Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

With unshaken fortitude;

Of peace, in battle twice achieved;
Of her fiercest foe subdued,

And Europe from the yoke relieved,
Upon that Brabantine plain !

Such the proud, the virtuous story,
Such the great, the endless glory
Of her father's splendid reign!
He who wore the sable mail
Might, at this heroic tale,
Wish himself on earth again.

One who reverently, for thee, Raised the strain of bridal verse, Flower of Brunswick! mournfully Lays a garland on thy hearse.

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

It was a summer evening;

Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun;

And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet,

In playing there, had found;

He came to ask what he had found,

That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by ;

And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh,

'Tis some poor fellow's skull, said he, Who fell in the great victory.

I find them in the garden,

For there's many hereabout; And often, when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men, said he, Were slain in that great victory.

Now tell us what 't was all about,
Young Peterkin he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for.

It was the English, Kaspar cried,
Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for,
I could not well make out;
But everybody said, quoth he,
That 't was a famous victory.

My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;

They burnt his dwelling to the ground,

And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then,

And new-born baby died;

But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.

They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun;

But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory.

Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
And our good Prince Eugene.
Why 't was a very wicked thing!

Said little Wilhelmine.

Nay, nay, my little girl, quoth he,
It was a famous victory.

And everybody praised the Duke,
Who this great fight did win.
But what good came of it at last?
Quoth little Peterkin.

Why, that I cannot tell, said he ;

But 't was a famous victory.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

ODE.

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY

FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD.

The Child is Father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.

THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight,

To me did seem

Apparelled in celestial light,

The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;
Turn wheresoe'er I may,

By night or day,

The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

The Rainbow comes and goes,

And lovely is the Rose,

The Moon doth with delight

Look round her when the heavens are bare,
Waters on a starry night

Are beautiful and fair;

The sunshine is a glorious birth ;

But yet I know, where'er I go,

That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,

And while the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound,

To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong:

The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;

Land and sea

Give themselves up to jollity,

And with the heart of May

Doth every Beast keep holiday;

Thou Child of Joy,

Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see

The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,

My head hath its coronal,

The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all.

Oh evil day! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning,

This sweet May-morning,

And the Children are culling

On every side,

In a thousand valleys far and wide,

Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!

But there's a Tree, of many, one,

A single Field which I have looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The Pansy at my feet

Doth the same tale repeat:

« AnteriorContinuar »