Puslapio vaizdai
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For southern wind and east wind meet Where, girt and crowned by sword and

fire, England with bare and bloody feet

Climbs the steep road of wide empire.

For some are by the Delhi walls,

And many in the Afghan land, And many where the Ganges falls

Through seven mouths of shifting sand.

O lonely Himalayan height,

Gray pillar of the Indian sky, Where saw'st thou last in clanging fight

Our winged dogs of Victory ?

The almond groves of Samarcand,

Bokhara, where red lilies blow, And Oxus, by whose yellow sand

The grave white-turbaned merchants go ;

And some in Russian waters lie,

And others in the seas which are The portals to the East, or by

The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar. O wandering graves ! O restless sleep!

O silence of the sunless day!
O still ravine! O stormy deep !

Give up your prey! Give up your prey ! And those whose wounds are never healed,

Whose weary race is never won, O Cromwell's England ! must thou yield

For every inch of ground a son ? Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned

head, Change thy glad song to song of pain ; Wind and wild wave have got thy dead,

And will not yield them back again.

And on from thence to Ispahan,

The gilded garden of the sun, Whence the long dusty caravan

Brings cedar and vermilion ; And that dread city of Cabool

Set at the mountain's scarpèd feet, Whose marble tanks are ever full

With water for the noonday heat,

Where through the narrow straight Bazaar

A little maid Circassian
Is led, a present from the Czar

Unto some old and bearded khan,

Wave and wild wind and foreign shore

Possess the flower of English land Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more,

Hands that shall never clasp thy hand.

Here have our wild war-eagles flown,

And flapped wide wings in fiery fight; But the sad dove, that sits alone

In England — she hath no delight.

What profit now that we have bound

The whole round world with nets of gold, If hidden in our heart is found

The care that groweth never old ?

In vain the laughing girl will lean

To greet her love with love-lit eyes : Down in some treacherous black ravine,

Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.

What profit that our galleys ride,

Pine-forest like, on every main ? Ruin and wreck are at our side,

Grim warders of the House of pain.

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And many a million thoughts will go to-day The curious handiwork of Eastern hands, from south to north;

The little carts ambled by humpbacked Old heads will muse on churches old, where

beeves, bells will ring to-day

The narrow outrigged native boat which The very bells, perchance, which tolled cleaves, their fathers to the clay.

Unscathed, the surf outside the coral

strands. And now, good-night! and I shall dream Love we the blaze of color, the rich red that I am with you all,

Of broad tiled-roof and turban, the bright Watching the ruddy embers gleam athwart

green the panelled hall;

Of plantain-frond and paddy-field, nor Nor care I if I dream or not, though sev

dread ered by the foam,

The fierceness of the noon. The sky serene, My heart is always in the spot which was The chill-less air, quaint sights, and tropic my childhood's home.

trees, Seem like a dream fulfilled of lotus-ease.

SUNSET ON THE CUNIMBLA
VALLEY, BLUE MOUNTAINS

FROM THE DRAMA OF

“CHARLES II"

REFRAIN
COME and kiss me, mistress Beauty,
I will give you all that 's due t'ye.

I will taste your rosebud lips
Daintily as the bee sips ;
At your bonny eyes I'll look
Like a scholar at his book :

I sat upon a windy mountain height,
On a huge rock outstanding from the

rest;
The sun had sunk behind a neighboring

crest, Leaving chill shade ; but looking down, my

sight Beheld the vale still bathed in his warm

light And of the perfect peace of eve pos

sessed, No wave upon the forest on its breast And all its park-like glades with sunshine

bright. It put me into mind of the old

age
Of one who leaves ambition's rocks and

peaks
To those inhabited by nobler rage,
And still existence in life's valleys seeks ;
His is the peaceful eve; but then one

hour
Of mountain life is worthy his twenty-

four.

On my bosom you

shall rest,
Like a robin on her nest :
Round my body you shall twine,
I'll be elm, and you be vine :

In a bumper of your breath
I would drain a draught of death :
In the tangles of your hair
I'd be hanged and never care.

Then come kiss me, mistress Beauty,
I will give you all that's due t'ye.

SALOPIA INHOSPITALIS
THE TROPICS

Touch not that maid : Love we the warmth and light of tropic She is a flower, and changeth but to fade. lands,

Fragrant is she, and fair The strange bright fruit, the feathery fan- As any shape that haunts this lower air ; spread leaves,

In form as graceful and as free The glowing mornings and the mellow As honeysuckles and the lilies be ; eves,

Insensible, and shrinking from caress The strange shells scattered on the golden As flowers, which you peril when you sands,

press.

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PRAYERS

Hard sheath and scanty fare,

Yet forced on every side To break apart and share

Small gifts it fain would hide.

KNOWLEDGE AFTER DEATH

I
GOD who created me

Nimble and light of limb,
In three elements free,

To run, to ride, to swim :
Not when the sense is dim,

But now from the heart of joy,
I would remember Him :

Take the thanks of a boy.

II

Siccine separat amara mors ?
Is death so bitter ? Can it shut us fast
Off from ourselves, that future from this

past,
When Time compels us through those nar-

now doors? Must we, supplanted by ourselves in the

course, Changelings, become as they who know at

last A river's secret, never having cast One guess, or known one doubt, about its

source ? Is it so bitter? Does not knowledge here Forget her gradual growth, and how each

day Seals up the sum of each world-conscious

soul ? So, though our ghosts forget us, waste no

tear ; We being ourselves would gladly be as

they, And we being they are still ourselves made

whole.

Jesu, King and Lord,

Whose are my foes to fight,
Gird me with thy sword

Swift, and sharp, and bright.
Thee would I serve if I might,

And conquer if I can,
From day-dawn till night :

Take the strength of a man.

III

Spirit of Love and Truth,

Breathing in grosser clay,
The light and flame of youth,

Delight of men in the fray,
Wisdom in strength's decay ;

From pain, strife, wrong, to be free
This best gift I pray :

Take my spirit to Thee.

John William Mackail

sun

AN ETRUSCAN RING Then seeing the stone complete to his de

sire,
With mystic imagery carven thus,

And dark Egyptian symbols fabulous, WHERE, girt with orchard and with olive- He drew through it the delicate golden yard,

wire, The white 'hill-fortress glimmers on the And bent the fastening ; and the Etrurian

hill, Day after day an ancient goldsmith's Sank behind Ilva, and the work was done.

skill Guided the copper graver, tempered hard By some lost secret, while he shaped the sard

What dark-haired daughter of a Lucumo Slowly to beauty, and his tiny drill, Bore on her slim white finger to the Edged with corundum, ground its way

grave until

This the first gift her Tyrrhene lover The gem lay perfect for the ring to

gave, guard.

Those five-and-twenty centuries ago ?

II

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