Imágenes de páginas


Ask not my name, O friend!

That Being only, which hath known each man

From the beginning, can

Remember each unto the end.





THE evening comes, the fields are still.
The tinkle of the thirsty rill,

Unheard all day, ascends again;
Deserted is the half-mown plain,
Silent the swaths! the ringing wain,
The mower's cry, the dog's alarms,
All housed within the sleeping farms!
The business of the day is done,
The last-left haymaker is gone.
And from the thyme upon the height,
And from the elder-blossom white
And pale dog-roses in the hedge,
And from the mint-plant in the sedge,
In puffs of balm the night-air blows
The perfume which the day forgoes.
And on the pure horizon far,
See, pulsing with the first-born star,

The liquid sky above the hill!
The evening comes, the fields are still.

Loitering and leaping,
With saunter, with bounds-
Flickering and circling

In files and in rounds—

Gaily their pine-staff green
Tossing in air,

Loose o'er their shoulders white

Showering their hair—

See the wild Mænads

Break from the wood,
Youth and Iacchus
Maddening their blood.

See! through the quiet land

Rioting they pass

Fling the fresh heaps about,

Trample the grass.

Tear from the rifled hedge

Garlands, their prize;

Fill with their sports the field,
Fill with their cries.

Shepherd, what ails thee, then ?

Shepherd, why mute?

Forth with thy joyous song!

Forth with thy flute !

Tempts not the revel blithe?

Lure not their cries?

Glow not their shoulders smooth ?
Melt not their eyes?

Is not, on cheeks like those,
Lovely the flush ?

-Ah, so the quiet was!

So was the hush!


The epoch ends, the world is still.
The age has talk'd and work'd its fill-
The famous orators have shone,
The famous poets sung and gone,
The famous men of war have fought,
The famous speculators thought,
The famous players, sculptors, wrought,
The famous painters fill'd their wall,
The famous critics judged it all.
The combatants are parted now-
Uphung the spear, unbent the bow,
The puissant crown'd, the weak laid low.
And in the after-silence sweet,

Now strifes are hush'd, our ears doth meet,
Ascending pure, the bell-like fame

Of this or that down-trodden name

Delicate spirits, push'd away

In the hot press of the noon-day.

And o'er the plain, where the dead age
Did its now silent warfare wage-

O'er that wide plain, now wrapt in gloom,
Where many a splendour finds its tomb,
Many spent fames and fallen mights—
The one or two immortal lights
Rise slowly up into the sky
To shine there everlastingly,
Like stars over the bounding hill.
The epoch ends, the world is still.

Thundering and bursting
In torrents, in waves-
Carolling and shouting
Over tombs, amid graves-
See! on the cumber'd plain
Clearing a stage,

Scattering the past about,
Comes the new age.
Bards make new poems,

Thinkers new schools,

Statesmen new systems,
Critics new rules.

All things begin again ;
Life is their prize;

Earth with their deeds they fill,

Fill with their cries.

Poet, what ails thee, then?

Say, why so mute ?

Forth with thy praising voice!

Forth with thy flute !

« AnteriorContinuar »