Written by
Friedrich von Schiller |
I.
A bridge of pearls its form uprears
High o'er a gray and misty sea;
E'en in a moment it appears,
And rises upwards giddily.
Beneath its arch can find a road
The loftiest vessel's mast most high,
Itself hath never borne a load,
And seems, when thou draw'st near, to fly.
It comes first with the stream, and goes
Soon as the watery flood is dried.
Where may be found this bridge, disclose,
And who its beauteous form supplied!
II.
It bears thee many a mile away,
And yet its place it changes ne'er;
It has no pinions to display,
And yet conducts thee through the air.
It is the bark of swiftest motion
That every weary wanderer bore;
With speed of thought the greatest ocean
It carries thee in safety o'er;
One moment wafts thee to the shore.
III.
Upon a spacious meadow play
Thousands of sheep, of silvery hue;
And as we see them move to-day,
The man most aged saw them too.
They ne'er grow old, and, from a rill
That never dries, their life is drawn;
A shepherd watches o'er them still,
With curved and beauteous silver horn.
He drives them out through gates of gold,
And every night their number counts;
Yet ne'er has lost, of all his fold,
One lamb, though oft that path he mounts.
A hound attends him faithfully,
A nimble ram precedes the way;
Canst thou point out that flock to me,
And who the shepherd, canst thou say?
IV.
There stands a dwelling, vast and tall,
On unseen columns fair;
No wanderer treads or leaves its hall,
And none can linger there.
Its wondrous structure first was planned
With art no mortal knows;
It lights the lamps with its own hand
'Mongst which it brightly glows.
It has a roof, as crystal bright,
Formed of one gem of dazzling light;
Yet mortal eye has ne'er
Seen Him who placed it there.
V.
Within a well two buckets lie,
One mounts, and one descends;
When one is full, and rises high,
The other downward wends.
They wander ever to and fro--
Now empty are, now overflow.
If to the mouth thou liftest this,
That hangs within the dark abyss.
In the same moment they can ne'er
Refresh thee with their treasures fair.
VI.
Know'st thou the form on tender ground?
It gives itself its glow, its light;
And though each moment changing found.
Is ever whole and ever bright.
In narrow compass 'tis confined,
Within the smallest frame it lies;
Yet all things great that move thy mind,
That form alone to thee supplies.
And canst thou, too, the crystal name?
No gem can equal it in worth;
It gleams, yet kindles near to flame,
It sucks in even all the earth.
Within its bright and wondrous ring
Is pictured forth the glow of heaven,
And yet it mirrors back each thing
Far fairer than to it 'twas given.
VII.
For ages an edifice here has been found,
It is not a dwelling, it is not a Pane;
A horseman for hundreds of days may ride round,
Yet the end of his journey he ne'er can attain.
Full many a century o'er it has passed,
The might of the storm and of time it defies!
Neath the rainbow of Heaven stands free to the last,--
In the ocean it dips, and soars up to the skies.
It was not vain glory that bade its ********,
It serves as a refuge, a shield, a protection;
Its like on the earth never yet has been known
And yet by man's hand it is fashioned alone.
VIII.
Among all serpents there is one,
Born of no earthly breed;
In fury wild it stands alone,
And in its matchless speed.
With fearful voice and headlong force
It rushes on its prey,
And sweeps the rider and his horse
In one fell swoop away.
The highest point it loves to gain;
And neither bar nor lock
Its fiery onslaught can restrain;
And arms--invite its shock.
It tears in twain like tender grass,
The strongest forest-trees;
It grinds to dust the hardened brass,
Though stout and firm it be.
And yet this beast, that none can tame,
Its threat ne'er twice fulfils;
It dies in its self-kindled flame.
And dies e'en when it kills.
IX.
We children six our being had
From a most strange and wondrous pair,--
Our mother ever grave and sad,
Our father ever free from care.
Our virtues we from both receive,--
Meekness from her, from him our light;
And so in endless youth we weave
Round thee a circling figure bright.
We ever shun the caverns black,
And revel in the glowing day;
'Tis we who light the world's dark track,
With our life's clear and magic ray.
Spring's joyful harbingers are we,
And her inspiring streams we swell;
And so the house of death we flee,
For life alone must round us dwell.
Without us is no perfect bliss,
When man is glad, we, too, attend,
And when a monarch worshipped is,
To him our majesty attend.
X.
What is the thing esteemed by few?
The monarch's hand it decks with pride,
Yet it is made to injure too,
And to the sword is most allied.
No blood it sheds, yet many a wound
Inflicts,--gives wealth, yet takes from none;
Has vanquished e'en the earth's wide round,
And makes life's current smoothly run.
The greatest kingdoms it has framed,
The oldest cities reared from dust,
Yet war's fierce torch has ne'er inflamed;
Happy are they who in it trust!
XI.
I live within a dwelling of stone,
There buried in slumber I dally;
Yet, armed with a weapon of iron alone,
The foe to encounter I sally.
At first I'm invisible, feeble, and mean,
And o'er me thy breath has dominion;
I'm easily drowned in a raindrop e'en,
Yet in victory waxes my pinion.
When my sister, all-powerful, gives me her hand,
To the terrible lord of the world I expand.
XII.
Upon a disk my course I trace,
There restlessly forever flit;
Small is the circuit I embrace,
Two hands suffice to cover it.
Yet ere that field I traverse, I
Full many a thousand mile must go,
E'en though with tempest-speed I fly,
Swifter than arrow from a bow.
XIII.
A bird it is, whose rapid motion
With eagle's flight divides the air;
A fish it is, and parts the ocean,
That bore a greater monster ne'er;
An elephant it is, whose rider
On his broad back a tower has put:
'Tis like the reptile base, the spider,
Whenever it extends its foot;
And when, with iron tooth projecting,
It seeks its own life-blood to drain,
On footing firm, itself erecting,
It braves the raging hurricane.
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Written by
Isaac Watts |
The wonderful formation of man.
'Twas from thy hand, my God, I came,
A work of such a curious frame
In me thy fearful wonders shine,
And each proclaims thy skill divine.
Thine eyes did all my limbs survey,
Which yet in dark confusion lay;
Thou saw'st the daily growth they took,
Formed by the model of thy book.
By thee my growing parts were named,
And what thy sovereign counsels framed-
The breathing lungs, the beating heart-
Was copied with unerring art.
At last, to show my Maker's name,
God stamped his image on my frame,
And in some unknown moment joined
The finished members to the mind.
There the young seeds of thought began,
And all the passions of the man:
Great God, our infant nature pays
Immortal tribute to thy praise.
PAUSE.
Lord, since in my advancing age
I've acted on life's busy stage,
Thy thoughts of love to me surmount
The power of numbers to recount.
I could survey the ocean o'er,
And count each sand that makes the shore,
Before my swiftest thoughts could trace
The num'rous wonders of thy grace.
These on my heart are still impressed,
With these I give my eyes to rest;
And at my waking hour I find
God and his love possess my mind.
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Written by
Robert Herrick |
A PASTORAL UPON THE BIRTH OF PRINCE CHARLES:
PRESENTED TO THE KING, AND SET BY MR NIC.
LANIERE
THE SPEAKERS: MIRTILLO, AMINTAS, AND AMARILLIS
AMIN.
Good day, Mirtillo.
MIRT.
And to you no less;
And all fair signs lead on our shepherdess.
AMAR.
With all white luck to you.
MIRT.
But say,
What news
Stirs in our sheep-walk? AMIN.
None, save that my
ewes,
My wethers, lambs, and wanton kids are well,
Smooth, fair, and fat; none better I can tell:
Or that this day Menalchas keeps a feast
For his sheep-shearers.
MIRT.
True, these are the least.
But dear Amintas, and sweet Amarillis,
Rest but a while here by this bank of lilies;
And lend a gentle ear to one report
The country has.
AMIN.
From whence? AMAR.
From
whence? MIRT.
The Court.
Three days before the shutting-in of May,
(With whitest wool be ever crown'd that day!)
To all our joy, a sweet-faced child was born,
More tender than the childhood of the morn.
CHORUS:--Pan pipe to him, and bleats of lambs and
sheep
Let lullaby the pretty prince asleep!
MIRT.
And that his birth should be more singular,
At noon of day was seen a silver star,
Bright as the wise men's torch, which guided them
To God's sweet babe, when born at Bethlehem;
While golden angels, some have told to me,
Sung out his birth with heav'nly minstrelsy.
AMIN.
O rare! But is't a trespass, if we three
Should wend along his baby-ship to see?
MIRT.
Not so, not so.
CHOR.
But if it chance to prove
At most a fault, 'tis but a fault of love.
AMAR.
But, dear Mirtillo, I have heard it told,
Those learned men brought incense, myrrh, and gold,
From countries far, with store of spices sweet,
And laid them down for offerings at his feet.
MIRT.
'Tis true, indeed; and each of us will bring
Unto our smiling and our blooming King,
A neat, though not so great an offering.
AMAR.
A garland for my gift shall be,
Of flowers ne'er suck'd by th' thieving bee;
And all most sweet, yet all less sweet than he.
AMIN.
And I will bear along with you
Leaves dropping down the honied dew,
With oaten pipes, as sweet, as new.
MIRT.
And I a sheep-hook will bestow
To have his little King-ship know,
As he is Prince, he's Shepherd too.
CHOR.
Come, let's away, and quickly let's be drest,
And quickly give:--the swiftest grace is best.
And when before him we have laid our treasures,
We'll bless the babe:--then back to country pleasures.
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Written by
Helen Hunt Jackson |
The Fir-Tree looked on stars, but loved the Brook!
"O silver-voiced! if thou wouldst wait,
My love can bravely woo.
" All smiles forsook
The brook's white face.
"Too late!
Too late! I go to wed the sea.
I know not if my love would curse or bless thee.
I may not, dare not, tarry to caress thee,
Oh, do not follow me!
The Fir-Tree moaned and moaned till spring;
Then laughed in manic joy to feel
Early one day, the woodsmen of the King
Sign him with a sign of burning steel,
The first to fall.
"Now flee
Thy swiftest, Brook! Thy love may curse or bless me,
I care not, if but once thou dost caress me,
O Brook, I follow thee!
All torn and bruised with mark of adze and chain,
Hurled down the dizzy slide of sand,
Tossed by great waves in ecstsy of pain,
And rudely thrown at last to land,
The Fir-Tree heard: "Oh, see
With what fierce love it is I must caress thee!
I warned thee I might curse, and never bless thee,
Why didst thou follow me?
All stately set with spar and brace and rope,
The Fir-Tree stood and sailed and sailed.
In wildest storm when all the ship lost hope,
The Fir-Tree never shook nor quailed,
Nor ceased from saying, "Free
Art thou, O Brook! But once thou hast caressed me;
For life, for death, thy love has cursed or blessed me;
Behold, I follow thee!"
Lost in a night, and no man left to tell,
Crushed in the giant iceberg's play,
The ship went down without a song, a knell.
Still drifts the Fir-Tree night and day,
Still moans along the sea
A voice: "O Fir-Tree! thus must I possess thee;
Eternally, brave love, will I caress thee,
Dead for the love of me!"
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Written by
Constantine P Cavafy |
Just because we've torn their statues down,
and cast them from their temples,
doesn't for a moment mean the gods are dead.
Land of Ionia, they love you yet,
their spirits still remember you.
When an August morning breaks upon you
a vigour from their lives stabs through your air;
and sometimes an ethereal and youthful form
in swiftest passage, indistinct,
passes up above your hills.
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Written by
George William Russell |
POOR little child, my pretty boy,
Why did the hunter mark thee out?
Wert thou betrayed by thine own joy?
Singled through childhood’s merry shout?
And who on such a gentle thing
Let slip the Hound that none may bar,
That shall o’ertake the swiftest wing
And tear the heavens down star by star?
And borne away unto the night,
What comfort in the vasty hall?
Can That which towers from depth to height
Melt in Its mood majestical,
And laugh with thee as child to child?
Or shall the gay light in thine eyes
Drop stricken there before the piled
Immutable immensities?
Or shall the Heavenly Wizard turn
Thy frailty to might in Him,
And make my laughing elf to burn
Comrade of crested cherubim?
The obscure vale emits no sound,
No sight, the chase has hurried far:
The Quarry and the phantom Hound,
Where are they now? Beyond what star?
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Written by
D. H. Lawrence |
I
Ah, you stack of white lilies, all white and gold,
I am adrift as a sunbeam, and without form
Or having, save I light on you to warm
Your pallor into radiance, flush your cold
White beauty into incandescence: you
Are not a stack of white lilies to-night, but a white
And clustered star transfigured by me to-night,
And lighting these ruddy leaves like a star dropped through
The slender bare arms of the branches, your tire-maidens
Who lift swart arms to fend me off; but I come
Like a wind of fire upon you, like to some
Stray whitebeam who on you his fire unladens.
And you are a glistening toadstool shining here
Among the crumpled beech-leaves phosphorescent,
My stack of white lilies burning incandescent
Of me, a soft white star among the leaves, my dear.
II
Is it with pain, my dear, that you shudder so?
Is it because I have hurt you with pain, my dear?
Did I shiver?--Nay, truly I did not know--
A dewdrop may-be splashed on my face down here.
Why even now you speak through close-shut teeth.
I have been too much for you--Ah, I remember!
The ground is a little chilly underneath
The leaves--and, dear, you consume me all to an ember.
You hold yourself all hard as if my kisses
Hurt as I gave them--you put me away--
Ah never I put you away: yet each kiss hisses
Hot as a drop of fire wastes me away.
III
I am ashamed, you wanted me not to-night--
Nay, it is always so, you sigh with me.
Your radiance dims when I draw too near, and my free
Fire enters your petals like death, you wilt dead white.
Ah, I do know, and I am deep ashamed;
You love me while I hover tenderly
Like clinging sunbeams kissing you: but see
When I close in fire upon you, and you are flamed
With the swiftest fire of my love, you are destroyed.
'Tis a degradation deep to me, that my best
Soul's whitest lightning which should bright attest
God stepping down to earth in one white stride,
Means only to you a clogged, numb burden of flesh
Heavy to bear, even heavy to uprear
Again from earth, like lilies wilted and sere
Flagged on the floor, that before stood up so fresh.
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