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قراءة كتاب Ioläus The man that was a ghost
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 9
class="i2">A panting siren, veiled with hissing steam,
Shrieks like a looming horror deep in hell.
A flaccid flood of faces, blanched with doom,
And raucous cries from out a blinking dark
Crowd on the callous dusk. With haunting bark
Death hunts his hapless victims. Heaven's sick bloom
Swoons in the frost. Through droning twilight—hark!
The slow, thick, ominous burden of the tomb.
And raucous cries from out a blinking dark
Crowd on the callous dusk. With haunting bark
Death hunts his hapless victims. Heaven's sick bloom
Swoons in the frost. Through droning twilight—hark!
The slow, thick, ominous burden of the tomb.
CONDEMNED
FIAT JUSTITIA: FIAT LUX
Our deeds avail not; and our dreams are thrust
Into the dark and wither from the sky.
We live in duress, and to sweetness die;
And lo! our guerdon is the world's distrust.
Yet have we dreamt of judgment that is just,
And seen a splendour trailing from on high;
From mean abortion mounts our piteous cry:
"Out of the dust, O Christ! out of the dust!"
Into the dark and wither from the sky.
We live in duress, and to sweetness die;
And lo! our guerdon is the world's distrust.
Yet have we dreamt of judgment that is just,
And seen a splendour trailing from on high;
From mean abortion mounts our piteous cry:
"Out of the dust, O Christ! out of the dust!"
We are as leaves within the winter gale,
And are through tribulation darkly driven;
And all the promise that the prime hath given
Is as faint smoke before the winds that wail.
Wan from the drowning pools of bitter bale
Our futile faces front the hush of heaven!
And are through tribulation darkly driven;
And all the promise that the prime hath given
Is as faint smoke before the winds that wail.
Wan from the drowning pools of bitter bale
Our futile faces front the hush of heaven!
TO AMERICA
I.
Thou of the starry wing, that canst not soar,
Confuséd power, still seeking, still unblest;
For ever clutching to a braggart breast
The hope portentous and the worldling's lore.
Furiously futile, with a raucous roar
Thy dizzy moments mock th' eternal quest;
To feverish ends, by factions fierce distrest,
Toiling, a sanguine Titan evermore,—
Confuséd power, still seeking, still unblest;
For ever clutching to a braggart breast
The hope portentous and the worldling's lore.
Furiously futile, with a raucous roar
Thy dizzy moments mock th' eternal quest;
To feverish ends, by factions fierce distrest,
Toiling, a sanguine Titan evermore,—
America!—Ah, burthen of the mind!—
Cradled in truth, and 'mid distractions born
To pure emprise on that despotic morn
When freedom yearned along the westering wind,
And tyranny, that hound among the blind,
Bayed toward the deep where faith went forth—forlorn.
Cradled in truth, and 'mid distractions born
To pure emprise on that despotic morn
When freedom yearned along the westering wind,
And tyranny, that hound among the blind,
Bayed toward the deep where faith went forth—forlorn.
II.
Thou who didst dare th' unknown, precarious sea,
And down the unbounded winds adventurous roam,
Searching the world's horizons for a home,
A haven for the heart of liberty:—
Boaster of freedom, found no longer free,
What vaporous phantom from time's ocean-foam
Blurs the translucence of th' eternal dome
Where sang the burning stars that beckoned thee?
And down the unbounded winds adventurous roam,
Searching the world's horizons for a home,
A haven for the heart of liberty:—
Boaster of freedom, found no longer free,
What vaporous phantom from time's ocean-foam
Blurs the translucence of th' eternal dome
Where sang the burning stars that beckoned thee?
Thy heart hath caught the siren's doom-sweet cries,
And sips oblivion at fond Circe's nod.
Oh! for a seer whose soul is lightning-shod,
To stand imperial 'gainst th' impervious skies,
As Lincoln stood, with brave heaven-gazing eyes,
To appeal from guile's impermanence to God!
And sips oblivion at fond Circe's nod.
Oh! for a seer whose soul is lightning-shod,
To stand imperial 'gainst th' impervious skies,
As Lincoln stood, with brave heaven-gazing eyes,
To appeal from guile's impermanence to God!
TO ITALY
I.
Italia, seated by the sapphire sea,
Crooning of summers rich from long ago,
Dreamer mid dreams, thy peerless face aglow
With rare romance and passionate poesy;
Hath time's delirium taken even thee,
Mother of Petrarch, Raphael, Angelo?
And dost thou purblind speed to weltering woe,
Dead to the wonder that was Italy?
Crooning of summers rich from long ago,
Dreamer mid dreams, thy peerless face aglow
With rare romance and passionate poesy;
Hath time's delirium taken even thee,
Mother of Petrarch, Raphael, Angelo?
And dost thou purblind speed to weltering woe,
Dead to the wonder that was Italy?
Farewell thy peace, farewell thy pride, farewell
The roseate rapture of the radiant years.
Thy breast shall nourish sorrows, and thy fears
Shall haunt the olives and the sunset bell;
Ah, thou shalt sigh for Francis and his cell,
And beat with Dante to the bourn of tears.
The roseate rapture of the radiant years.
Thy breast shall nourish sorrows, and thy fears
Shall haunt the olives and the sunset bell;
Ah, thou shalt sigh for Francis and his cell,
And beat with Dante to the bourn of tears.
II.
Italia, dowered with Asia's amorous eyes,
With India's glow through snows Circassian,
The Muses' love since Dorian lightning ran
Kindling the west to perilous surprise,—
Crowned with thy dawn-star, lo! portentous-wise,
Steps the stern pupil of the Mantuan
And lowers toward moon-mute deserts African
Where, stained with rapine's rose, thy honour lies.
With India's glow through snows Circassian,
The Muses' love since Dorian lightning ran
Kindling the west to perilous surprise,—
Crowned with thy dawn-star, lo! portentous-wise,
Steps the stern pupil of the Mantuan
And lowers toward moon-mute deserts African
Where, stained with rapine's rose, thy honour lies.
Dim grows the vision of th' enchanted shore.
Queen of the lovely and the lonely vow,
Farewell. False time hath charmed thee, and thy brow
Is toward eclipse and storms that rend and roar.
Fond valedictions fade afar, but thou
Canst be our dream's Italia nevermore.
Queen of the lovely and the lonely vow,
Farewell. False time hath charmed thee, and thy brow
Is toward eclipse and storms that rend and roar.
Fond valedictions fade afar, but thou
Canst be our dream's Italia nevermore.
A SON OF CAIN
By
JAMES A. MACKERETH
Crown 8vo, 3/6 net.
SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.
Westminster Review.—We write under the conviction that Mr. Mackereth is destined to compel the admiration not only of a few critics but also of the general public.
Times Literary Supplement.—He has a note of his own; one can always enjoy the rich exuberance of his fancy and of his diction.
Daily Telegraph.—A true singer whom no reader with a taste for contemporary poetry should overlook.
Yorkshire Daily Observer.—... We cannot afford to neglect such poetry—it is vital... Alive with the spirit of the new century.
Aberdeen Free Press.—The "Ode on the Passing of Autumn"... a really splendid poem... Mr. Mackereth is undoubtedly a poet of