« ÎnapoiContinuați »
All soundly on their cables slept ev'n till the night
And when the lady of the light, the rosy-finger'd
Rose from the hills, all fresh arose and to the camp retired,
While Phoebus with a foreright wind their bark
Nestor's Speech on the Dream of Agamemnon. "Princes and councillors of Greece, if any should relate
This vision but the king himself, it might be held a tale,
And move the rather our retreat but since our general
Affirms he saw it, hold it true; and all our best means make
To arm our army." This speech used he first the council brake.
The other sceptre-bearing states arose too and obey'd
The people's victor. Being abroad, the earth was overlaid
With flockers to them that came forth; as when of frequent bees,
Swarms rise out of a hollow rock, repairing the
Of their egression endlessly; with ever rising new From forth their sweet nest; as their store, still as it faded, grew,
And never would cease sending forth her clusters to the spring,
They still crowd out so; this flock here, that there, belabouring
The loaded flowers; so from the ships and tents the army's store
Troop'd to these princes, and the court, along th' unmeasur'd shore.
G. CHAPMAN, 1580.
WHO is the honest man?
He that doth still and strongly good pursue; To God, his neighbour, and himself most true : Whom neither force nor fawning can Unpin, or wrench from giving all their due.
Whose honesty is not
So loose or easy that a ruffling wind
Can blow away, or, glittering, look it blind.
Who rides his sure and even trot,
While the world now rides by, now lags behind.
Who, when great trials come,
Nor seeks nor shuns them, but does calmly stay, Till he the thing and the example weigh;
All being brought into a sum,
What place or person calls for, he doth pay.
Whom none can work or woo
To use in any thing a trick or sleight,
For above all things he abhors deceit.
His words, and works, and fashions too, All of a piece, and all are clear and straight.
Who never melts or thaws
At close temptations. When the day is done
His goodness sets not, but in dark can run.
The sun to others writeth laws,
And is their virtue. Virtue is his sun.
SPORTING through the forest wide;
Playing by the water-side;
Wandering o'er the heathy fells;
Down within the woodland dells ;
All among the mountains wild,
Dwelleth manya little child!
In the baron's hall of pride;
By the poor man's dull fireside;
Mid the mighty, mid the mean,
Little children may be seen;
Like the flowers that spring up fair,
Bright, and countless, every where !
THE VILLAGE BELLS.
In the far isles of the main ;
In the desert's lone domain;
In the savage mountain-glen,
Mid the tribes of swarthy men ;
Wheresoe'er a foot hath gone;
Wheresoe'er the sun hath shone
On a league of peopled ground,
Little children may be found!
Blessings on them! they in me
Move a kind of sympathy
With their wishes, hopes, and fears;
With their laughter and their tears;
With their wonder, so intense,
And their small experience!
Little children, not alone
On the wide earth are ye known;
Mid its labours, and its cares,
Mid its sufferings, and its snares.
Free from sorrow, free from strife,
In the world of love and life,
Where no sinful thing hath trod,
In the presence of your God,
Spotless, blameless, glorified,
Little children, ye abide!
THE VILLAGE BELLS.
THERE is in souls a sympathy with sounds,
And, as the mind is pitch'd, the ear is pleased
THE VILLAGE BELLS.
With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave;
Some chord in unison with what we hear
Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies.
How soft the music of those village-bells,
Falling at intervals upon the ear
In cadence sweet; now dying all away,
Now pealing loud again, and louder still,
Clear and sonorous as the gale comes on!
With easy force it opens all the cells
Where mem'ry slept! Wherever I have heard.
A kindred melody, the scene recurs,
And, with it, all its pleasures and its pains.
Such comprehensive views the spirit takes,
That, in a few short moments, I retrace
(As in a map the voyager his course)
The winding of my way through many years.
Short as in retrospect the journey seems,
It seem'd not always short: the rugged path,
And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn,
Mov'd many a sigh at its disheartening length :
Yet feeling present evils, while the past
Faintly impress the mind, or not at all,
How readily we wish time spent revok'd,
That we may try the ground again, where once
(Through inexperience, as we now perceive)
We miss'd that happiness we might have found!
Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend,
A father, whose authority, in shew
When most severe, and must'ring all its force,
Was but the graver countenance of love :
Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might lour,