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The trees that shake their foliage to the sky;
The wailing voice that fills the cots around;
And man, who studies with an aching heart —
For now, when smiles are rarely deemed sincere,
In vain the sceptic bids his doubts depart —
Those doubts at length will arguments appear!
Hence, reader, know the subject of my song —
A mystic age, resembling twilight gloom,
Wherein we smile at birth, or bear along,
With noiseless steps, a victim to the tomb!
G.W.M. REYNOLDS
THE LAND OF FABLE
("L'Orient! qu'y voyez-vous, poëtes?")
{PRELUDE, b.}
Now, vot'ries of the Muses, turn your eyes,
Unto the East, and say what there appears!
"Alas!" the voice of Poesy replies,
"Mystic's that light between the hemispheres!"
"Yes, dread's the mystic light in yonder heaven —
Dull is the gleam behind the distant hill;
Like feeble flashes in the welkin driven,
When the far thunder seems as it were still!
"But who can tell if that uncertain glare
Be Phoebus' self, adorned with glowing vest;
Or, if illusions, pregnant in the air,
Have drawn our glances to the radiant west?
"Haply the sunset has deceived the sight —
Perchance 'tis evening, while we look for morning;
Bewildered in the mazes of twilight,
That lucid sunset may appear a dawning!"
G.W.M. REYNOLDS
THE THREE GLORIOUS DAYS
("Frères, vous avez vos journées.")
{I., July, 1830.}
Youth of France, sons of the bold,
Your oak-leaf victor-wreaths behold!
Our civic-laurels – honored dead!
So bright your triumphs in life's morn,
Your maiden-standards hacked and torn,
On Austerlitz might lustre shed.
All that your fathers did re-done —
A people's rights all nobly won —
Ye tore them living from the shroud!
Three glorious days bright July's gift,
The Bastiles off our hearts ye lift!
Oh! of such deeds be ever proud!
Of patriot sires ye lineage claim,
Their souls shone in your eye of flame;
Commencing the great work was theirs;
On you the task to finish laid
Your fruitful mother, France, who bade
Flow in one day a hundred years.
E'en chilly Albion admires,
The grand example Europe fires;
America shall clap her hands,
When swiftly o'er the Atlantic wave,
Fame sounds the news of how the brave,
In three bright days, have burst their bands!
With tyrant dead your fathers traced
A circle wide, with battles graced;
Victorious garland, red and vast!
Which blooming out from home did go
To Cadiz, Cairo, Rome, Moscow,
From Jemappes to Montmirail passed!
Of warlike Lyceums{1} ye are
The favored sons; there, deeds of war
Formed e'en your plays, while o'er you shook
The battle-flags in air aloft!
Passing your lines, Napoleon oft
Electrified you with a look!
Eagle of France! whose vivid wing
Did in a hundred places fling
A bloody feather, till one night
The arrow whelmed thee 'neath the wave!
Look up – rejoice – for now thy brave
And worthy eaglets dare the light.
ELIZABETH COLLINS.
The wailing voice that fills the cots around;
And man, who studies with an aching heart —
For now, when smiles are rarely deemed sincere,
In vain the sceptic bids his doubts depart —
Those doubts at length will arguments appear!
Hence, reader, know the subject of my song —
A mystic age, resembling twilight gloom,
Wherein we smile at birth, or bear along,
With noiseless steps, a victim to the tomb!
G.W.M. REYNOLDS
THE LAND OF FABLE
("L'Orient! qu'y voyez-vous, poëtes?")
{PRELUDE, b.}
Now, vot'ries of the Muses, turn your eyes,
Unto the East, and say what there appears!
"Alas!" the voice of Poesy replies,
"Mystic's that light between the hemispheres!"
"Yes, dread's the mystic light in yonder heaven —
Dull is the gleam behind the distant hill;
Like feeble flashes in the welkin driven,
When the far thunder seems as it were still!
"But who can tell if that uncertain glare
Be Phoebus' self, adorned with glowing vest;
Or, if illusions, pregnant in the air,
Have drawn our glances to the radiant west?
"Haply the sunset has deceived the sight —
Perchance 'tis evening, while we look for morning;
Bewildered in the mazes of twilight,
That lucid sunset may appear a dawning!"
G.W.M. REYNOLDS
THE THREE GLORIOUS DAYS
("Frères, vous avez vos journées.")
{I., July, 1830.}
Youth of France, sons of the bold,
Your oak-leaf victor-wreaths behold!
Our civic-laurels – honored dead!
So bright your triumphs in life's morn,
Your maiden-standards hacked and torn,
On Austerlitz might lustre shed.
All that your fathers did re-done —
A people's rights all nobly won —
Ye tore them living from the shroud!
Three glorious days bright July's gift,
The Bastiles off our hearts ye lift!
Oh! of such deeds be ever proud!
Of patriot sires ye lineage claim,
Their souls shone in your eye of flame;
Commencing the great work was theirs;
On you the task to finish laid
Your fruitful mother, France, who bade
Flow in one day a hundred years.
E'en chilly Albion admires,
The grand example Europe fires;
America shall clap her hands,
When swiftly o'er the Atlantic wave,
Fame sounds the news of how the brave,
In three bright days, have burst their bands!
With tyrant dead your fathers traced
A circle wide, with battles graced;
Victorious garland, red and vast!
Which blooming out from home did go
To Cadiz, Cairo, Rome, Moscow,
From Jemappes to Montmirail passed!
Of warlike Lyceums{1} ye are
The favored sons; there, deeds of war
Formed e'en your plays, while o'er you shook
The battle-flags in air aloft!
Passing your lines, Napoleon oft
Electrified you with a look!
Eagle of France! whose vivid wing
Did in a hundred places fling
A bloody feather, till one night
The arrow whelmed thee 'neath the wave!
Look up – rejoice – for now thy brave
And worthy eaglets dare the light.
ELIZABETH COLLINS.
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Последний отзыв
В борьбе за власть есть первые; есть вторые; и есть 6ыдло (из канала BS "Без Слёз").
- Вторые всегда стремятся стать первыми. Но ресурсы власти – у п...
Далее