his spear,
And clashing steel does ring.
The husbandman does leave his plough
To wade thro' fields of gore;
The merchant binds his brows in steel,
And leaves the trading shore;
The shepherd leaves his mellow pipe,
And sounds the trumpet shrill;
The workman throws his hammer down
To heave the bloody bill.
Like the tall ghost of Barraton
Who sports in stormy sky,
Gwin leads his host, as black as night
When pestilence does fly,
With horses and with chariots--
And all his spearmen b 1000 old
March to the sound of mournful song,
Like clouds around him roll'd.
Gwin lifts his hand--the nations halt;
`Prepare for war!' he cries--
Gordred appears!--his frowning brow
Troubles our northern skies.
The armies stand, like balances
Held in th' Almighty's hand;--
`Gwin, thou hast fill'd thy measure up:
Thou'rt swept from out the land.
'
And now the raging armies rush'd
Like warring mighty seas;
The heav'ns are shook with roaring war,
The dust ascends the skies!
Earth smokes with blood, and groans and shakes
To drink her children's gore,
A sea of blood; nor can the eye
See to the trembling shore!
And on the verge of this wild sea
Famine and death doth cry;
The cries of women and of babes
Over the field doth fly.
The King is seen raging afar,
With all his men of might;
Like blazing comets scattering death
Thro' the red fev'rous night.
Beneath his arm like sheep they die,
And groan upon the plain;
The battle faints, and bloody men
Fight upon hills of slain.
Now death is sick, and riven men
Labour and toil for life;
Steed rolls on steed, and shield on shield,
Sunk in this sea of strife!
The god of war is drunk with blood;
The earth doth faint and fail;
The stench of blood makes sick the heav'ns;
Ghosts glut the throat of hell!
O what have kings to answer for
Before that awful throne;
When thousand deaths for vengeance cry,
And ghosts accusing groan!
Like blazing comets in the sky
That shake the stars of light,
Which drop like fruit unto the earth
Thro' the fierce burning night;
Like these did Gwin and Gordred meet,
And the first blow decides;
Down from the brow unto the breast
Gordred his head divides!
Gwin fell: the sons of Norway fled,
All that remain'd alive;
The rest did fill the vale of death,
For them the eagles strive.
The river Dorman roll'd their blood
Into the northern sea;
Who mourn'd his sons, and overwhelm'd
The pleasant south country.
|
Written by
William Blake |
Thee the ancientest peer, Duke of Burgundy, rose from the monarch's right hand, red as wines
From his mountains; an odor of war, like a ripe vineyard, rose from his garments,
And the chamber became as a clouded sky; o'er the council he stretch'd his red limbs,
Cloth'd in flames of crimson; as a ripe vineyard stretches over sheaves of corn,
The fierce Duke hung over the council; around him crowd, weeping in his burning robe,
A bright cloud of infant souls; his words fall like purple autumn on the sheaves:
'Shall this marble built heaven become a clay cottage, this earth an oak stool and these mowers
From the Atlantic mountains mow down all this great starry harvest of six thousand years?
92 And shall Necker, the hind of Geneva, stretch out his crook'd sickle o'er fertile France
93 Till our purple and crimson is faded to russet, and the kingdoms of earth bound in sheaves,
94 And the ancient forests of chivalry hewn, and the joys of the combat burnt for fuel;
95 Till the power and dominion is rent from the pole, sword and sceptre from sun and moon,
96 The law and gospel from fire and air, and eternal reason and science
97 From the deep and the solid, and man lay his faded head down on the rock
98 Of eternity, where the eternal lion and eagle remain to devour?
99 This to prevent--urg'd by cries in day, and prophetic dreams hovering in night,
100 To enrich the lean earth that craves, furrow'd with plows, whose seed is departing from her--
101 Thy nobles have gather'd thy starry hosts round this rebellious city,
102 To rouze up the ancient forests of Europe, with clarions of cloud breathing war,
103 To hear the horse neigh to the drum and trumpet, and the trumpet and war shout reply.
104 Stretch the hand that beckons the eagles of heaven; they cry over Paris, and wait
105 Till Fayette point his finger to Versailles; the eagles of heaven must have their prey!'
106 He ceas'd, and burn'd silent; red clouds roll round Necker; a weeping is heard o'er the palace.
107 Like a dark cloud Necker paus'd, and like thunder on the just man's burial day he paus'd;
108 Silent sit the winds, silent the meadows, while the husbandman and woman of weakness
109 And bright children look after him into the grave, and water his clay with love,
110 Then turn towards pensive fields; so Necker paus'd, and his visage was covered with clouds.
111 The King lean'd on his mountains, then lifted his head and look'd on his armies, that shone
112 Through heaven, tinging morning with beams of blood; then turning to Burgundy, troubled:
113 'Burgundy, thou wast born a lion! My soul is o'ergrown with distress.
114 For the nobles of France, and dark mists roll round me and blot the writing of God
115 Written in my bosom.
Necker rise! leave the kingdom, thy life is surrounded with snares.
116 We have call'd an Assembly, but not to destroy; we have given gifts, not to the weak;
117 I hear rushing of muskets, and bright'ning of swords, and visages redd'ning with war,
118 Frowning and looking up from brooding villages and every dark'ning city.
119 Ancient wonders frown over the kingdom, and cries of women and babes are heard,
120 And tempests of doubt roll around me, and fierce sorrows, because of the nobles of France.
121 Depart! answer not! for the tempest must fall, as in years that are passed away.
'
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Written by
Kahlil Gibran |
Part One
As night fell and the light glittered in the great house, the servants stood at the massive door awaiting the coming of the guests; and upon their velvet garments shown golden buttons.
The magnificent carriages drew into the palace park and the nobles entered, dressed in gorgeous raiment and decorated with jewels.
The instruments filled the air with pleasant melodies while the dignitaries danced to the soothing music.
At midnight the finest and most palatable foods were served on a beautiful table embellished with all kinds of the rarest flowers.
The feasters dined and drank abundantly, until the sequence of the wine began to play its part.
At dawn the throng dispersed boisterously, after spending a long night of intoxication and gluttony which hurried their worn bodies into their deep beds with unnatural sleep.
Part Two
At eventide, a man attired in the dress of heavy work stood before the door of his small house and knocked at the door.
As it opened, he entered and greeted the occupants in a cheerful manner, and then sat between his children who were playing at the fireplace.
In a short time, his wife had the meal prepared and they sat at a wooden table consuming their food.
After eating they gathered around the oil lamp and talked of the day's events.
When the early night had lapsed, all stood silently and surrendered themselves to the King of Slumber with a song of praise and a prayer of gratitude on their lips.
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Written by
Mary Darby Robinson |
It was in the days of a gay British King
(In the old fashion'd custom of merry-making)
The Palace of Woodstock with revels did ring,
While they sang and carous'd--one and all:
For the monarch a plentiful treasury had,
And his Courtiers were pleas'd, and no visage was sad,
And the knavish and foolish with drinking were mad,
While they sat in the Banquetting hall.
Some talk'd of their Valour, and some of their Race,
And vaunted, till vaunting was black in the face;
Some bragg'd for a title, and some for a place,
And, like braggarts, they bragg'd one and all!
Some spoke of their scars in the Holy Crusade,
Some boasted the banner of Fame they display'd,
And some sang their Loves in the soft serenade
As they sat in the Banquetting hall.
And here sat a Baron, and there sat a Knight,
And here stood a Page in his habit all bright,
And here a young Soldier in armour bedight
With a Friar carous'd, one and all.
Some play'd on the dulcimer, some on the lute,
And some, who had nothing to talk of, were mute,
Till the Morning, awakened, put on her grey suit--
And the Lark hover'd over the Hall.
It was in a vast gothic Hall that they sate,
And the Tables were cover'd with rich gilded plate,
And the King and his minions were toping in state,
Till their noddles turn'd round, one and all:--
And the Sun through the tall painted windows 'gan peep,
And the Vassals were sleeping, or longing to sleep,
Though the Courtiers, still waking, their revels did keep,
While the minstrels play'd sweet, in the Hall.
And, now in their Cups, the bold topers began
To call for more wine, from the cellar yeoman,
And, while each one replenish'd his goblet or can,
The Monarch thus spake to them all:
"It is fit that the nobles do just what they please,
"That the Great live in idleness, riot, and ease,
"And that those should be favor'd, who mark my decrees,
"And should feast in the Banquetting Hall.
"It is fit," said the Monarch, "that riches should claim
"A passport to freedom, to honor, and fame,--
"That the poor should be humble, obedient, and tame,
"And, in silence, submit--one and all.
"That the wise and the holy should toil for the Great,
"That the Vassals should tend at the tables of state,
"That the Pilgrim should--pray for our souls at the gate
"While we feast in our Banquetting Hall.
"That the low-lineag'd CARLES should be scantily fed--
"That their drink should be small, and still smaller their bread;
"That their wives and their daughters to ruin be led,
"And submit to our will, one and all !
"It is fit, that whoever I choose to defend--
"Shall be courted, and feasted, and lov'd as a friend,
"While before them the good and enlighten'd shall bend,
"While they sit in the Banquetting Hall.
"
Now the Topers grew bold, and each talk'd of his right,
One would fain be a Baron, another a Knight;
And another, (because at the Tournament fight
He had vanquished his foes, one and all)
Demanded a track of rich lands; and rich fare;
And of stout serving Vassals a plentiful share;
With a lasting exemption from penance and pray'r
And a throne in the Banquetting Hall.
But ONE, who had neither been valiant nor wise,
With a tone of importance, thus vauntingly cries,
"My Leige he knows how a good subject to prize--
"And I therefore demand--before all--
"I this Castle possess: and the right to maintain
"Five hundred stout Bowmen to follow my train,
"And as many strong Vassals to guard my domain
"As the Lord of the Banquetting Hall!
"I have fought with all nations, and bled in the field,
"See my lance is unshiver'd, tho' batter'd my shield,
"I have combatted legions, yet never would yield
"And the Enemy fled--one and all !
"I have rescued a thousand fair Donnas, in Spain,
"I have left in gay France, every bosom in pain.
"I have conquer'd the Russian, the Prussian, the Dane,
"And will reign in the Banquetting Hall!"
The Monarch now rose, with majestical look,
And his sword from the scabbard of Jewels he took,
And the Castle with laughter and ribaldry shook.
While the braggart accosted thus he:
"I will give thee a place that will suit thy demand,
"What to thee, is more fitting than Vassals or Land--
"I will give thee,--what justice and valour command,
"For a TRUMPETER bold--thou shalt be!"
Now the revellers rose, and began to complain--
While they menanc'd with gestures, and frown'd with disdain,
And declar'd, that the nobles were fitter to reign
Than a Prince so unruly as He.
But the Monarch cried, sternly, they taunted him so,
"From this moment the counsel of fools I forego--
"And on Wisdom and Virtue will honors bestow
"For such, ONLY, are welcome to Me!"
So saying, he quitted the Banquetting Hall,
And leaving his Courtiers and flatterers all--
Straightway for his Confessor loudly 'gan call
"O ! Father ! now listen !" said he:
"I have feasted the Fool, I have pamper'd the Knave,
"I have scoff'd at the wise, and neglected the brave--
"And here, Holy Man, Absolution I crave--
"For a penitent now I will be.
"
From that moment the Monarch grew sober and good,
(And nestled with Birds of a different brood,)
For he found that the pathway which wisdom pursu'd
Was pleasant, safe, quiet, and even !
That by Temperance, Virtue and liberal deeds,
By nursing the flowrets, and crushing the weeds,
The loftiest Traveller always succeeds--
For his journey will lead him to HEAV'N.
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Written by
Amy Levy |
A True Incident of Pre-Revolutionary French History.
Now the lovely autumn morning breathes its freshness in earth's face,
In the crowned castle courtyard the blithe horn proclaims the chase;
And the ladies on the terrace smile adieux with rosy lips
To the huntsmen disappearing down the cedar-shaded groves,
Wafting delicate aromas from their scented finger tips,
And the gallants wave in answer, with their gold-embroidered gloves.
On they rode, past bush and bramble, on they rode, past elm and oak;
And the hounds, with anxious nostril, sniffed the heather-scented air,
Till at last, within his stirrups, up Lord Gaston rose, and spoke--
He, the boldest and the bravest of the wealthy nobles there :
'Friends,' quoth he, 'the time hangs heavy, for it is not as we thought,
And these woods, tho' fair and shady, will afford, I fear, no sport.
Shall we hence, then, worthy kinsmen, and desert the hunter's track
For the chateau, where the wine cup and the dice cup tempt us back?'
'Ay,' the nobles shout in chorus ; 'Ay,' the powder'd lacquey cries;
Then they stop with eager movement, reining in quite suddenly;
Peering down with half contemptuous, half with wonder-opened eyes
At a 'something' which is crawling, with slow step, from tree to tree.
Is't some shadow phantom ghastly ? No, a woman and a child,
Swarthy woman, with the 'gipsy' written clear upon her face;
Gazing round her with her wide eyes dark, and shadow-fringed, and wild,
With the cowed suspicious glances of a persecuted race.
Then they all, with unasked question, in each other's faces peer,
For a common thought has struck them, one their lips dare scarcely say,--
Till Lord Gaston cries, impatient, 'Why regret the stately deer
When such sport as yonder offers? quick ! unleash the dogs--away!'
Then they breath'd a shout of cheering, grey-haired man and stripling boy,
And the gipsy, roused to terror, stayed her step, and turned her head--
Saw the faces of those huntsmen, lit with keenest cruel joy--
Sent a cry of grief to Heaven, closer clasped her child, and fled!
* * * * * * *
O ye nobles of the palace! O ye gallant-hearted lords!
Who would stoop for Leila's kerchief, or for Clementina's gloves,
Who would rise up all indignant, with your shining sheathless swords,
At the breathing of dishonour to your languid lady loves!
O, I tell you, daring nobles, with your beauty-loving stare,
Who ne'er long the coy coquetting of the courtly dames withstood,
Tho' a woman be the lowest, and the basest, and least fair,
In your manliness forget not to respect her womanhood,
And thou, gipsy, that hast often the pursuer fled before,
That hast felt ere this the shadow of dark death upon thy brow,
That hast hid among the mountains, that hast roamed the forest o'er,
Bred to hiding, watching, fleeing, may thy speed avail thee now!
* * * * * * *
Still she flees, and ever fiercer tear the hungry hounds behind,
Still she flees, and ever faster follow there the huntsmen on,
Still she flees, her black hair streaming in a fury to the wind,
Still she flees, tho' all the glimmer of a happy hope is gone.
'Eh? what? baffled by a woman! Ah, sapristi! she can run!
Should she 'scape us, it would crown us with dishonour and disgrace;
It is time' (Lord Gaston shouted) 'such a paltry chase were done!'
And the fleeter grew her footsteps, so the hotter grew the chase--
Ha! at last! the dogs are on her! will she struggle ere she dies?
See! she holds her child above her, all forgetful of her pain,
While a hundred thousand curses shoot out darkly from her eyes,
And a hundred thousand glances of the bitterest disdain.
Ha! the dogs are pressing closer! they have flung her to the ground;
Yet her proud lips never open with the dying sinner's cry--
Till at last, unto the Heavens, just two fearful shrieks resound,
When the soul is all forgotten in the body's agony!
Let them rest there, child and mother, in the shadow of the oak,
On the tender mother-bosom of that earth from which they came.
As they slow rode back those huntsmen neither laughed, nor sang, nor spoke,
Hap, there lurked unowned within them throbbings of a secret shame.
But before the flow'ry terrace, where the ladies smiling sat,
With their graceful nothings trifling all the weary time away,
Low Lord Gaston bowed, and raising high his richly 'broider'd hat,
'Fairest ladies, give us welcome! 'Twas a famous hunt to-day.
'
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Written by
Ben Jonson |
XIV.
— ODE TO SIR WILLIAM SIDNEY, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY.
Some sing,
And all do strive to advance
The gladness higher;
Wherefore should I
Stand silent by,
Who not the least, That I may tell to SIDNEY what
This day
Doth say,
And he may think on that
Which I do tell;
When all the noise
Of these forced joys,
Are fled and gone, Are justly summ'd, that make you man;
Your vow
Must now
Strive all right ways it can,
T' outstrip your peers :
Since he doth lack
Of going back
Little, whose will Of nobles' virtue, shew in you ;
Your blood
So good
And great, must seek for new,
And study more :
Not weary, rest
On what's deceas't.
For they, that swell Whose nephew, whose grandchild you are ;
And men
Will then
Say you have follow'd far,
When well begun :
Which must be now,
They teach you how,
And he that stays If with this truth you be inspired ;
So may
This day
Be more, and long desired ;
And with the flame
Of love be bright,
As with the light
Of bonfires ! then
And some do drink, and some do dance,
Some ring,
Some sing,
And all do strive to advance
The gladness higher;
Wherefore should I
Stand silent by,
Who not the least,
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