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Tuscan folk-lore and sketches, together with some other papers
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With those who weep, with those who tremble,
With those, outcast, by Christ redeemed,
By brethren betrayed.
By sea, by land, to thronging crowds
New laws have they proclaimed;
Have raised the hymn of coming ages,
Sublimely frenzied
For the ideal; and, – irons, rope or axe —
Smiled at their torments.
✴✴✴✴✴
But for the Great of Gloomy Places,
Tears, heart-wrung. Such as are
A-hungered, trodden down; and – venerable —
Nor truce nor pardon knew
From hostile, impious nature,
Yet hated not.
Who saw the corn-ear spring for others,
Yet thievèd not.
Whose drink was gall and tears;
who, traitorously
Lashed in the face by blindfold Tyranny,
Yet murmured not.
Who walked ’mid frosts and tempests
Darkling and quite forgot;
No sun, no bread, no clothing,
Yet trusted God.
Who had a heap of straw to sleep on
Loathsome and horrible;
A lazar-house to die in,
Yet loving died.
THE WORKMAN
Around me rose the city
Stirring at the first glimpse of day;
The great city, that gives bread, that labours,
Rose, as the sun gleamed forth, to its gigantic toil.
There was a crying of clear voices, unknown voices,
Beating waves of sound;
A throwing wide of doors and windows,
A whistling of trains, a whirling of wheels.
There was a hastening gaily, furiously,
Of a thousand human forces
Towards the work that gives health and food,
That unfurls a thousand flags to the wind.
All things glittered, palpitated, laughed
In the glory of the morning;
All things seemed to open wings;
Hope and joy gleamed on every visage.
Then I observed him. Powerful was he: his front —
Pale with thought —
Proudly and nobly bore he
On the bronzed neck, free-moving.
Bull neck – breast of the savage —
Bold glance and word;
In his veins the surge of life,
Billows of love and of bravery.
Resounding the footfall! Like a victor
Advanced he in the light;
And my heart murmured: – Is he not a leader?
Amid the pandemonium
Of the workshop, proud in his workman’s blouse,
Does he not tame the monsters
To whom man meted claws and bills,
Soul of flame and thews of steel?
Wells there not within him a fount of vigour,
Leaping, overbearing,
That shall fill with fresh life this languishing age,
Sallow with vice and lack of blood?
Oh blessèd, blessèd to be beloved of him…
To wait for him each evening
Before the frugal board, with all the true
Sweet anxiousness of one who loves and waits.
Blessèd to cull from him, as the white lily
Culls from the golden bee,
The kiss of one who knows grim strife and toil;
To be all his treasure, to bear a son to him:
And in this son, fair and blameless,
Informed with all his father’s worth,
To nurse a hope, a hope eternal,
To find the joys of a falling world:
And to dream, through him continued
With those, outcast, by Christ redeemed,
By brethren betrayed.
By sea, by land, to thronging crowds
New laws have they proclaimed;
Have raised the hymn of coming ages,
Sublimely frenzied
For the ideal; and, – irons, rope or axe —
Smiled at their torments.
✴✴✴✴✴
But for the Great of Gloomy Places,
Tears, heart-wrung. Such as are
A-hungered, trodden down; and – venerable —
Nor truce nor pardon knew
From hostile, impious nature,
Yet hated not.
Who saw the corn-ear spring for others,
Yet thievèd not.
Whose drink was gall and tears;
who, traitorously
Lashed in the face by blindfold Tyranny,
Yet murmured not.
Who walked ’mid frosts and tempests
Darkling and quite forgot;
No sun, no bread, no clothing,
Yet trusted God.
Who had a heap of straw to sleep on
Loathsome and horrible;
A lazar-house to die in,
Yet loving died.
THE WORKMAN
Around me rose the city
Stirring at the first glimpse of day;
The great city, that gives bread, that labours,
Rose, as the sun gleamed forth, to its gigantic toil.
There was a crying of clear voices, unknown voices,
Beating waves of sound;
A throwing wide of doors and windows,
A whistling of trains, a whirling of wheels.
There was a hastening gaily, furiously,
Of a thousand human forces
Towards the work that gives health and food,
That unfurls a thousand flags to the wind.
All things glittered, palpitated, laughed
In the glory of the morning;
All things seemed to open wings;
Hope and joy gleamed on every visage.
Then I observed him. Powerful was he: his front —
Pale with thought —
Proudly and nobly bore he
On the bronzed neck, free-moving.
Bull neck – breast of the savage —
Bold glance and word;
In his veins the surge of life,
Billows of love and of bravery.
Resounding the footfall! Like a victor
Advanced he in the light;
And my heart murmured: – Is he not a leader?
Amid the pandemonium
Of the workshop, proud in his workman’s blouse,
Does he not tame the monsters
To whom man meted claws and bills,
Soul of flame and thews of steel?
Wells there not within him a fount of vigour,
Leaping, overbearing,
That shall fill with fresh life this languishing age,
Sallow with vice and lack of blood?
Oh blessèd, blessèd to be beloved of him…
To wait for him each evening
Before the frugal board, with all the true
Sweet anxiousness of one who loves and waits.
Blessèd to cull from him, as the white lily
Culls from the golden bee,
The kiss of one who knows grim strife and toil;
To be all his treasure, to bear a son to him:
And in this son, fair and blameless,
Informed with all his father’s worth,
To nurse a hope, a hope eternal,
To find the joys of a falling world:
And to dream, through him continued
Последний отзыв
Это скорее приключение, чем история. Но читать приятно.