« НазадПродовжити »
“ You cannot eat your cake and have it too.”—Proverb.
How fever'd is the man, who cannot look
Upon his mortal days with temperate blood, Who vexes all the leaves of his life's book,
And robs his fair name of its maidenhood; It is as if the rose should pluck herself,
Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom, As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf,
Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom : But the rose leaves herself upon the brier,
For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed,
The undisturbed lake has crystal space;
Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice will tell :
No God, no Demon of severe response, Deigns to reply from Heaven or from Hell.
Then to my human heart I turn at once Heart! Thou and I are here sad and alone ;
I say, why did I laugh? O mortal pain ! O Darkness ! Darkness ! ever must I moan,
To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain. Why did I laugh ? · I know this Being's lease,
My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads ; Yet would I on this very midnight cease,
And the world's gaudy ensigns see in shreds ; Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed, But Death intenser-Death is Life's high meed.
ON A DREAM.*
Nora's Iland. Ime 2.785%
As Hermes once took to his feathers light,
When lulled Argus, baffled, swoon'd and slept,
So play'd, so charm'd, so conquer'd, so bereft
Nor unto Tempe, where Jove grieved a day,
Where in the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw
Their sorrows,-pale were the sweet lips I saw,
IF by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd,
And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
Sandals more interwoven and complete
By ear industrious, and attention meet:
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;
She will be bound with garlands of her own.
(See page 179.)
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone !
Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast, Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone,
Bright eyes, accomplish'd shape, and lang’rous waist ! Faded the flower and all its budded charms,
Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes, Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,
Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise-
When the dusk holiday—or holinight
The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight;
I cry your mercy-pity-love-aye, love!
Merciful love that tantalizes not,
Unmask'd, and being seen—without a blot !
That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest
That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast,Yourself--your soul-in pity give me all,
Withhold no atom's atom, or I die,
Forget, in the mist of idle misery,
KEATS'S LAST SONNET.
BRIGHT star ! would I were steadfast as thou art
Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night, And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure
ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moorsNo-yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
* Another reading :
Half-passionless, and so swoon on to death.