Последний отзыв
Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
Далее
По всем вопросам обращайтесь на: info@litportal.ru
(©) 2003-2024.
✖
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 18, No. 110, December, 1866
Автор
Год написания книги
2018
Настройки чтения
Размер шрифта
Высота строк
Поля
And no ancient error tarnish
The falchion of the Lord.
For Quito and New Granada
And Venezuela they pour
From three crucibles the dazzling
White meteoric ore.
In three ingots it is moulded,
And welded into one,
For an emblem of Colombia,
Bright daughter of the sun!
It is drawn on a virgin anvil,
It is heated and hammered and rolled,
It is shaped and tempered and burnished,
And set in a hilt of gold;
For thus by the fire and the hammer
Of war a nation is built,
And ever the sword of its power
Is swayed by a golden hilt.
Then with pomp and oratory
The mustachioed señores brought
To the house of the Liberator
The weapon they had wrought;
And they said, in their stately phrases,
"O mighty in peace and war!
No mortal blade we bring you,
But a flaming meteor.
"The sword of the Spaniard is broken,
And to you in its stead is given,
To lead and redeem a nation,
This ray of light from heaven."
The gaunt-faced Liberator
From their hands the symbol took,
And waved it aloft in the sunlight,
With a high, heroic look;
And he called the saints to witness:
"May these lips turn into dust,
And this right hand fail, if ever
It prove recreant to its trust!
"Never the sigh of a bondman
Shall cloud this gleaming steel,
But only the foe and the traitor
Its vengeful edge shall feel.
"Never a tear of my country
Its purity shall stain,
Till into your hands, who gave it,
I render it again."
Now if ever a chief was chosen
To cover a cause with shame,
And if ever there breathed a caitiff,
Bolivar was his name.
From his place among the people
To the highest seat he went,
By the winding paths of party
And the stair of accident.
A restless, weak usurper,
Striving to rear a throne,
Filling his fame with counsels
And conquests not his own;—
Now seeming to put from him
The sceptre of command,
Only that he might grasp it
With yet a firmer hand;—
His country's trusted leader,
In league with his country's foes,
Stabbing the cause that nursed him,
And openly serving those;—
The chief of a great republic
Plotting rebellion still,—
An apostate faithful only
To his own ambitious will.
Drunk with a vain ambition,
In his feeble, reckless hand,
The sword of Eternal Justice
Became but a brawler's brand.
And Colombia was dissevered,
Rent by factions, till at last
Her name among the nations
Is a memory of the past.
Here the grim old Venezuelan
Puffed fiercely his red cigar
The falchion of the Lord.
For Quito and New Granada
And Venezuela they pour
From three crucibles the dazzling
White meteoric ore.
In three ingots it is moulded,
And welded into one,
For an emblem of Colombia,
Bright daughter of the sun!
It is drawn on a virgin anvil,
It is heated and hammered and rolled,
It is shaped and tempered and burnished,
And set in a hilt of gold;
For thus by the fire and the hammer
Of war a nation is built,
And ever the sword of its power
Is swayed by a golden hilt.
Then with pomp and oratory
The mustachioed señores brought
To the house of the Liberator
The weapon they had wrought;
And they said, in their stately phrases,
"O mighty in peace and war!
No mortal blade we bring you,
But a flaming meteor.
"The sword of the Spaniard is broken,
And to you in its stead is given,
To lead and redeem a nation,
This ray of light from heaven."
The gaunt-faced Liberator
From their hands the symbol took,
And waved it aloft in the sunlight,
With a high, heroic look;
And he called the saints to witness:
"May these lips turn into dust,
And this right hand fail, if ever
It prove recreant to its trust!
"Never the sigh of a bondman
Shall cloud this gleaming steel,
But only the foe and the traitor
Its vengeful edge shall feel.
"Never a tear of my country
Its purity shall stain,
Till into your hands, who gave it,
I render it again."
Now if ever a chief was chosen
To cover a cause with shame,
And if ever there breathed a caitiff,
Bolivar was his name.
From his place among the people
To the highest seat he went,
By the winding paths of party
And the stair of accident.
A restless, weak usurper,
Striving to rear a throne,
Filling his fame with counsels
And conquests not his own;—
Now seeming to put from him
The sceptre of command,
Only that he might grasp it
With yet a firmer hand;—
His country's trusted leader,
In league with his country's foes,
Stabbing the cause that nursed him,
And openly serving those;—
The chief of a great republic
Plotting rebellion still,—
An apostate faithful only
To his own ambitious will.
Drunk with a vain ambition,
In his feeble, reckless hand,
The sword of Eternal Justice
Became but a brawler's brand.
And Colombia was dissevered,
Rent by factions, till at last
Her name among the nations
Is a memory of the past.
Here the grim old Venezuelan
Puffed fiercely his red cigar
Другие электронные книги автора Various
Последний отзыв
Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
Далее