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Rampolli
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The poor heart, here for ever
By storm on storm beat sore,
Its true peace gaineth never
But where it beats no more.
PSYCHES MOURNING
Psyche moans, in deep-sunk, darksome prison,
For redemption; ah! for light she aches;
Fears, hopes, after every noise doth listen—
Whether Fate her bars of iron breaks.
Bound are Psyche’s pinions—airy, soaring;
Yet high-hearted is she, groaning low;
Knows that under clouds whence rain is pouring
Sprouts the palm that crowns the victor’s brow;
Knows among the thorns the rose yet reigneth;
Golden flowers spring from the desert grave
She her garland through denial gaineth,
And her strength is steeled by winds that rave.
‘Tis through lack that she her blisses buyeth;
Sorrow’s dream comes true by longing long;
Lest light break the sleep wherein she lieth,
Round her tree of life the shadows throng.
Psyche’s wail is but a fluted sadness
Heard from willows the moon silvereth;
Psyche’s tears are dews of morning redness,
And her sighs the sweet night-violet’s breath!
Yews o’ershade the myrtle of her probation;
Much she loves for great has been her dole;
Love leads through the paths of separation,
Leads her to reunion’s joyous goal.
She endures; bravely bears every burden,
Dumb before the will of Fate bends low;
Lies her bliss the patient tranquil word in;
Her one cordial, feeling’s overflow!
Preconviction—ah! the call, the token,
Spreading wings the darksome sky to cleave!
‘Tis but boding! ‘tis but knowledge broken!
Truth’s but what she truly doth believe!
Darkness hides the goal of Psyche’s mission;
For the eyes that tears so often gall
Reach not to the summit of completion
Where illusion’s vaporous veil doth fall!
FROM CLAUDIUS
THE MOTHER BY THE CRADLE
CONTENTMENT
THE MOTHER BY THE CRADLE
Sleep, baby boy, sleep sweet, secure;
Thy father’s very miniature!
That art thou, though thy father goes
And says that thou hast not his nose.
This very moment here was he,
His face o’er thine did pose
And said—Much has he sure of me,
But no, ‘tis not my nose.
I think myself, it is too small,
But it is his nose after all;
For if thy nose his nose be not,
Whence came the nose that thou hast got?
Sleep, boy! thy father only chose
To tease me—that’s his part!
Never you mind about his nose,
But see you have his heart.
CONTENTMENT
I am content. In triumph’s tone
My song, let people know!
And many a mighty man, with throne
And sceptre, is not so.
And if he is, why then, I cry,
The man is just the same as I.
The Mogul’s gold, the Sultan’s show,
The hero’s bliss, who, vext
To find no other world below,
Up to the moon looked next—
I’d none of them; for things like that
Are only fit for laughing at.
My motto is—Content with this.
Gold—rank—I prize not such.
Другие электронные книги автора George MacDonald
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Книгу прочитать не могу, везде ЛитРес свой нос сунул, как и где скачать полную версию бесплатно!?!?