"Give me my so long promised son, "Let Waring end what I begun!” Then down he creeps and out he steals Only when the night conceals
His face-in Kent 'tis cherry-time, Or, hops are picking; or, at prime Of March, he wanders as, too happy, Years ago when he was young,
Some mild eve when woods grew sappy, And the early moths had sprung To life from many a trembling sheath Woven the warm boughs beneath; While small birds said to themselves What should soon be actual song, And young gnats, by tens and twelves, Made as if they were the throng
That crowd around and carry aloft
The sound they have nursed, so sweet and pure,
Out of a myriad noises soft,
Into a tone that can endure
Amid the noise of a July noon,
When all God's creatures crave their boon,
All at once and all in tune,
And get it, happy as Waring then,
Having first within his ken
What a man might do with men,
And far too glad, in the even-glow,
To mix with your world he meant to take Into his hand, he told you, so—
And out of it his world to make, To contract and to expand As he shut or oped his hand. Oh, Waring, what's to really be? A clear stage and a crowd to see! Some Garrick-say-out shall not he The heart of Hamlet's mystery pluck? Or, where most unclean beasts are rife, Some Junius-am I right ?—shall tuck His sleeve, and out with flaying-knife! Some Chatterton shall have the luck Of calling Rowley into life!
Some one shall somehow run a muck With this old world, for want of strife Sound asleep contrive, contrive To rouse us, Waring! Who's alive? Our men scarce seem in earnest now: Distinguished names !—but 'tis, somehow, As if they played at being names
Still more distinguished, like the games Of children. Turn our sport to earnest With a visage of the sternest! Bring the real times back, confessed Still better than our very best!
(How all turned to him who spoke— You saw Waring? Truth or joke? In land-travel, or sea-faring?)
"We were sailing by Triest,
"Where a day or two we harboured: "A sunset was in the West,
"When, looking over the vessel's side, "One of our company espied
"A sudden speck to larboard.
And, as a sea-duck flies and swims
"At once, so came the light-craft up, "With its sole lateen sail that trims
"And turns (the water round its rims
Dancing, as round a sinking cup)
"And by us like a fish it curled, "And drew itself up close beside,
"Its great sail on the instant furled, "And o'er its planks, a shrill voice cried, "(A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's) "Buy wine of us, you English Brig?
"A Pilot for you to Triest?
"Without one, look you ne'er so big, “They'll never let you up the bay! "We natives should know best.'
"I turned, and 'just those fellows' way,' "Our captain said, 'The 'long-shore thieves "Are laughing at us in their sleeves.'
"In truth, the boy leaned laughing back; "And one, half-hidden by his side "Under the furled sail, soon I spied,
"With great grass hat, and kerchief black, "Who looked up, with his kingly throat, "Said somewhat, while the other shook "His hair back from his eyes to look "Their longest at us; then the boat, "I know not how, turned sharply round, 'Laying her whole side on the sea
"As a leaping fish does; from the lee "Into the weather, cut somehow "Her sparkling path beneath our bow; "And so went off, as with a bound, "Into the rose and golden half
"Of the sky, to overtake the sun,
"And reach the shore, like the sea-calf
"Its singing cave; yet I caught one "Glance ere away the boat quite passed,
"And neither time nor toil could mar
"Those features: so I saw the last
"Of Waring!"-You? Oh, never star Was lost here, but it rose afar!
Look East, where whole new thousands are! In Vishnu-land what Avatar?
RUDEL TO THE LADY OF TRIPOLI.
I KNOW a Mount, the gracious Sun perceives First when he visits, last, too, when he leaves The world; and, vainly favored, it repays The day-long glory of his steadfast gaze By no change of its large calm front of snow. And underneath the Mount, a Flower I know, He cannot have perceived, that changes ever At his approach; and, in the lost endeavour To live his life, has parted, one by one, With all a flower's true graces, for the grace Of being but a foolish mimic sun, With ray-like florets round a disk-like face. Men nobly call by many a name the Mount, As over many a land of theirs its large Calm front of snow like a triumphal targe Is reared, and still with old names, fresh ones vie, Each to its proper praise and own account : Men call the Flower, the Sunflower, sportively.
« ก่อนหน้าดำเนินการต่อ
» |