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The Blue Poetry Book
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Upon Saint Crispin’s day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry.
O when shall Englishmen,
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?
M. Drayton.
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND
A NAVAL ODE
I
Ye Mariners of England!
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again
To meet another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
II
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave! —
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave:
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
III
Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o’er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below, —
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
IV
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger’s troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
T. Campbell.
THE GIRL DESCRIBES HER FAWN
With sweetest milk and sugar first
I it at my own fingers nursed;
And as it grew, so every day
It wax’d more white and sweet than they.
It had so sweet a breath! and oft
I blush’d to see its foot more soft
And white, shall I say, than my hand?
Nay, any lady’s of the land!
It is a wond’rous thing how fleet
’Twas on those little silver feet:
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race;
And when ’t had left me far away
’Twould stay, and run again, and stay,
For it was nimbler much than hinds;
And trod as if on the four winds.
I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness,
And all the spring-time of the year
It only loved to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I
Have sought it oft, where it should lie;
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes.
For, in the flaxen lilies’ shade
It like a bank of lilies laid.
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry.
O when shall Englishmen,
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?
M. Drayton.
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND
A NAVAL ODE
I
Ye Mariners of England!
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again
To meet another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
II
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave! —
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave:
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
III
Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o’er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below, —
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
IV
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger’s troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
T. Campbell.
THE GIRL DESCRIBES HER FAWN
With sweetest milk and sugar first
I it at my own fingers nursed;
And as it grew, so every day
It wax’d more white and sweet than they.
It had so sweet a breath! and oft
I blush’d to see its foot more soft
And white, shall I say, than my hand?
Nay, any lady’s of the land!
It is a wond’rous thing how fleet
’Twas on those little silver feet:
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race;
And when ’t had left me far away
’Twould stay, and run again, and stay,
For it was nimbler much than hinds;
And trod as if on the four winds.
I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness,
And all the spring-time of the year
It only loved to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I
Have sought it oft, where it should lie;
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes.
For, in the flaxen lilies’ shade
It like a bank of lilies laid.
Другие электронные книги автора Andrew Lang
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