Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

All are scattered now and fled

Some are married, some are dead;
And when I ask, with throbs of pain,
"Ah! when shall they all meet again?"
As in the days long since gone by,
The ancient time-piece makes reply-
"For ever-never!

Never-for ever!"

Never here, for ever there,

Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death, and time shall disappear;
For ever there, but never here!
The horologe of Eternity
Saith this incessantly-
"For ever-never!

Never-for ever!"

XIV. THE SONG OF THE COSSACK TO HIS HORSE. This "Song of the Cossack" was translated by "Father Prout" (Rev. Francis Mahony) from the French of Beranger.

COME, arouse thee up, my gallant horse, and bear thy rider on!

The comrade thou, and the friend, I trow, of the dweller on the Don.

Pillage and Death have spread their wings! 'tis the hour to hie thee forth,

And with thy hoofs an echo wake to the trumpets of the
North!

Nor gems nor gold do men behold upon thy saddle-tree;
But earth affords the wealth of lords for thy master and for

thee.

Then fiercely neigh, my charger grey!-thy chest is proud and ample!

Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample!

Europe is weak-she hath grown old-her bulwarks are laid

low;

She is loath to hear the blast of war- she shrinketh from a foe!

Come, in our turn, let us sojourn in her goodly haunts of joyIn the pillared porch to wave the torch, and her palaces destroy!

Proud as when first thou slak'dst thy thirst in the flow of conquered Seine,

Aye, shalt thou lave, within that wave, thy blood-red flanks again.

Then fiercely neigh, my gallant grey!-thy chest is strong and ample!

Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample!

Kings are beleaguered on their thrones by their own vassal

crew;

And in their den quake noblemen, and priests are bearded

too;

And loud they yelp for the Cossacks' help to keep their bondsmen down,

And they think it meet, while they kiss our feet, to wear a tyrant's crown!

The sceptre now to my lance shall bow, and the crosier and the cross

Shall bend alike, when I lift my pike, and aloft THAT SCEPTRE toss!

Then proudly neigh, my gallant grey!-thy chest is broad and ample !

Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample!

In a night of storm I have seen a form!-and the figure was a GIANT,

And his eye was bent on the Cossack's tent, and his look was all defiant;

Kingly his crest—and towards the West with his battle-axe he pointed;

And the "form" I saw was ATTILA! of this earth the scourge anointed.

From the Cossacks' camp let the horseman's tramp the coming crash announce;

Let the vulture whet his beak sharp set, on the carrion field to pounce;

And proudly neigh, my charger grey!-oh! thy chest is broad and ample!

Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample!

What boots old Europe's boasted fame, on which she builds reliance,

When the North shall launch its avalanche on her works of art and science?

Hath she not wept her cities swept by our hordes of trampling stallions,

And tower and arch crushed in the march of our barbarous battalions?

Can we not wield our fathers' shield? the same war-hatchet handle?

Do our blades want length, or the reapers strength, for the harvest of the Vandal?

Then proudly neigh, my gallant grey, for thy chest is strong and ample;

And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample!

SECTION V.-THE DRAMA

I.-BRUTUS AND CASSIUS.

(SHAKSPERE.)

William Shakspere was born at Stratford-on-Avon, Warwickshire, in 1564, and died in 1616. He has been deservedly called the "Prince of Dramatists."

Cas. THAT you have wronged me doth appear in this: You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella, For taking bribes here of the Sardians; Wherein my letters, praying on his side, Because I knew the man, were slighted of.

Bru. You wronged yourself, to write in such a case. Cas. In such a time as this, it is not meet That every nice offence should bear his comment. Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemned to have an itching palm; To sell and mart your offices for gold To undeservers.

Cas. I an itching palm?

You know that you are Brutus that speak this,
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.
Bru. The name of Cassius honours this corruption,
And chastisement doth therefore hide his head.

Cas. Chastisement!

Bru. Remember March, the Ides of March remember! Did not great Julius bleed for Justice' sake? What villain touched his body, that did stab, And not for justice? What! shall one of us, That struck the foremost man in all this world, But for supporting robbers; shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honours

For so much trash as may be grasped thus?
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.

Cas. Brutus, bay not me,

I'll not endure it: you forget yourself,
To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I,
Older in practice, abler than yourself
To make conditions.

Bru. Go to; you're not, Cassius.
Cas. I am.

Bru. I say you are not.

Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself;

Have mind upon your health, tempt me no further.
Bru. Away, slight man!

Cas. Is't possible?

Bru. Hear me, for I will speak.

Must I give way and room to your rash choler?

Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?

Cas. O ye gods! ye gods! must I endure all this?

Bru. All this? ay, more: Fret till your proud heart break;

Go, show your slaves how choleric you are,

And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge?
Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch
Under your testy humour? By the gods,
You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
Though it do split you; for, from this day forth,
I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter,
When you are waspish.

Cas. Is it come to this?

Bru. You say you are a better soldier:

Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,

And it shall please me well. For mine own part,

I shall be glad to learn of noble men.

Cas. You wrong me every way, you wrong me, Brutus;

I said, an elder soldier, not a better:

Did I say better?

Bru. If you did, I care not.

Cas. When Cæsar lived, he durst not thus have moved

[blocks in formation]
« AnteriorContinuar »