Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

209

E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,

E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

“Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;

“There at the foot of yonder nodding beech

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

“Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

“One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,

Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor

up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

“The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay

borne

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth

A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown;
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,

And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;

Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, He gain'd from Heaven, 't was all he wish'd, a

friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.

THOMAS GRAY

AUTUMN

I LOVE the fitful gust that shakes

The casement all the day,
And from the glossy elm-tree takes

The faded leaves away,
Twirling them by the window pane
With thousand others down the lane.

THE GARDEN

211

I love to see the shaking twig

Dance till the shut of eve, The sparrow on the cottage rig,

Whose chirp would make believe That Spring was just now flirting by In Summer's lap with flowers to lie.

I love to see the cottage smoke

Curl upwards through the trees,
The pigeons nestled round the cote

On November days like these;
The cock upon the dunghill crowing,
The mill sails on the heath a-going.

The feather from the raven's breast

Falls on the stubble lea,
The acorns near the old crow's nest

Drop pattering down the tree;
The grunting pigs, that wait for all,
Scramble and hurry where they fall.

John CLARE

THE GARDEN

How vainly men themselves amaze,
To win the palm, the oak, or bays;
And their incessant labours see
Crowned from some single herb or tree,
Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;

While all the flowers and trees do close,
To weave the garlands of repose!

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear?
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men.
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow;
Society is all but rude
To this delicious solitude..

No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name: Little, alas! they know or heed, How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! wheres'e'er your bark I wound, No name shall but your own be found.

When we have seen our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods, that mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race; Apollo hunted Daphne so, Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

:

What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head;

THE GARDEN

313

The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine, and curious peach,
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas, Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide:
There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
Then whets and combs its silver wings,
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was that happy garden-state,
While man there walk'd without a mate:
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But 't was beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there:

« AnteriorContinuar »