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Complete Poetical Works
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In the houses of man—all that innocent guild
Who sing at their labor on eaves and in thatch—
And they stuck on their feathers a rude lighted match
Made of resin and tow. Then they let them all go
To be free! As a child-like diversion? Ah, no!
To work Cirencester's red ruin and woe.
For straight to each nest they flew, in wild quest
Of their homes and their fledgelings—that they loved the best;
And straighter than arrow of Saxon e'er sped
They shot o'er the curving streets, high overhead,
Bringing fire and terror to roof tree and bed,
Till the town broke in flame, wherever they came,
To the Briton's red ruin—the Saxon's red shame!
Yet they're all gone together! To-day you'll dig up
From "mound" or from "barrow" some arrow or cup.
Their fame is forgotten—their story is ended—
'Neath the feet of the race they have mixed with and blended.
But the birds are unchanged—the ouzel-cock sings,
Still gold on his crest and still black on his wings;
And the lark chants on high, as he mounts to the sky,
Still brown in his coat and still dim in his eye;
While the swallow or martlet is still a free nester
In the eaves and the roofs of thrice-built Cirencester.
LINES TO A PORTRAIT, BY A SUPERIOR PERSON
When I bought you for a song,
Years ago—Lord knows how long!—
I was struck—I may be wrong—
By your features,
And—a something in your air
That I couldn't quite compare
To my other plain or fair
Fellow creatures.
In your simple, oval frame
You were not well known to fame,
But to me—'twas all the same—
Whoe'er drew you;
For your face I can't forget,
Though I oftentimes regret
That, somehow, I never yet
Saw quite through you.
Yet each morning, when I rise,
I go first to greet your eyes;
And, in turn, YOU scrutinize
My presentment.
And when shades of evening fall,
As you hang upon my wall,
You're the last thing I recall
With contentment.
It is weakness, yet I know
That I never turned to go
Anywhere, for weal or woe,
But I lingered
For one parting, thrilling flash
From your eyes, to give that dash
To the curl of my mustache,
That I fingered.
If to some you may seem plain,
And when people glance again
Where you hang, their lips refrain.
From confession;
Yet they turn in stealth aside,
And I note, they try to hide
How much they are satisfied
In expression.
Other faces I have seen;
Other forms have come between;
Other things I have, I ween,
Done and dared for!
But OUR ties they cannot sever,
And, though I should say it never,
You're the only one I ever
Really cared for!
And you'll still be hanging there
When we're both the worse for wear,
And the silver's on my hair
And off your backing;
Yet my faith shall never pass
In my dear old shaving-glass,
Till my face and yours, alas!
Both are lacking!
HER LAST LETTER
BEING A REPLY TO "HIS ANSWER"
June 4th! Do you know what that date means?
June 4th! By this air and these pines!
Well,—only you know how I hate scenes,—
These might be my very last lines!
For perhaps, sir, you'll kindly remember—
Who sing at their labor on eaves and in thatch—
And they stuck on their feathers a rude lighted match
Made of resin and tow. Then they let them all go
To be free! As a child-like diversion? Ah, no!
To work Cirencester's red ruin and woe.
For straight to each nest they flew, in wild quest
Of their homes and their fledgelings—that they loved the best;
And straighter than arrow of Saxon e'er sped
They shot o'er the curving streets, high overhead,
Bringing fire and terror to roof tree and bed,
Till the town broke in flame, wherever they came,
To the Briton's red ruin—the Saxon's red shame!
Yet they're all gone together! To-day you'll dig up
From "mound" or from "barrow" some arrow or cup.
Their fame is forgotten—their story is ended—
'Neath the feet of the race they have mixed with and blended.
But the birds are unchanged—the ouzel-cock sings,
Still gold on his crest and still black on his wings;
And the lark chants on high, as he mounts to the sky,
Still brown in his coat and still dim in his eye;
While the swallow or martlet is still a free nester
In the eaves and the roofs of thrice-built Cirencester.
LINES TO A PORTRAIT, BY A SUPERIOR PERSON
When I bought you for a song,
Years ago—Lord knows how long!—
I was struck—I may be wrong—
By your features,
And—a something in your air
That I couldn't quite compare
To my other plain or fair
Fellow creatures.
In your simple, oval frame
You were not well known to fame,
But to me—'twas all the same—
Whoe'er drew you;
For your face I can't forget,
Though I oftentimes regret
That, somehow, I never yet
Saw quite through you.
Yet each morning, when I rise,
I go first to greet your eyes;
And, in turn, YOU scrutinize
My presentment.
And when shades of evening fall,
As you hang upon my wall,
You're the last thing I recall
With contentment.
It is weakness, yet I know
That I never turned to go
Anywhere, for weal or woe,
But I lingered
For one parting, thrilling flash
From your eyes, to give that dash
To the curl of my mustache,
That I fingered.
If to some you may seem plain,
And when people glance again
Where you hang, their lips refrain.
From confession;
Yet they turn in stealth aside,
And I note, they try to hide
How much they are satisfied
In expression.
Other faces I have seen;
Other forms have come between;
Other things I have, I ween,
Done and dared for!
But OUR ties they cannot sever,
And, though I should say it never,
You're the only one I ever
Really cared for!
And you'll still be hanging there
When we're both the worse for wear,
And the silver's on my hair
And off your backing;
Yet my faith shall never pass
In my dear old shaving-glass,
Till my face and yours, alas!
Both are lacking!
HER LAST LETTER
BEING A REPLY TO "HIS ANSWER"
June 4th! Do you know what that date means?
June 4th! By this air and these pines!
Well,—only you know how I hate scenes,—
These might be my very last lines!
For perhaps, sir, you'll kindly remember—
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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...
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