The man, that only lives and loves an hour, My quick tears kill'd the flower, my ravings hush'd And prayer of men, decreed that thou should'st dwell Once more the reaper in the gleam of dawn With them, who still are highest. Those gray heads, When thou shalt dwell the whole bright year with me, et mihi gens hominum, spatio quae vivit amatque clausa brevi, potior visa est quam morte carentum improba Maiestas: flores periere perusti imbre mei fletus-avium me lingua furente obticuit, luctuque infando perdita omisi fundere olivetis vitam et nascentibus uvis et segeti, ditant inopes quae dona colonos; imbre gravis seges et vacuis putebat aristis— conciderant folia-et luctu Sol pallida nostro ora gerens aegrum properavit condere lumen, servabatque nives quas bruma illeverat Aetna. tum suprema tenet rerum qui sceptra, coercet cui frater tenebras, squalentem et fruge carentem despiciens terram, quoniam desiderat arae nidores solitos, laudemque et vota precantum, hoc voluit-cum matre novem te degere menses, quot redeunt anni, nitidos; tres luce carentem cum Rege Umbrarum. nunc rursus luce rubente Aurorae cernet, qua finit Terminus arvum, me fecundantem messor sua rura, vel umbram vesperis ad seram, cum iam silet area, laetam messe nova iuxta granaria laeta sedentem. ast ego Diva Parens Terrae dominantia rebus numina vix patior. quid enim vox illa Sororum canarum monuit, dominis maioribus olim parendum? stirpem venturam scilicet aevo auguror inde novo quae nos detrudat Olympo, ut prius antiquam expulimus-quae fulmina quondam iacta premat potius-quae pestem spargere nolit compescatque famem-mites iustoque colendos obsequio Divos, media qui luce diei invadant noctem, et caelo diffissa recludant Tartara, ut accipiat Phoebum Stygis iste tyrannus exsultans, omnisque in lumen transeat umbra. integra tunc una sub luce fovebimus anni And souls of men, who grew beyond their race, From buried grain thro' springing blade, and bless Of torment, and the shadowy warrior glide Tennyson. CXXIII AN EARTHLY PARADISE Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time, To those who in the sleepy region stay, Folk say, a wizard to a northern king At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did show, So with this Earthly Paradise it is, Where tossed about all hearts of men must be; W. Morris. tempora, cuin sanctis hominum quis contigit aevum exsuperasse suum, Divomque assumere sortem, nec mortis speciem nec formidantibus Orcum. tuque potens Leti, quam nunc suadente veretur gens humana metu, cum sis quasi rapta sepulcro, iuncta mea posthac tua fundes munera vitae semine ab occulto vegetam summissa per herbam, auctumnique beabis opes, mecumque frueris quem Pietas suadet cultum, cum messe coacta rustica me frugum celebrabit turba Parentem ; nec spectare Rotae dabitur Saxique labores, saltumve Elysii sublustrem, aut improba flammae supplicia, aut meritas narcisso consita labi bellatorum animas taciti super aequora campi. H. K. CXXIII VIDEOR PIOS ERRARE PER LUCOS, AMOENAE QUOS ET AQUAE SUBEUNT ET AURAE. visa magus, sic fama refert, miranda tyranno CXXIV THE SWIMMER'S WISH Fresh from the summer wave, under the beech, Laugh, if you like, at the bold reply, Answer disdainfully, flouting my words; How should a listener at simple sixteen Guess what a foolish old rhymer could mean Calmly predicting "you will surely fly," Fish one might vie with, but how be like birds? Sweet maiden-fancies, at present they range Close to a sister's engarlanded brows, Over the diamonds a mother will wear, In the false flowers to be shaped for her hair- Long be thy rest 'neath the cool beechen boughs! Genius and love will uplift thee: not yet. Walk through some passionless years by my side, Chasing the silly sheep, snapping the lily stalk, Drawing my secrets forth, witching my soul with talk. When the sap stays, and the blossom is set, Others will take the fruit, I shall have died. CXXV PEACE, PEACE Ye have not sowed in vain! Though the heavens seem as brass, And piercing the crust of the burning plain Ye scan not a blade of grass; Yet there is life within, And waters of life on high; One morn ye shall wake, and the spring's soft green O'er the moistened fields shall lie. Lyra Anglicana. |