The pestilence, shall gaze on those pure beams, And breathe, with confidence, the quiet air.
Emblems of power and beauty! well may
Shine brightest on our borders, and withdraw Towards the great Pacific, marking out The path of empire. Thus, in our own land, Ere long, the better Genius of our race, Having encompassed earth, and tamed its tribes, Shall sit him down beneath the farthest west, By the shore of that calm ocean, and look back On realms made happy.
Light the nuptial torch, And say the glad, yet solemn rite that knits The youth and maiden. Happy days to them That wed this evening!—a long life of love, And blooming sons and daughters! Happy
Born at this hour,-for they shall see an age Whiter and holier than the past, and go
Late to their graves. Men' shall wear softer
And shudder at the butcheries of war, As now at other murders.
Enough of blood has wet thy rocks, and stained Thy rivers; deep enough thy chains have worn Their links into thy flesh; the sacrifice Of thy pure maidens, and thy innocent babes, And reverend priests, has expiated all Thy crimes of old. In yonder mingling lights There is an omen of good days for thee. Thou shalt arise from midst the dust and sit Again among the nations. Thine own arm Shall yet redeem thee. Not in wars like thine The world takes part. Be it a strife of kings,— Despot with despot battling for a throne,—
And Europe shall be stirred throughout her
Nations shall put on harness, and shall fall Upon each other, and in all their bounds The wailing of the childless shall not cease. Thine is a war for liberty, and thou Must fight it single-handed. The old world Looks coldly on the murderers of thy race, And leaves thee to the struggle; and the new,- I fear me thou couldst tell a shameful tale Of fraud and lust of gain;-thy treasury drained, And Missolonghi fallen. Yet thy wrongs
Shall put new strength into thy heart and hand, And God and thy good sword shall yet workout, For thee, a terrible deliverance.
THE quiet August noon has come, A slumberous silence fills the sky, The fields are still, the woods are dumb, In glassy sleep the waters lie.
And mark yon soft white clouds that rest Above our vale, a moveless throng; The cattle on the mountain's breast
Enjoy the grateful shadow long.
Oh, how unlike those merry hours,
In early June, when Earth laughs out, When the fresh winds make love to flowers, And woodlands sing and waters shout.
When in the grass sweet voices talk, And strains of tiny music swell From every moss-cup of the rock, From every nameless blossom's bell.
But now a joy too deep for sound,
peace no other season knows,
Hushes the heavens and wraps the ground,
The blessing of supreme repose.
Away! I will not be, to-day,
The only slave of toil and care. Away from desk and dust! away! I'll be as idle as the air.
« 前へ次へ » |