Read Ebook: Fausto: Primera parte by Goethe Johann Wolfgang Von Llorente Teodoro Translator

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Ebook has 2171 lines and 82357 words, and 44 pages

A MIDSUMMER HOLIDAY:--

A NEW-YEAR ODE 39

LINES ON THE MONUMENT OF GIUSEPPE MAZZINI 66

LES CASQUETS 70

A BALLAD OF SARK 84

NINE YEARS OLD 87

AFTER A READING 94

MAYTIME IN MIDWINTER 100

A DOUBLE BALLAD OF AUGUST 105

HEARTSEASE COUNTRY 109

A BALLAD OF APPEAL 112

CRADLE SONGS 115

PELAGIUS 122

LOUIS BLANC 125

VOS DEOS LAUDAMUS 128

ON THE BICENTENARY OF CORNEILLE 132

IN SEPULCRETIS 134

LOVE AND SCORN 139

ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD DOYLE 142

IN MEMORY OF HENRY A. BRIGHT 143

A SOLITUDE 144

VICTOR HUGO: L'ARCHIPEL DE LA MANCHE 145

THE TWILIGHT OF THE LORDS 147

CLEAR THE WAY! 153

A WORD FOR THE COUNTRY 156

A WORD FOR THE NATION 167

A WORD FROM THE PSALMIST 176

A BALLAD AT PARTING 185

TO THEODORE WATTS

THE SEABOARD.

The sea is at ebb, and the sound of her utmost word Is soft as the least wave's lapse in a still small reach. From bay into bay, on quest of a goal deferred, From headland ever to headland and breach to breach Where earth gives ear to the message that all days preach With changes of gladness and sadness that cheer and chide, The lone way lures me along by a chance untried That haply, if hope dissolve not and faith be whole, Not all for nought shall I seek, with a dream for guide. The goal that is not, and ever again the goal.

The trackless ways are untravelled of sail or bird; The hoar wave hardly recedes from the soundless beach. The silence of instant noon goes nigh to be heard, The viewless void to be visible: all and each, A closure of calm no clamour of storm can breach Concludes and confines and absorbs them on either side, All forces of light and of life and the live world's pride. Sands hardly ruffled of ripples that hardly roll Seem ever to show as in reach of a swift brief stride The goal that is not, and ever again the goal.

The waves are a joy to the seamew, the meads to the herd, And a joy to the heart is a goal that it may not reach. No sense that for ever the limits of sense engird, No hearing or sight that is vassal to form or speech, Learns ever the secret that shadow and silence teach, Hears ever the notes that or ever they swell subside, Sees ever the light that lights not the loud world's tide, Clasps ever the cause of the lifelong scheme's control Wherethrough we pursue, till the waters of life be dried, The goal that is not, and ever again the goal.

Friend, what have we sought or seek we, whate'er betide, Though the seaboard shift its mark from afar descried, But aims whence ever anew shall arise the soul? Love, thought, song, life, but show for a glimpse and hide The goal that is not, and ever again the goal.

A HAVEN.

East and north a waste of waters, south and west Lonelier lands than dreams in sleep would feign to be, When the soul goes forth on travel, and is prest Round and compassed in with clouds that flash and flee Dells without a streamlet, downs without a tree, Cirques of hollow cliff that crumble, give their guest Little hope, till hard at hand he pause, to see Where the small town smiles, a warm still sea-side nest.

Many a lone long mile, by many a headland's crest, Down by many a garden dear to bird and bee, Up by many a sea-down's bare and breezy breast, Winds the sandy strait of road where flowers run free. Here along the deep steep lanes by field and lea Knights have carolled, pilgrims chanted, on their quest, Haply, ere a roof rose toward the bleak strand's lee, Where the small town smiles, a warm still sea-side nest.

Are the wild lands cursed perchance of time, or blest, Sad with fear or glad with comfort of the sea? Are the ruinous towers of churches fallen on rest Watched of wanderers woful now, glad once as we, When the night has all men's eyes and hearts in fee, When the soul bows down dethroned and dispossest? Yet must peace keep guard, by day's and night's decree, Where the small town smiles, a warm still sea-side nest.

Friend, the lonely land is bright for you and me All its wild ways through: but this methinks is best, Here to watch how kindly time and change agree Where the small town smiles, a warm still sea-side nest.

ON A COUNTRY ROAD.

Along these low pleached lanes, on such a day, So soft a day as this, through shade and sun, With glad grave eyes that scanned the glad wild way, And heart still hovering o'er a song begun, And smile that warmed the world with benison, Our father, lord long since of lordly rhyme, Long since hath haply ridden, when the lime Bloomed broad above him, flowering where he came. Because thy passage once made warm this clime, Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy name.

Each year that England clothes herself with May, She takes thy likeness on her. Time hath spun Fresh raiment all in vain and strange array For earth and man's new spirit, fain to shun Things past for dreams of better to be won, Through many a century since thy funeral chime Rang, and men deemed it death's most direful crime To have spared not thee for very love or shame; And yet, while mists round last year's memories climb, Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy name.

Each turn of the old wild road whereon we stray, Meseems, might bring us face to face with one Whom seeing we could not but give thanks, and pray For England's love our father and her son To speak with us as once in days long done With all men, sage and churl and monk and mime, Who knew not as we know the soul sublime That sang for song's love more than lust of fame. Yet, though this be not, yet, in happy time, Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy name.

Friend, even as bees about the flowering thyme, Years crowd on years, till hoar decay begrime Names once beloved; but, seeing the sun the same, As birds of autumn fain to praise the prime, Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy name.

THE MILL GARDEN.

Stately stand the sunflowers, glowing down the garden-side, Ranged in royal rank arow along the warm grey wall, Whence their deep disks burn at rich midnoon afire with pride, Even as though their beams indeed were sunbeams, and the tall Sceptral stems bore stars whose reign endures, not flowers that fall. Lowlier laughs and basks the kindlier flower of homelier fame, Held by love the sweeter that it blooms in Shakespeare's name, Fragrant yet as though his hand had touched and made it thrill, Like the whole world's heart, with warm new life and gladdening flame. Fair befall the fair green close that lies below the mill!

Softlier here the flower-soft feet of refluent seasons glide, Lightlier breathes the long low note of change's gentler call. Wind and storm and landslip feed the lone sea's gulf outside, Half a seamew's first flight hence; but scarce may these appal Peace, whose perfect seal is set for signet here on all. Steep and deep and sterile, under fields no plough can tame, Dip the cliffs full-fledged with poppies red as love or shame, Wide wan daisies bleak and bold, or herbage harsh and chill; Here the full clove pinks and wallflowers crown the love they claim. Fair befall the fair green close that lies below the mill!

All the place breathes low, but not for fear lest ill betide, Soft as roses answering roses, or a dove's recall. Little heeds it how the seaward banks may stoop and slide, How the winds and years may hold all outer things in thrall, How their wrath may work on hoar church tower and boundary wall. Far and wide the waste and ravin of their rule proclaim Change alone the changeless lord of things, alone the same: Here a flower is stronger than the winds that work their will, Or the years that wing their way through darkness toward their aim. Fair befall the fair green close that lies below the mill!

Friend, the home that smiled us welcome hither when we came, When we pass again with summer, surely should reclaim Somewhat given of heart's thanksgiving more than words fulfil-- More than song, were song more sweet than all but love, might frame. Fair befall the fair green close that lies below the mill!

A SEA-MARK.

Rains have left the sea-banks ill to climb: Waveward sinks the loosening seaboard's floor: Half the sliding cliffs are mire and slime. Earth, a fruit rain-rotted to the core, Drops dissolving down in flakes, that pour Dense as gouts from eaves grown foul with grime. One sole rock which years that scathe not score Stands a sea-mark in the tides of time.

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