The Spanish Gypsy: A PoemTicknor and Fields, 1868 - 287 стор. The Spanish Gypsy is a narrative poem set in fifteenth-century Spain and tells the story of a young woman, Fedalma. She was born a gypsy, but was taken from her parents by the Spaniards during a raid against the Moors. She was raised in luxury and as a Catholic by her fiancé Don Silva's family. Her father, a leader of the gypsies later appears and she must chose between her fiance and her people. |
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Alvar Annibal Aragon ARIAS arms Bedmár bird BLASCO blood breast breath brow Castilian chief choose Christian command dance dark daughter dead death deeds divine DON AMADOR DON SILVA dream Duke earth eyes face faith father fear FEDALMA feed gaze gibbet give glad Guadix Gypsy hand hate hear heart heaven HINDA hold holy horoscope HOST Iñez Jews JUAN keep kiss knew leave light limbs live look Lopez lord LORENZO lute Marranos memories Moorish Moors NADAR naught necklace never night noble o'er oath Pablo pain pale passion pause PEPITA Plaça poor prisoner Queen Roldan round seemed SEPHARDO shadows silent sing smile song soul Spain Spaniard Spanish SPANISH GYPSY speak strong sweet swift Swift winds sword tell things thou thought trembling tribe trust tune turned twixt viol voice wait wandering watch wings words ZARCA Zincali
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Сторінка 34 - Maiden, crowned with glossy blackness, Lithe as panther forest-roaming, Long-armed naiad, when she dances, On a, stream of ether floating — Bright, O bright Fedalma ! Form all curves like softness drifted, Wave-kissed marble roundly dimpling, Far-off music slowly winged, Gently rising, gently sinking — Bright, O bright Fedalma ! Pure as rain-tear on a rose-leaf, Cloud high-born in noonday spotless. Sudden perfect as the dew-bead, Gem of earth and sky...
Сторінка 6 - For now the old epic voices ring again And vibrate with the beat and melody Stirred by the warmth of old Ionian days, The martyred sage, the Attic orator, Immortally incarnate, like the gods, In spiritual bodies, winged words Holding a universe impalpable, Find a new audience.
Сторінка 123 - Nay, never falter : no great deed is done By falterers who ask for certainty. No good is certain, but the steadfast mind, The undivided will to seek the good : 'Tis that compels the elements, and wrings A human music from the indifferent air.
Сторінка 57 - Right against reasons that himself had drilled And marshalled painfully. A spirit framed Too proudly special for obedience, Too subtly pondering for mastery : Born of a goddess with a mortal sire, Heir of flesh-fettered, weak divinity, Doom-gifted with long resonant consciousness And perilous heightening of the sentient soul.
Сторінка 110 - Zincali's faith ? Men say they have none. ZARCA. O, it is a faith Taught by no priest, but by their beating hearts. Faith to each other : the fidelity Of fellow-wanderers in a desert place Who share the same dire thirst, and therefore share The scanty water...
Сторінка 204 - I cannot plant resolve on hope It will stand firm on certainty of woe. I choose the ill that is most like to end With my poor being. Hopes have precarious life. They are oft blighted, withered, snapped sheer off In vigorous growth and turned to rottenness. But faithfulness can feed on suffering, And knows no disappointment.
Сторінка 63 - Shall the trick of nostrils and of lips Descend through generations, and the soul That moves within our frame like God in worlds — Convulsing, urging, melting, withering — Imprint no record, leave no documents, Of her great history ? Shall men bequeath The fancies of their palate to their sons, And shall the s.hudder of restraining awe, The slow-wept tears of contrite memory, Faith's prayerful labor, and the food divine Of fasts ecstatic-'— shall these pass away Like wind upon the waters, tracklessly...
Сторінка 206 - You love the roses, — so do I. I wish The sky would rain down roses, as they rain From off the shaken bush. Why will it not ? Then all the valley would be pink and white And soft to tread on. They would fall as light As feathers, smelling sweet ; and it would be Like sleeping and yet waking, all at once ! Over the sea, Queen, where we soon shall go, Will it rain roses ? FEDALMA. No, my prattler, no ! It never will rain roses : when we want To have more roses we must plant more trees.
Сторінка 189 - I am sick at heart. The eye of day, The insistent summer sun, seems pitiless, Shining in all the barren crevices Of weary life, leaving no shade, no dark, Where I may dream that hidden waters lie ; As pitiless as to some shipwrecked man, Who, gazing from his narrow shoal of sand On the wide unspecked round of blue and blue, Sees that full light is errorless despair. The insects...
Сторінка 65 - Of fallen angels. Can you change your blood ? You are a Christian, "with the Christian awe In every vein. A Spanish noble, born To serve your people and your people's faith. Strong, are you ? Turn your back upon the Cross, — Its shadow is before you. Leave your place : Quit the great ranks of knighthood : you will walk Forever with a tortured double self, A self that will be hungry while you feast, Will blush with shame while you are glorified, Will feel the ache and chill of desolation, Even in...