Последний отзыв
Удивительная книга. Как никогда актуальна сегодня. Язык и стиль автора настолько тонок, лёгок и изыскан, что легко поведёт читателя в мир героев, кото...
Далее
По всем вопросам обращайтесь на: info@litportal.ru
(©) 2003-2024.
✖
Complete Poetical Works
Настройки чтения
Размер шрифта
Высота строк
Поля
Hast lost thy ready skill of tongue and pen?
What, Jester! Tears upon that painted cheek?
Pardon, good friends! I am not here to mar
His laureled wreaths with this poor tinseled crown—
This man who taught me how 'twas better far
To be the poem than to write it down.
I bring no lesson. Well have others preached
This sword that dealt full many a gallant blow;
I come once more to touch the hand that reached
Its knightly gauntlet to the vanquished foe.
O pale Aristocrat, that liest there,
So cold, so silent! Couldst thou not in grace
Have borne with us still longer, and so spare
The scorn we see in that proud, placid face?
"Hail and farewell!" So the proud Roman cried
O'er his dead hero. "Hail," but not "farewell."
With each high thought thou walkest side by side;
We feel thee, touch thee, know who wrought the spell!
THE BIRDS OF CIRENCESTER
Did I ever tell you, my dears, the way
That the birds of Cisseter—"Cisseter!" eh?
Well "Ciren-cester"—one OUGHT to say,
From "Castra," or "Caster,"
As your Latin master
Will further explain to you some day;
Though even the wisest err,
And Shakespeare writes "Ci-cester,"
While every visitor
Who doesn't say "Cissiter"
Is in "Ciren-cester" considered astray.
A hundred miles from London town—
Where the river goes curving and broadening down
From tree-top to spire, and spire to mast,
Till it tumbles outright in the Channel at last—
A hundred miles from that flat foreshore
That the Danes and the Northmen haunt no more—
There's a little cup in the Cotswold hills
Which a spring in a meadow bubbles and fills,
Spanned by a heron's wing—crossed by a stride—
Calm and untroubled by dreams of pride,
Guiltless of Fame or ambition's aims,
That is the source of the lordly Thames!
Remark here again that custom contemns
Both "Tames" and Thames—you must SAY "Tems!"
But WHY? no matter!—from them you can see
Cirencester's tall spires loom up o'er the lea.
A. D. Five Hundred and Fifty-two,
The Saxon invaders—a terrible crew—
Had forced the lines of the Britons through;
And Cirencester, half mud and thatch,
Dry and crisp as a tinder match,
Was fiercely beleaguered by foes, who'd catch
At any device that could harry and rout
The folk that so boldly were holding out.
For the streets of the town—as you'll see to-day—
Were twisted and curved in a curious way
That kept the invaders still at bay;
And the longest bolt that a Saxon drew
Was stopped ere a dozen of yards it flew,
By a turn in the street, and a law so true
That even these robbers—of all laws scorners!—
Knew you couldn't shoot arrows AROUND street corners.
So they sat them down on a little knoll,
And each man scratched his Saxon poll,
And stared at the sky, where, clear and high,
The birds of that summer went singing by,
As if, in his glee, each motley jester
Were mocking the foes of Cirencester,
Till the jeering crow and the saucy linnet
Seemed all to be saying: "Ah! you're not in it!"
High o'er their heads the mavis flew,
And the "ouzel-cock so black of hue;"
And the "throstle," with his "note so true"
(You remember what Shakespeare says—HE knew);
And the soaring lark, that kept dropping through
Like a bucket spilling in wells of blue;
And the merlin—seen on heraldic panes—
With legs as vague as the Queen of Spain's;
And the dashing swift that would ricochet
From the tufts of grasses before them, yet—
Like bold Antaeus—would each time bring
New life from the earth, barely touched by his wing;
And the swallow and martlet that always knew
The straightest way home. Here a Saxon churl drew
His breath—tapped his forehead—an idea had got through!
So they brought them some nets, which straightway they filled
With the swallows and martlets—the sweet birds who build
What, Jester! Tears upon that painted cheek?
Pardon, good friends! I am not here to mar
His laureled wreaths with this poor tinseled crown—
This man who taught me how 'twas better far
To be the poem than to write it down.
I bring no lesson. Well have others preached
This sword that dealt full many a gallant blow;
I come once more to touch the hand that reached
Its knightly gauntlet to the vanquished foe.
O pale Aristocrat, that liest there,
So cold, so silent! Couldst thou not in grace
Have borne with us still longer, and so spare
The scorn we see in that proud, placid face?
"Hail and farewell!" So the proud Roman cried
O'er his dead hero. "Hail," but not "farewell."
With each high thought thou walkest side by side;
We feel thee, touch thee, know who wrought the spell!
THE BIRDS OF CIRENCESTER
Did I ever tell you, my dears, the way
That the birds of Cisseter—"Cisseter!" eh?
Well "Ciren-cester"—one OUGHT to say,
From "Castra," or "Caster,"
As your Latin master
Will further explain to you some day;
Though even the wisest err,
And Shakespeare writes "Ci-cester,"
While every visitor
Who doesn't say "Cissiter"
Is in "Ciren-cester" considered astray.
A hundred miles from London town—
Where the river goes curving and broadening down
From tree-top to spire, and spire to mast,
Till it tumbles outright in the Channel at last—
A hundred miles from that flat foreshore
That the Danes and the Northmen haunt no more—
There's a little cup in the Cotswold hills
Which a spring in a meadow bubbles and fills,
Spanned by a heron's wing—crossed by a stride—
Calm and untroubled by dreams of pride,
Guiltless of Fame or ambition's aims,
That is the source of the lordly Thames!
Remark here again that custom contemns
Both "Tames" and Thames—you must SAY "Tems!"
But WHY? no matter!—from them you can see
Cirencester's tall spires loom up o'er the lea.
A. D. Five Hundred and Fifty-two,
The Saxon invaders—a terrible crew—
Had forced the lines of the Britons through;
And Cirencester, half mud and thatch,
Dry and crisp as a tinder match,
Was fiercely beleaguered by foes, who'd catch
At any device that could harry and rout
The folk that so boldly were holding out.
For the streets of the town—as you'll see to-day—
Were twisted and curved in a curious way
That kept the invaders still at bay;
And the longest bolt that a Saxon drew
Was stopped ere a dozen of yards it flew,
By a turn in the street, and a law so true
That even these robbers—of all laws scorners!—
Knew you couldn't shoot arrows AROUND street corners.
So they sat them down on a little knoll,
And each man scratched his Saxon poll,
And stared at the sky, where, clear and high,
The birds of that summer went singing by,
As if, in his glee, each motley jester
Were mocking the foes of Cirencester,
Till the jeering crow and the saucy linnet
Seemed all to be saying: "Ah! you're not in it!"
High o'er their heads the mavis flew,
And the "ouzel-cock so black of hue;"
And the "throstle," with his "note so true"
(You remember what Shakespeare says—HE knew);
And the soaring lark, that kept dropping through
Like a bucket spilling in wells of blue;
And the merlin—seen on heraldic panes—
With legs as vague as the Queen of Spain's;
And the dashing swift that would ricochet
From the tufts of grasses before them, yet—
Like bold Antaeus—would each time bring
New life from the earth, barely touched by his wing;
And the swallow and martlet that always knew
The straightest way home. Here a Saxon churl drew
His breath—tapped his forehead—an idea had got through!
So they brought them some nets, which straightway they filled
With the swallows and martlets—the sweet birds who build
Другие электронные книги автора Bret Harte
Другие аудиокниги автора Bret Harte
Последний отзыв
Удивительная книга. Как никогда актуальна сегодня. Язык и стиль автора настолько тонок, лёгок и изыскан, что легко поведёт читателя в мир героев, кото...
Далее