A smothered din, à stirring of feet,
That stumble upstairs with irregular beat,
And murmurs resembling a gibber or bleat,
Or a queer creepy wul lul lul-lo!
Up they come with a step that lags,
Hollow-eyed maidens and rickety hags;
The moss on their bones can be seen through the rags,
Creaking oh wul lul-lul lul lul-lo!
The skeleton wantons come tottering in,
All dead, all sped-his pupils in sin,
To witness their master's last struggle, and grin
With a shivering wul lul lul-lo!
They chattered and wagged their chins like the dumb;
Skeleton babies were suckled by some,
Or horribly dandled at old Dad Bröm,
With lullaby-lul lul lul lo-ho! ho!
With lullaby-lul lul lul—lo !
Oh, woman, poor woman, by dozens beguiled,
And the young love, the true love, the poor, poor child,
Her yellow hair sullied, her hazel eye wild,
Who died long ago, deserted-defiled,
Crooning oh wul lul-lul lul lul-lo, woe woe!
Crooning oh wul lul—lul lul lul—lo !
Rattle the shutters, and rattles his throat,
His white beard heaves in gasps like a goat,
While his tatterdemalions peer and gloat
With a clamour of wul lul lul-lo!
Old Graf Bröm is dead at last,
Alone in his bed, all stark and aghast;
And his shutter is bursten in by the blast,
Roaring oh wul lul-lul lul lul lo-ho! ho!
Roaring oh wul lul—lul lul lul—lo!
The Bridge of Sighs.
NE more unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death;
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care,
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young and so fair.
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements,
While the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving not loathing;
Touch her not scornfully,
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her;
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
OU don't like my writings, won't read them, nor buy them;
Then do me the favour at least to decry them;
Where the praise of good judges is hard to be had,
The next best thing to it's the blame of the bad.
Virginibus Puerisque Canto.
AH, misera, sortis
Pondere fessa!
Ah, temere mortis
Viam ingressa!
Tollite facile
Onus tam bellum,
Onus tam gracile,
Tamque tenellum.
Corpus grauatum
Vestis astringit,
Funus elatum
Palla ceu cingit.
En! panni stillantes
Vndam irremeabilem ;
Statis?-amantes
Ferte amabilem.
Ne fastidientes
Formam attingite,
Sed flebilem flentes
Animo fingite;
Quod fecerit male
Donate tam bellae ;
Nil restat ni quale
Decorum puellae.
CRIPTA mea odisti; non uis legere aut emere; ultro
Obtrectes, si uis commodus esse, precor.
Doctorum laus est uix uixque parabilis, et sors
Aequa nimis, si quis carpat ineptus, erit.
(SOPH. OED. KOL. 668–719.)
F the land of knights thou has chanced to stray
To the fairest spot where all is fair,
To the Hill that flashes back the ray,
Where a plaintive music thrills the air,
As the Nightingale haunts the dell divine,
In the depths of a dark abyss of green,
Mid ivies dark as darkling wine,
And leaves that lisp o'er the sylvan scene,
The untrodden domain of the viewless Power,
With fruits in myriads all aglow,
Unsunned in the glare of the noontide hour,
And unruffled by all the winds that blow;
Where Iacchus treads the enchanted ground
With the Nymphs that nursed him dancing round.
And full and flush with aërial dew,
And clothed as a vine with clusters fair,
The Narcissus blooms, which the Mighty Two
As a coronal twine for their raven hair,
And the Crocus sheds a golden light,
And the sleepless runnels never wane,
As from fall to fall they urge their flight
With their tribute of waters to the plain,
Where still the Kephisos woos his way
Through the midst of the meadows while all is mirth, And with his unpolluted spray
Quickens the womb of the swelling Earth;
Nor his marge doth the Muse with disdain behold,
Nor the Child of the Foam with the rein of gold.
And a Plant there is, which in Asian land,
Or in Pelops' mighty Dorian strand,
Never, I trow,
Was known to grow,
Which grows unforced, unplanted, here,
The terror of marauding spear,
And through the wide land burgeons free,
The boon of our boyhood, the grey Olive tree;
Young or hoar be the foeman chief,
He never shall scathe the dark
With the touch of the spoiler's hand;
For 'tis watched from the depths of the sacred grove
By the sleepless eye of the Morian Jove,
And the Lady of the Land.
And another glory there is, I ween,
The proudest vaunt of the Island Queen,
The goodly dower
Of the Ocean Power,
For, Ocean's Lord, she owes to thee-
Horse-Horseman-subjugated Sea!
For thou didst fashion rein and bit
As a cure for the steed in his restive fit;
And a thing of awe to the wondering deep,
With its oars aswing in their measured sweep,
As the mariners ply the blades,
The Galliot bounds as a courser fleet,
And follows the flight of a hundred feet,
As it chases the Nereid maids.
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