domingo, 20 de novembro de 2016

When Mother Reads Aloud - Unknown


When Mother Reads Aloud - Unknown

When Mother reads aloud, the past
Seems real as every day;
I hear the tramp of armies vast,
I see the spears and lances cast,
I join the thrilling fray;
Brave knights and ladies fair and proud
I meet when Mother reads aloud.

When Mother reads aloud, far lands
Seem very near and true;
I cross the deserts’ gleaming sands,
Or hunt the jungle’s prowling bands,
Or sail the ocean blue.
Far heights, whose peaks the cold mists shroud,
I scale, when Mother reads aloud.

When Mother reads aloud, I long
For noble deeds to do...
To help the right, redress the wrong;
It seems so easy to be strong,
So simple to be true.
Oh, thick and fast the visions crowd
My eyes, when Mother reads aloud.


Sonnet VII (When I too long have looked upon your face) - Edna St. Vincent Millay

When I too long have looked upon your face,
Wherein for me a brightness unobscured
Save by the mists of brightness has its place,
And terrible beauty not to be endured,
I turn away reluctant from your light,
And stand irresolute, a mind undone,
A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight
From having looked too long upon the sun.
Then is my daily life a narrow room
In which a little while, uncertainly,
Surrounded by impenetrable gloom,
Among familiar things grown strange to me
Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark,
Till I become accustomed to the dark.


Wail of an Old-timer - Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Each new invention doubles our worries an' our troubles!
These scientific fellows are spoilin' of our land.
With motor, wire, an' cable, now'days we're scarcely able
To walk or ride in peace o' mind--an' 't is n't safe to stand.

It fairly makes me crazy to see how 'tarnal lazy
The risin' generation grows--an' science is to blame.
With telephones for talkin', an' messengers for walkin',
Our young men sit an' loaf an' smoke without a blush o' shame.

An' then they wa'n't contented until some one invented
A sort o' jerky tape-line clock, to help on wasteful ways.
An' that infernal ticker spends money fur 'em quicker
'An any neighborhood o' men in good old bygone days.

The risin' generation is bent so on creation,
Folks have n't time to talk, or sing, or cry, or even laugh.
But if you take a notion to want some such emotion,
They 've got it all on tap for you, right in the phonograph!

But now a crazy creature has introduced the feature
Of artificial weather--I think we 're nearly through.
For when we once go strainin' to keep it dry or rainin'
To suit the general public-- 't will bu'st the world in two.

By Ella Wheeler Wilcox


The True Knight - Stephen Hawes

FOR knighthood is not in the feats of warre,
As for to fight in quarrel right or wrong,
But in a cause which truth can not defarre:
   He ought himself for to make sure and strong,
   Justice to keep mixt with mercy among:
   And no quarrell a knight ought to take
   But for a truth, or for the common's sake.


Stanzas for Music - George Gordon, Lord Byron

There be none of Beauty's daughters
With a magic like thee;
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:

And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep;
Whose breast is gently heaving,
As an infant's asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer's ocean.


Sorrow - Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sorrow like a ceaseless rain
Beats upon my heart.
People twist and scream in pain, —
Dawn will find them still again;
This has neither wax nor wane,
Neither stop nor start.

People dress and go to town;
I sit in my chair.
All my thoughts are slow and brown:
Standing up or sitting down
Little matters, or what gown
Or what shoes I wear.


A Song of Republics - Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Fair Freedom's ship, too long adrift--
    Of every wind the sport--
Now rigged and manned, her course well planned
    Sails proudly out of port;
And fluttering gaily from the mast
    This motto is unfurled,
Let all men heed its truth who read:
    "Republics Rule the World!"

The universe is high as God!
    Good is the final goal;
The world revolves and man evolves
    A purpose and a soul.
No church can bind, no crown forbid
    Thought's mighty upward course--
Let kings give way before its sway,
    For God inspires its force.

The hero of a vanished age
    Was one who bathed in gore;
Who best could fight was noblest knight
    In savage days of yore;
Now warrior chiefs are out of date,
    The times have changed. To-day
We call men great who arbitrate
    And keep war's hounds at bay.

The world no longer looks to priest
    Or prince to know its needs;
Earth's human throng has grown too strong
    To rule with courts and creeds.
We want no kings but kings of toil--
    No crowns but crowns of deeds.
Not royal birth but sterling worth
    Must mark the man who leads.

Proud monarchies are out of step
    With modern thought to-day,
For Brotherhood is understood
    And thrones must pass away.
Men dare to think. Concerted thought
    Contains more power than swords:
The force that binds united minds
    Defeats mere savage hordes.

Man needs no arbitrary hand
    To keep him in control,
He feels the power grow hour by hour
    Of his expanding soul;
In God's stupendous scheme of worlds,
    He knows he has a place.
He is no slave to cringe, and crave
    Some worthless monarch's grace.

As ocean billows undermine
    The haughty shores each hour,
Time's sea has brought its waves of thought
    To crumble thrones of power;
And one by one shall kingdoms fall
    Like leaves before the blast,
As man with man combines to plan
    Republics formed to last.

Columbia balked a tyrant king,
    And built upon a rock,
In Freedom's name, a shrine whose fame
    Outlived the century's shock.
Now France within our port has set
    Her symbol of re-birth.
Her lifted hand tells sea and land,
    Republics light the earth.

One mighty church for all the world
    Would make men far more kind.
One government would bring content
    To many a restless mind.
Sail on, fair ship of Freedom, sail
    The wide sea's breadth and length.
'Till worlds unite to make the might
    Of "One Republic's" strength.


Song of Khan Zada - Laurence Hope

As one may sip a Stranger's Bowl
You gave yourself but not your soul.
I wonder, now that time has passed,
Where you will come to rest at last.

You gave your beauty for an hour,
I held it gently as a flower.
You wished to leave me, told me so,--
I kissed your feet and let you go.


She Walks in Beauty - George Gordon, Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!


On the Death of Sir Philip Sidney - Henry Constable

GIVE pardon, blessed soul, to my bold cries,
If they, importune, interrupt thy song,
Which now with joyful notes thou sing'st among
The angel-quiristers of th' heavenly skies.
Give pardon eke, sweet soul, to my slow eyes,
That since I saw thee now it is so long,
And yet the tears that unto thee belong
To thee as yet they did not sacrifice.
I did not know that thou wert dead before;
I did not feel the grief I did sustain;
The greater stroke astonisheth the more;
Astonishment takes from us sense of pain;
   I stood amazed when others' tears begun,
   And now begin to weep when they have done.


Oak and Olive - James Elroy Flecker

Though I was born a Londoner,
And bred in Gloucestershire,
I walked in Hellas years ago
With friends in white attire:
And I remember how my soul
Drank wine as pure as fire.
And when I stand by Charing Cross
I can forget to hear
The crash of all those smoking wheels,
When those cold flutes and clear
Pipe with such fury down the street,
My hands grow moist with fear.
And there's a hall in Bloomsbury
No more I dare to tread,
For all the stone men shout at me
And swear they are not dead;
And once I touched a broken girl
And knew that marble bled.

But when I walk in Athens town
That swims in dust and sun
Perverse, I think of London then
Where massive work is done,
And with what sweep at Westminster
The rayless waters run.
I ponder how from Attic seed
There grew an English tree,
How Byron like his heroes fell,
Fighting a country free,
And Swinburne took from Shelley's lips
The kiss of Poetry.
And while our poets chanted Pan
Back to his pipes and power,
Great Verrall, bending at his desk,
And searching hour on hour
Found out old gardens, where the wise
May pluck a Spartan flower.

When I go down the Gloucester lanes
My friends are deaf and blind:
Fast as they turn their foolish eyes
The Mænads leap behind,
And when I hear the fire-winged feet,
They only hear the wind.
Have I not chased the fluting Pan
Through Cranham's sober trees?
Have I not sat on Painswick Hill
With a nymph upon my knees,
And she as rosy as the dawn,
And naked as the breeze?

But when I lie in Grecian fields,
Smothered in asphodel,
Or climb the blue and barren hills,
Or sing in woods that smell
With such hot spices of the South
As mariners might sell -
Then my heart turns where no sun burns,
To lands of glittering rain,
To fields beneath low-clouded skies
New-widowed of their grain,
And Autumn leaves like blood and gold
That strew a Gloucester lane.

Oh well I know sweet Hellas now,
And well I knew it then,
When I with starry lads walked out -
But ah, for home again!
Was I not bred in Gloucestershire,
One of the Englishmen!


Morning - Paul Laurence Dunbar

The mist has left the greening plain,
The dew-drops shine like fairy rain,
The coquette rose awakes again
Her lovely self adorning.

The Wind is hiding in the trees,
A sighing, soothing, laughing tease,
Until the rose says "Kiss me, please,"
'Tis morning, 'tis morning.

With staff in hand and careless-free,
The wanderer fares right jauntily,
For towns and houses are, thinks he,
For scorning, for scorning.
My soul is swift upon the wing,
And in its deeps a song I bring;
Come, Love, and we together sing,
"'Tis morning, 'tis morning."


Life Is Struggle - Arthur Hugh Clough

TO WEAR out heart, and nerves, and brain,
And give oneself a world of pain;
Be eager, angry, fierce, and hot,
Imperious, supple—God knows what,
For what’s all one to have or not;
O false, unwise, absurd, and vain!
For ’tis not joy, it is not gain,
It is not in itself a bliss,
Only it is precisely this
That keeps us all alive.

To say we truly feel the pain,
And quite are sinking with the strain;—
Entirely, simply, undeceived,
Believe, and say we ne’er believed
The object, e’en were it achieved,
A thing we e’er had cared to keep;
With heart and soul to hold it cheap,
And then to go and try it again;
O false, unwise, absurd, and vain!
O, ’tis not joy, and ’tis not bliss,
Only it is precisely this
That keeps us still alive.


A Lazy Day - Paul Laurence Dunbar

THE trees bend down along the stream,
Where anchored swings my tiny boat.
The day is one to drowse and dream
And list the thrush's throttling note.
When music from his bosom bleeds
Among the river's rustling reeds.
No ripple stirs the placid pool,
When my adventurous line is cast,
A truce to sport, while clear and cool,
The mirrored clouds slide softly past.
The sky gives back a blue divine,
And all the world's wide wealth is mine.
A pickerel leaps, a bow of light,
The minnows shine from side to side.
The first faint breeze comes up the tide —
I pause with half uplifted oar,
While night drifts down to claim the shore.


Forgiveness - George William Russell

AT dusk the window panes grew grey;
The wet world vanished in the gloom;
The dim and silver end of day
Scarce glimmered through the little room.

And all my sins were told; I said
Such things to her who knew not sin—
The sharp ache throbbing in my head,
The fever running high within.

I touched with pain her purity;
Sin’s darker sense I could not bring:
My soul was black as night to me;
To her I was a wounded thing.

I needed love no words could say;
She drew me softly nigh her chair,
My head upon her knees to lay,
With cool hands that caressed my hair.

She sat with hands as if to bless,
And looked with grave, ethereal eyes;
Ensouled by ancient Quietness,
A gentle priestess of the Wise.


First Love - John Clare

I ne'er was struck before that hour
With love so sudden and so sweet,
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
And stole my heart away complete.
My face turned pale as deadly pale.
My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked, what could I ail?
My life and all seemed turned to clay.

And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away,
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.
I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start --
They spoke as chords do from the string,
And blood burnt round my heart.

Are flowers the winter's choice?
Is love's bed always snow?
She seemed to hear my silent voice,
Not love's appeals to know.
I never saw so sweet a face
As that I stood before.
My heart has left its dwelling-place
And can return no more


A Farewell to Arms - George Peele

[To Queen Elizabeth]

HIS 1 golden locks Time hath to silver turn’d;
  O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!
His youth ’gainst time and age hath ever spurn’d,
  But spurn’d in vain; youth waneth by increasing:
Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen;      
Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees; 2
  And, lovers’ sonnets turn’d to holy psalms,
A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,
  And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms:      
But though from court to cottage he depart,
His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.

And when he saddest sits in homely cell,
  He’ll teach his swains this carol for a song,—
‘Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,      
  Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.’
Goddess, allow this agèd man his right
To be your beadsman now that was your knight.


Sonnet XXXVII (Fair is my love that feeds among the lilies) - Bartholomew Griffin

FAIR is my love that feeds among the lilies,
  The lilies growing in that pleasant garden
Where Cupid’s Mount, that well beloved hill is,
  And where that little god, himself is Warden.
See where my Love sits in the beds of spices!      
  Beset all round with camphor, myrrh, and roses.
And interlaced with curious devices
  Which, her from all the world apart incloses.
There, doth she tune her Lute for her delight!
  And with sweet music makes the ground to move;      
Whilst I, poor I, do sit in heavy plight,
  Wailing alone my unrespected love.
Not daring rush into so rare a place,
That gives to her, and she to it, a grace.


Down by the Salley Gardens - William Butler Yeats

Down by the salley gardens
   my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens
   with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy,
   as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish,
   with her would not agree.

In a field by the river
   my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder
   she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy,
   as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish,
   and now am full of tears.


The Dancers - Michael Field

I DANCE and dance! Another faun,
A black one, dances on the lawn.
He moves with me, and when I lift
My heels his feet directly shift:
I can’t outdance him though I try;      
He dances nimbler than I.
I toss my head, and so does he;
What tricks he dares to play on me!
I touch the ivy in my hair;
Ivy he has and finger there.      
The spiteful thing to mock me so!
I will outdance him! Ho, ho, ho!


A Child’s Laughter - Algernon Charles Swinburne

ALL the bells of heaven may ring,
All the birds of heaven may sing,
All the wells on earth may spring,
All the winds on earth may bring
All sweet sounds together---
Sweeter far than all things heard,
Hand of harper, tone of bird,
Sound of woods at sundawn stirred,
Welling water's winsome word,
Wind in warm wan weather,

One thing yet there is, that none
Hearing ere its chime be done
Knows not well the sweetest one
Heard of man beneath the sun,
Hoped in heaven hereafter;
Soft and strong and loud and light,
Very sound of very light
Heard from morning's rosiest height,
When the soul of all delight
Fills a child's clear laughter.

Golden bells of welcome rolled
Never forth such notes, nor told
Hours so blithe in tones so bold,
As the radiant mouth of gold
Here that rings forth heaven.
If the golden-crested wren
Were a nightingale---why, then,
Something seen and heard of men
Might be half as sweet as when
Laughs a child of seven.


A Career - Paul Laurence Dunbar

'Break me my bounds, and let me fly
To regions vast of boundless sky;
Nor I, like piteous Daphne, be
Root-bound. Ah, no! I would be free
As yon same bird that in its flight
Outstrips the range of mortal sight;
Free as the mountain streams that gush
From bubbling springs, and downward rush
Across the serrate mountain's side,--
The rocks o'erwhelmed, their banks defied,--
And like the passions in the soul,
Swell into torrents as they roll.
Oh, circumscribe me not by rules
That serve to lead the minds of fools!
But give me pow'r to work my will,
And at my deeds the world shall thrill.
My words shall rouse the slumb'ring zest
That hardly stirs in manhood's breast;
And as the sun feeds lesser lights,
As planets have their satellites,
So round about me will I bind
The men who prize a master mind!'

He lived a silent life alone,
And laid him down when it was done;
And at his head was placed a stone
On which was carved a name unknown!


Book Lover - Robert W. Service

I keep collecting books I know
I'll never, never read;
My wife and daughter tell me so,
And yet I never heed.
"Please make me," says some wistful tome,
"A wee bit of yourself."
And so I take my treasure home,
And tuck it in a shelf.

And now my very shelves complain;
They jam and over-spill.
They say: "Why don't you ease our strain?"
"Some day," I say, "I will."
So book by book they plead and sigh;
I pick and dip and scan;
Then put them back, distressed that I
Am such a busy man.

Now, there's my Boswell and my Sterne,
my Gibbon and Defoe;
To savor Swift I'll never learn,
Montaigne I may not know.
On Bacon I will never sup,
For Shakespeare I've no time;
Because I'm busy making up
These jingly bits of rhyme.

Chekov is caviar to me,
While Stendhal makes me snore;
Poor Proust is not my cup of tea,
And Balzac is a bore.
I have their books, I love their names,
And yet alas! they head,
With Lawrence, Joyce and Henry James,
My Roster of Unread.

I think it would be very well
If I commit a crime,
And get put in a prison cell
And not allowed to rhyme;
Yet given all these worthy books
According to my need,
I now caress with loving looks,
But never, never read.

I keep collecting books I know
I'll never, never read;
My wife and daughter tell me so,
And yet I never heed.
"Please make me," says some wistful tome,
"A wee bit of yourself."
And so I take my treasure home,
And tuck it in a shelf.

And now my very shelves complain;
They jam and over-spill.
They say: "Why don't you ease our strain?"
"Some day," I say, "I will."
So book by book they plead and sigh;
I pick and dip and scan;
Then put them back, distressed that I
Am such a busy man.

Now, there's my Boswell and my Sterne,
my Gibbon and Defoe;
To savor Swift I'll never learn,
Montaigne I may not know.
On Bacon I will never sup,
For Shakespeare I've no time;
Because I'm busy making up
These jingly bits of rhyme.

Chekov is caviar to me,
While Stendhal makes me snore;
Poor Proust is not my cup of tea,
And Balzac is a bore.
I have their books, I love their names,
And yet alas! they head,
With Lawrence, Joyce and Henry James,
My Roster of Unread.

I think it would be very well
If I commit a crime,
And get put in a prison cell
And not allowed to rhyme;
Yet given all these worthy books
According to my need,
I now caress with loving looks,
But never, never read.

Robert Service (1874 - 1958) was a Scottish poet who became smitten with the Yukon Territory when he moved to Canada at the age of 21. Though he longed to be a trail-blazing cowboy, and many thought he indeed lived the life of which he wrote, Robert was, in fact, a bank clerk. After wandering North America for several years, working at odd jobs and various bank branches, he finally settled down in Dawson City, Yukon, some time after the Gold Rush. Robert began writing poems about his stark and beautiful surroundings, and about the legends and lifestyle associated with that part of the world. When his collection of poetry, The Spell of the Yukon and Other Verses, was published in 1907, it was an immediate success, made Robert wealthy beyond his greatest expectations, and earned him the nickname "The Bard of the Yukon." Robert alternated living in North America and Europe for the remainder of his life--even spending a few years in Hollywood; the cabin in the Klondike where he made his home is now a Canadian national park site.


Beauty - Charles Baudelaire

I AM as lovely as a dream in stone,
And this my heart where each finds death in turn,
Inspires the poet with a love as lone
As clay eternal and as taciturn.

Swan-white of heart, a sphinx no mortal knows,
My throne is in the heaven's azure deep;
I hate all movements that disturb my pose,
I smile not ever, neither do I weep.

Before my monumental attitudes,
That breathe a soul into the plastic arts,
My poets pray in austere studious moods,

For I, to fold enchantment round their hearts,
Have pools of light where beauty flames and dies,
The placid mirrors of my luminous eyes.

La Beauté — Charles Baudelaire

Je suis belle, ô mortels! comme un rêve de pierre,
Et mon sein, où chacun s'est meurtri tour à tour,
Est fait pour inspirer au poète un amour
Eternel et muet ainsi que la matière.
Je trône dans l'azur comme un sphinx incompris;
J'unis un coeur de neige à la blancheur des cygnes;
Je hais le mouvement qui déplace les lignes,
Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris.
Les poètes, devant mes grandes attitudes,
Que j'ai l'air d'emprunter aux plus fiers monuments,
Consumeront leurs jours en d'austères études;
Car j'ai, pour fasciner ces dociles amants,
De purs miroirs qui font toutes choses plus belles:
Mes yeux, mes larges yeux aux clartés éternelles!


Ashes of Life - Edna St. Vincent Millay

Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike;
Eat I must, and sleep I will, — and would that night were here!
But ah! — to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike!
Would that it were day again! — with twilight near!

Love has gone and left me and I don't know what to do;
This or that or what you will is all the same to me;
But all the things that I begin I leave before I'm through, —
There's little use in anything as far as I can see.

Love has gone and left me, — and the neighbors knock and borrow,
And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse, —
And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow
There's this little street and this little house.


The Armada - Thomas Babington Macaulay

  In 1588 a great fleet was sent by Philip of Spain against England. It was met and defeated by the English fleet under Lord Howard of Effingham on August 8 of that year.

ATTEND, all ye who list to hear
  Our noble England’s praise;
I tell of the thrice famous deeds
  She wrought in ancient days,
When that great fleet invincible      
  Against her bore in vain
The richest spoils of Mexico,
  The stoutest hearts of Spain.

It was about the lovely close
  Of a warm summer day,      
There came a gallant merchant-ship
  Full sail to Plymouth Bay;
Her crew hath seen Castile’s black fleet,
  Beyond Aurigny’s isle,
At earliest twilight, on the waves,      
  Lie heaving many a mile.
At sunrise she escaped their van,
  By God’s especial grace;
And the tall Pinta, till the noon,
  Had held her in close chase.      
Forthwith a guard at every gun
  Was placed along the wall;
The beacon blazed upon the roof
  Of Edgecumbe’s lofty hall;
Many a light fishing bark put out      
  To pry along the coast,
And with loose rein and bloody spur
  Rode inland many a post.
With his white hair unbonneted,
  The stout old sheriff comes;      
Before him march the halberdiers;
  Before him sound the drums;
His yeomen round the market cross
  Make clear an ample space;
For there behooves him to set up      
  The standard of Her Grace.
And haughtily the trumpets peal
  And gayly dance the bells,
As slow upon the laboring wind
  The royal blazon swells.      
Look how the Lion of the sea
  Lifts up his ancient crown,
And underneath his deadly paw
  Treads the gay lilies down.
So stalked he when he turned to flight,      
  On that famed Picard field
Bohemia’s plume, and Genoa’s bow,
  And Cæsar’s eagle shield.
So glared he when at Agincourt
  In wrath he turned to bay,      
And crushed and torn beneath his claws
  The princely hunters lay.
Ho! strike the flag-staff deep, Sir Knight:
  Ho! scatter flowers, fair maids:
Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute:      
  Ho! gallants, draw your blades:
Thou sun, shine on her joyously;
  Ye breezes, waft her wide;
Our glorious SEMPER EADEM,
  The banner of our pride.      
The freshening breeze of eve unfurled
  That banner’s massy fold;
The parting gleam of sunlight kissed
  That haughty scroll of gold;
Night sank upon the dusky beach,      
  And on the purple sea,
Such night in England ne’er hath been
  Nor e’er again shall be.
From Eddystone to Berwick bounds,
  From Lynn to Milford Bay,      
That time of slumber was as bright
  And busy as the day;
For swift to east and swift to west
  The ghastly war-flame spread,
High on St. Michael’s Mount it shone:      
  It shone on Beachy Head.
Far on the deep the Spaniard saw,
  Along each southern shire,
Cape beyond cape, in endless range,
  Those twinkling points of fire.      
The fisher left his skiff to rock
  On Tamar’s glittering waves:
The rugged miners poured to war
  From Mendip’s sunless caves:
O’er Longleat’s towers, o’er Cranbourne’s oaks,      
  The fiery herald flew;
He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge,
  The rangers of Beaulieu.
Right sharp and quick the bells all night
  Rang out from Bristol town,      
And ere the day three hundred horse
  Had met on Clifton down;
The sentinel on Whitehall gate
  Looked forth into the night,
And saw o’erhanging Richmond Hill      
  The streak of blood-red light.
Then bugle’s note and cannon’s roar
  The death-like stillness broke,
And with one start, and with one cry,
  The royal city woke.      
At once on all her stately gates
  Arose the answering fires;
At once the wild alarum clashed
  From all her reeling spires;
From all the batteries of the Tower      
  Pealed loud the voice of fear;
And all the thousand masts of Thames
  Sent back a louder cheer:
And from the furthest wards was heard
  The rush of hurrying feet,      
And the broad streams of pikes and flags
  Rushed down each roaring street;
And broader still became the blaze,
  And louder still the din,
As fast from every village round      
  The horse came spurring in:
And eastward straight from wild Blackheath
  The warlike errand went,
And roused in many an ancient hall
  The gallant squires of Kent.      
Southward from Surrey’s pleasant hills
  Flew those bright couriers forth;
High on bleak Hampstead’s swarthy moor
  They started for the north:
And on, and on, without a pause      
  Untired they bounded still:
All night from tower to tower they sprang;
  They sprang from hill to hill:
Till the proud peak unfurled the flag
  O’er Darwin’s rocky dales,      
Till like volcanoes flared to heaven
  The stormy hills of Wales,
Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze
  On Malvern’s lonely height,
Till streamed in crimson on the wind      
  The Wrekin’s crest of light,
Till broad and fierce the stars came forth
  On Ely’s stately fane,
And tower and hamlet rose in arms
  O’er all the boundless plain;      
Till Belvoir’s lordly terraces
  The sign to Lincoln sent,
And Lincoln sped the message on
  O’er the wide vale of Trent;
Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned      
  On Gaunt’s embattled pile,
And the red glare on Skiddaw roused
  The burghers of Carlisle.


After the Last Breath - Thomas Hardy

There's no more to be done, or feared, or hoped;
None now need watch, speak low, and list, and tire;
No irksome crease outsmoothed, no pillow sloped
        Does she require.

Blankly we gaze.  We are free to go or stay;
Our morrow's anxious plans have missed their aim;
Whether we leave to-night or wait till day
        Counts as the same.

The lettered vessels of medicaments
Seem asking wherefore we have set them here;
Each palliative its silly face presents
        As useless gear.

And yet we feel that something savours well;
We note a numb relief withheld before;
Our well-beloved is prisoner in the cell
        Of Time no more.

We see by littles now the deft achievement
Whereby she has escaped the Wrongers all,
In view of which our momentary bereavement
        Outshapes but small.

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