Delphi Poetry Anthology: The World's Greatest Poems (Delphi Poets Series Book 50) (181 page)
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Authors: Homer,William Shakespeare
Why is thy cheek so wan and wild,
Sir Leoline? Thy only child
Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride.
625
So fair, so innocent, so mild;
The same, for whom thy lady died!
O, by the pangs of her dear mother
Think thou no evil of thy child!
For her, and thee, and for no other,
630
She prayed the moment ere she died:
Prayed that the babe for whom she died,
Might prove her dear lord’s joy and pride!
That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled,
Sir Leoline!
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And wouldst thou wrong thy only child,
Her child and thine?
Within the Baron’s heart and brain
If thoughts, like these, had any share,
They only swelled his rage and pain,
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And did but work confusion there.
His heart was cleft with pain and rage,
His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild,
Dishonour’d thus in his old age;
Dishonour’d by his only child,
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And all his hospitality
To the insulted daughter of his friend
By more than woman’s jealousy
Brought thus to a disgraceful end —
He rolled his eye with stern regard
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Upon the gentle minstrel bard,
And said in tones abrupt, austere —
‘Why, Bracy! dost thou loiter here?
I bade thee hence!’ The bard obeyed;
And turning from his own sweet maid,
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The aged knight, Sir Leoline,
Led forth the lady Geraldine!
THE CONCLUSION TO PART THE SECOND
A little child, a limber elf,
Singing, dancing, to itself,
A fairy thing with red round cheeks,
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That always finds, and never seeks,
Makes such a vision to the sight
As fills a father’s eyes with light;
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast
Upon his heart, that he at last
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Must needs express his love’s excess
With words of unmeant bitterness.
Perhaps ’tis pretty to force together
Thoughts so all unlike each other;
To mutter and mock a broken charm,
670
To dally with wrong that does no harm.
Perhaps ’tis tender too and pretty
At each wild word to feel within
A sweet recoil of love and pity.
And what, if in a world of sin
675
(O sorrow and shame should this be true!)
Such giddiness of heart and brain
Comes seldom save from rage and pain,
So talks as it’s most used to do.
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772–1834)
Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
With the old Moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my master dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence
I
WELL! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,
5
Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes
Upon the strings of this Æolian lute,
Which better far were mute.
For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!
And overspread with phantom light,
10
(With swimming phantom light o’erspread
But rimmed and circled by a silver thread)
I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling
The coming-on of rain and squally blast,
And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,
15
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed
And sent my soul abroad,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!
20
II
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear —
O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
25
To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo’d,
All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky,
And its peculiar tint of yellow green;
And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye!
30
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
That give away their motion to the stars:
Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen;
Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew
35
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
I see them all so excellently fair,
I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!
III
My genial spirits fail;
And what can these avail
40
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?
It were a vain endeavour,
Though I should gaze for ever
On that green light that lingers in the west;
I may not hope from outward forms to win
45
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.
IV
O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does Nature live;
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!
And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
50
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the Earth —
55
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element!
V
O pure of heart! thou need’st not ask of me
What this strong music in the soul may be!
60
What, and wherein it doth exist,
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful and beauty-making power.
Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne’er was given,
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,
65
Life, and life’s effluence, cloud at once and shower,
Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower,
A new Earth and new Heaven,
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud —
70
Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud —
We in ourselves rejoice!
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
All melodies the echoes of that voice,
All colours a suffusion from that light.
75
VI
There was a time when, though my path was rough,
This joy within me dallied with distress,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
80
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth:
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
But oh! each visitation
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,
85
My shaping spirit of Imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel
But to be still and patient, all I can;
And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural man —
90
This was my sole resource, my only plan;
Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.
VII
Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
Reality’s dark dream!
95
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
Of agony by torture lengthened out
That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav’st without,
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,
100
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches’ home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
105
Mak’st Devils’ yule, with worse than wintry song,
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.
Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold!
What tell’st thou now about?
110
’Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,
With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds —
At once they groan with pain and shudder with the cold!
But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
115
With groans, and tremulous shudderings — all is over —
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!
A tale of less affright,
And tempered with delight,
As Otway’s self had framed the tender lay.
120
’Tis of a little child,
Upon a lonesome wild,
Not far from home, but she hath lost her way;
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.
125
VIII
’Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
130
Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!
With light heart may she rise,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes.
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;
To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
135
Their life the eddying of her living soul!
O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus may’st thou ever, evermore rejoice.
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
Robert Southey (1774–1843)
THERE was high feasting held at Vaucouleur,
For old Sir Robert had a famous guest,
The Bastard Orleans; and the festive hours,
Cheer’d with the Trobador’s sweet minstrelsy,
Pass’d gaily at his hospitable board.
5
But not to share the hospitable board
And hear sweet minstrelsy, Dunois had sought
Sir Robert’s hall; he came to rouse Lorraine,
And glean what force the wasting war had left
For one last effort. Little had the war
10
Left in Lorraine, but age, and youth unripe
For slaughter yet, and widows, and young maids
Of widow’d loves. And now with his great guest
The Lord of Vaucouleur sat communing
On what might profit France, and found no hope,
Despairing of their country, when he heard
16
An old man and a maid awaited him
In the castle-hall. He knew the old man well,
His vassal Claude; and at his bidding Claude
Approach’d, and after meet obeisance made,
20
Bespake Sir Robert.
“Good my Lord, I come
With a strange tale; I pray you pardon me
If it should seem impertinent, and like
An old man’s weakness. But, in truth, this Maid
Hath with such boding thoughts impress’d my heart,
I think I could not longer sleep in peace
26
Gainsaying what she sought. She saith that God
Bids her go drive the Englishmen from France!
Her parents mock at her and call her crazed,
And father Regnier says she is possess’d;..
30
But I, who know that never thought of ill
Found entrance in her heart,.. for, good my Lord,
From her first birth-day she hath been to me
As mine own child,.. and I am an old man,
Who have seen many moon-struck in my time,
35
And some who were by evil Spirits vex’d,..
I, Sirs, do think that there is more in this.
And who can tell but, in these perilous times,
It may please God,... but hear the Maid yourselves,
For if, as I believe, this is of Heaven,
40
My silly speech doth wrong it.”
While he spake,
Curious they mark’d the Damsel. She appear’d
Of eighteen years; there was no bloom of youth
Upon her cheek, yet had the loveliest hues
Of health with lesser fascination fix’d
45
The gazer’s eye; for wan the Maiden was,
Of saintly paleness, and there seem’d to dwell
In the strong beauties of her countenance
Something that was not earthly.
“I have heard
Of this your niece’s malady,” replied
50
The Lord of Vaucouleur, “that she frequents
The loneliest haunts and deepest solitude,
Estranged from human kind and human cares
With loathing like to madness. It were best
To place her with some pious sisterhood,
55
Who duly morn and eve for her soul’s health
Soliciting Heaven, may likeliest remedy
The stricken mind, or frenzied or possess’d.”
So as Sir Robert ceased, the Maiden cried,
“I am not mad. Possess’d indeed I am!
60
The hand of GOD is strong upon my soul,
And I have wrestled vainly with the LORD,
And stubbornly, I fear me. I can save
This country, Sir! I can deliver France!
64
Yea.. I must save the country!.. GOD is in me;
I speak not, think not, feel not of myself.
HE knew and sanctified me ere my birth;
HE to the nations hath ordained me;
And whither HE shall send me, I must go;
And whatso HE commands, that I must speak;
70
And whatso is HIS will, that I must do;
And I must put away all fear of man,
Lest HE in wrath confound me.”
At the first
With pity or with scorn Dunois had heard
The Maid inspired; but now he in his heart
75
Felt that misgiving which precedes belief
In what was disbelieved and scoff’d at late
For folly. “Damsel!” said the Chief, “methinks
It would be wisely done to doubt this call,
Haply of some ill Spirit prompting thee
80
To self destruction.”
“Doubt!” the Maid exclaim’d,
“
It were as easy when I gaze around
On all this fair variety of things,
Green fields and tufted woods, and the blue depth
Of heaven, and yonder glorious sun, to doubt
85
Creating wisdom! When in the evening gale
I breathe the mingled odours of the spring,
And hear the wild wood melody, and hear
The populous air vocal with insect life,
89
To doubt GOD’S goodness! There are feelings, Chief,
Which cannot lie; and I have oftentimes
Felt in the midnight silence of my soul
The call of GOD.”
They listen’d to the Maid,
And they almost believed. Then spake Dunois,
“Wilt thou go with me, Maiden, to the King,
95
And there announce thy mission?” thus he said,
For thoughts of politic craftiness arose
Within him, and his faith, yet unconfirm’d,
Determin’d to prompt action. She replied,
“Therefore I sought the Lord of Vaucouleur,
100
That with such credence as prevents delay,
He to the King might send me. Now beseech you
Speed our departure!”
Then Dunois address’d
Sir Robert, “Fare thee well, my friend and host!
It were ill done to linger here when Heaven
105
Vouchsafes such strange assistance. Let what force
Lorraine can raise to Chinon follow us;
And with the tidings of this holy Maid,
Sent by the LORD, fill thou the country; soon
Therewith shall France awake as from the sleep
Of death. Now Maid! depart we at thy will.”
111
“GOD’S blessing go with ye!” exclaim’d old Claude,
“Good Angels guard my girl!” and as he spake
The tears stream’d fast adown his aged cheeks.
“And if I do not live to see thee more,
115
As sure I think I shall not,.. yet sometimes
Remember thine old Uncle. I have loved thee
Even from thy childhood Joan! and I shall lose
The comfort of mine age in losing thee.
But GOD be with thee, Child!”
Nor was the Maid,
Though all subdued of soul, untroubled now
121
In that sad parting;.. but she calm’d herself,
Painfully keeping down her heart, and said,
“Comfort thyself, my Uncle, with the thought
Of what I am, and for what enterprize
125
Chosen from among the people. Oh! be sure
I shall remember thee, in whom I found
A parent’s love, when parents were unkind!
And when the ominous broodings of my soul,
Were scoff’d and made a mock of by all else,
130
Thou for thy love didst hear me and believe.
Shall I forget these things?”... By this Dunois
Had arm’d, the steeds stood ready at the gate.
But then she fell upon the old man’s neck
134
And cried, “Pray for me!.. I shall need thy prayers!
Pray for me, that I fail not in my hour!”
Thereat awhile, as if some aweful thought
Had overpower’d her, on his neck she hung;
Then rising with flush’d cheek and kindling eye,
“Farewell!” quoth she, “and live in hope! Anon
Thou shalt hear tidings to rejoice thy heart,
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Tidings of joy for all, but most for thee!
Be this thy comfort!” The old man received
Her last embrace, and weeping like a child,
Scarcely through tears could see them on their steeds
Spring up, and go their way.
So on they went,
And now along the mountain’s winding path
Upward they journey’d slow, and now they paused
And gazed where o’er the plain the stately towers
Of Vaucouleur arose, in distance seen,
150
Dark and distinct; below its castled height,
Through fair and fertile pastures, the deep Meuse
Roll’d glittering on. Domremi’s cottages
Gleam’d in the sun hard by, white cottages,
That in the evening traveller’s weary mind
155
Had waken’d thoughts of comfort and of home,
Making him yearn for rest. But on one spot,
One little spot, the Virgin’s eye was fix’d,
Her native Arc; embower’d the hamlet lay
Upon the forest edge, whose ancient woods,
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With all their infinite varieties,
Now form’d a mass of shade. The distant plain
Rose on the horizon rich with pleasant groves,
And vineyards in the greenest hue of spring,
164
And streams now hidden on their winding way,
Now issuing forth in light.
The Maiden gazed
Till all grew dim upon her dizzy eye.
“Oh what a blessed world were this!” she cried,
“But that the great and honourable men
Have seized the earth, and of the heritage
170
Which God, the Sire of all, to all had given,
Disherited their brethren! Happy those
Who in the after-days shall live when Time
Hath spoken, and the multitude of years
174
Taught wisdom to mankind!... Unhappy France!
Fiercer than evening wolves thy bitter foes
Rush o’er the land, and desolate, and kill;
Long has the widow’s and the orphan’s groan
Accused Heaven’s justice; — but the hour is come!
GOD hath inclined his ear, hath heard the voice
Of mourning, and his anger is gone forth.”
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Then said the Son of Orleans, “Holy Maid!
Fain would I know, if blameless I may seek
Such knowledge, how the heavenly call was heard
First in thy waken’d soul; nor deem in me
185
Aught idly curious, if of thy past life
I ask the story. In the hour of age,
If haply I survive to see this realm
Deliver’d, precious then will be the thought
That I have known the delegated Maid,
190
And heard from her the wondrous ways of Heaven.”
“A simple tale,” the mission’d Maid replied;
“Yet may it well employ the journeying hour,
And pleasant is the memory of the past.
194
“See’st thou, Sir Chief, where yonder forest skirts
The Meuse, that in its winding mazes shows,
As on the farther bank, the distant towers
Of Vaucouleur? there in the hamlet Arc
My father’s dwelling stands; a lowly hut,
Yet nought of needful comfort did it lack,
200
For in Lorraine there lived no kinder Lord
Than old Sir Robert, and my father Jaques
In flocks and herds was rich; a toiling man,
Intent on worldly gains, one in whose heart
Affection had no root. I never knew
205
A parent’s love; for harsh my mother was,
And deem’d the care which infancy demands
Irksome, and ill-repaid. Severe they were,
And would have made me fear them; but my soul
Possess’d the germ of inborn fortitude,
210
And stubbornly I bore unkind rebuke
And angry chastisement. Yet was the voice
That spake in tones of tenderness most sweet
To my young heart; how have I felt it leap
With transport, when my Uncle Claude approach’d!
For he would take me on his knee, and tell
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Such wondrous tales as childhood loves to hear,
Listening with eager eyes and open lips
Devoutly in attention. Good old man!
Oh if I ever pour’d a prayer to Heaven
220
Unhallow’d by the grateful thought of him,
Methinks the righteous winds would scatter it!
He was a parent to me, and his home
Was mine, when in advancing years I found
No peace, no comfort in my father’s house.
225
With him I pass’d the pleasant evening hours,
By day I drove my father’s flock afield,
And this was happiness.
“Amid these wilds
Often to summer pasture have I driven
229
The flock; and well I know these woodland wilds,
And every bosom’d vale, and valley stream
Is dear to memory. I have laid me down
Beside yon valley stream, that up the ascent
Scarce sends the sound of waters now, and watch’d
The beck roll glittering to the noon-tide sun,
235
And listened to its ceaseless murmuring,
Till all was hush’d and tranquil in my soul,
Fill’d with a strange and undefined delight
That pass’d across the mind like summer clouds
Over the vale at eve; their fleeting hues
240
The traveller cannot trace with memory’s eye,
Yet he remembers well how fair they were,
How beautiful.