the complete poetical works-第128节
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The artillery roll o'erhead；
The drums and the tramp of feet
Of his soldiery in the street；
He is awake！ the White Czar；
Batyushka！ Gosudar！
He has heard in the grave the cries
Of his people： 〃Awake！ arise！〃
He has rent the gold brocade
Whereof his shroud was made；
He is risen！ the White Czar；
Batyushka！ Gosudar！
From the Volga and the Don
He has led his armies on；
Over river and morass；
Over desert and mountain pass；
The Czar； the Orthodox Czar；
Batyushka！ Gosudar！
He looks from the mountain…chain
Toward the seas； that cleave in twain
The continents； his hand
Points southward o'er the land
Of Roumili！ O Czar；
Batyushka！ Gosudar！
And the words break from his lips：
〃I am the builder of ships；
And my ships shall sail these seas
To the Pillars of Hercules！
I say it； the White Czar；
Batyushka！ Gosudar！
〃The Bosphorus shall be free；
It shall make room for me；
And the gates of its water…streets
Be unbarred before my fleets。
I say it； the White Czar；
Batyushka！ Gosudar！
〃And the Christian shall no more
Be crushed； as heretofore；
Beneath thine iron rule；
O Sultan of Istamboul！
I swear it； I the Czar；
Batyushka！ Gosudar！
DELIA
Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives；
When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives；
Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain；
But never will be sung to us again；
Is thy remembrance。 Now the hour of rest
Hath come to thee。 Sleep； darling； it is best。
ULTIMA THULE
DEDICATION
TO G。W。G。
With favoring winds； o'er sunlit seas；
We sailed for the Hesperides；
The land where golden apples grow；
But that； ah！ that was long ago。
How far； since then； the ocean streams
Have swept us from that land of dreams；
That land of fiction and of truth；
The lost Atlantis of our youth！
Whither； oh； whither？ Are not these
The tempest…haunted Hebrides；
Where sea gulls scream； and breakers roar；
And wreck and sea…weed line the shore？
Ultima Thule！ Utmost Isle！
Here in thy harbors for a while
We lower our sails； a while we rest
From the unending； endless quest。
POEMS
BAYARD TAYLOR
Dead he lay among his books！
The peace of God was in his looks。
As the statues in the gloom
Watch o'er Maximilian's tomb；
So those volumes from their shelves
Watched him； silent as themselves。
Ah！ his hand will nevermore
Turn their storied pages o'er；
Nevermore his lips repeat
Songs of theirs； however sweet。
Let the lifeless body rest！
He is gone； who was its guest；
Gone； as travellers haste to leave
An inn； nor tarry until eve。
Traveller！ in what realms afar；
In what planet； in what star；
In what vast； aerial space；
Shines the light upon thy face？
In what gardens of delight
Rest thy weary feet to…night？
Poet！ thou； whose latest verse
Was a garland on thy hearse；
Thou hast sung； with organ tone；
In Deukalion's life； thine own；
On the ruins of the Past
Blooms the perfect flower at last。
Friend！ but yesterday the bells
Rang for thee their loud farewells；
And to…day they toll for thee；
Lying dead beyond the sea；
Lying dead among thy books；
The peace of God in all thy looks！
THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE
Is it so far from thee
Thou canst no longer see；
In the Chamber over the Gate；
That old man desolate；
Weeping and wailing sore
For his son； who is no more？
O Absalom； my son！
Is it so long ago
That cry of human woe
From the walled city came；
Calling on his dear name；
That it has died away
In the distance of to…day？
O Absalom； my son！
There is no far or near；
There is neither there nor here；
There is neither soon nor late；
In that Chamber over the Gate；
Nor any long ago
To that cry of human woe；
O Absalom； my son！
From the ages that are past
The voice sounds like a blast；
Over seas that wreck and drown；
Over tumult of traffic and town；
And from ages yet to be
Come the echoes back to me；
O Absalom； my son！
Somewhere at every hour
The watchman on the tower
Looks forth； and sees the fleet
Approach of the hurrying feet
Of messengers； that bear
The tidings of despair。
O Absalom； my son！
He goes forth from the door
Who shall return no more。
With him our joy departs；
The light goes out in our hearts；
In the Chamber over the Gate
We sit disconsolate。
O Absalom； my son！
That 't is a common grief
Bringeth but slight relief；
Ours is the bitterest loss；
Ours is the heaviest cross；
And forever the cry will be
〃Would God I had died for thee；
O Absalom； my son！〃
FROM MY ARM…CHAIR
TO THE CHILDREN OF CAMBRIDGE
Who presented to me on my Seventy…second Birth…day； February 27；
1879； this Chair； made from the Wood of the Village Blacksmith's
Chestnut Tree。
Am I a king； that I should call my own
This splendid ebon throne？
Or by what reason； or what right divine；
Can I proclaim it mine？
Only； perhaps； by right divine of song
It may to me belong；
Only because the spreading chestnut tree
Of old was sung by me。
Well I remember it in all its prime；
When in the summer…time
The affluent foliage of its branches made
A cavern of cool shade。
There； by the blacksmith's forge； beside the street；
Its blossoms white and sweet
Enticed the bees； until it seemed alive；
And murmured like a hive。
And when the winds of autumn； with a shout；
Tossed its great arms about；
The shining chestnuts； bursting from the sheath；
Dropped to the ground beneath。
And now some fragments of its branches bare；
Shaped as a stately chair；
Have by my hearthstone found a home at last；
And whisper of the past。
The Danish king could not in all his pride
Repel the ocean tide；
But； seated in this chair； I can in rhyme
Roll back the tide of Time。
I see again； as one in vision sees；
The blossoms and the bees；
And hear the children's voices shout and call；
And the brown chestnuts fall。
I see the smithy with its fires aglow；
I hear the bellows blow；
And the shrill hammers on the anvil beat
The iron white with heat！
And thus； dear children； have ye made for me
This day a jubilee；
And to my more than three…score years and ten
Brought back my youth again。
The heart hath its own memory； like the mind；
And in it are enshrined
The precious keepsakes； into which is wrought
The giver's loving thought。
Only your love and your remembrance could
Give life to this dead wood；
And make these branches； leafless now so long；
Blossom again in song。
JUGURTHA
How cold are thy baths； Apollo！
Cried the African monarch； the splendid；
As down to his death in the hollow
Dark dungeons of Rome he descended；
Uncrowned； unthroned； unattended；
How cold are thy baths； Apollo！
How cold are thy baths； Apollo！
Cried the Poet； unknown； unbefriended；
As the vision； that lured him to follow；
With the mist and the darkness blended；
And the dream of his life was ended；
How cold are thy baths； Apollo！
THE IRON PEN
Made from a fetter of Bonnivard； the Prisoner of Chillon； the
handle of wood from the Frigate Constitution； and bound with a
circlet of gold； inset with three precious stones from Siberia；
Ceylon； and Maine。
I thought this Pen would arise
From the casket where it lies
Of itself would arise and write
My thanks and my surprise。
When you gave it me under the pines；
I dreamed these gems from the mines
Of Siberia； Ceylon； and Maine
Would glimmer as thoughts in the lines；
That this iron link from the chain
Of Bonnivard might retain
Some verse of the Poet who sang
Of the prisoner and his pain；
That this wood from the frigate's mast
Might write me a rhyme at last；
As it used to write on the sky
The song of the sea and the blast。
But motionless as I wait；
Like a Bishop lying in state
Lies the Pen； with its mitre of gold；
And its jewels inviolate。
Then must I speak； and say
That the light of that summer day
In the garden under the pines
Shall not fade and pass away。
I shall see you standing there；
Caressed by the fragrant air；
With the shadow on your face；
And the sunshine on your hair。
I shall hear the sweet low tone
Of a voice before unknown；
Saying； 〃This is from me to you
From me； and to you alone。〃
And in words not idle and vain
I shall answer and thank you again
For the gift； and the grace of the gift；
O beautiful Helen of Maine！
And forever this gift will be
A
