« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long; When she came down again
Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow, They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lakes, On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wakes.
By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there. Is
any man so daring
As dig one up in spite,
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men ;
Trooping all together;
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. THE LAST DAY OF AUTUMN.
(FROM THE GERMAN.) CHE year lies dying in this evening light; The poet, musing in autumnal woods,
Hears melancholy sighs
Among the wither'd leaves.
His robes, once green in spring,
Or bright with summer's blue;
Orchards with rosy fruit,
He lingers for a moment in the west,
A pleasant, farewell smile,
IGH on, sad heart, for Love's eclipse
And Beauty's fairest queen!
To soil her name between.
But I am poor and nought :
That wears her in its thought !
The diamonds glancing in her hair,
Whose sudden beams surprise, Might bid such humble hopes beware
The glancing of her eyes. Yet looking once, I look'd too long;
And if my love is sin, Death follows on the heels of
wrong, And kills the crime within.
Her dress seem'd wove of lily-leaves,
It was so pure and fine;
is mine. And homely hose must step apart
Where garter'd princes stand : But, may he wear my love at heart,
That wins her lily hand !
Alas! there's far from russet frieze
To silks and satin gowns ;
In courtly hearts and clowns :
And brought her cheeks to blame, And all that's lordly of my birth,
Is my reproach and shame.
"Tis vain to weep, 'tis vain to sigh,
'Tis vain this idle speech; For where her happy pearls do lie,
My tears may never reach.
May say of what has been,
Though all the rest was mean.
My speech is rude, but speech is weak
Such love as mine to tell ;
So, Lady, fare thee well!
Was one of low degree,
WEET, be not proud of those two eyes,
Which star-like sparkle in their skies ;
you not proud of that rich hair
EAR the sledges with the bells
Silver bells ! What a world of merriment their melody foretells !
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that over-sprinkle
With a crystalline delight;
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
Bells, bells, bells,
Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells !
Through the balmy air of night
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
On the moon !
How it swells !
How it dwells
Of the rapture that impels
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,
Brazen bells !