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قراءة كتاب Boer War Lyrics
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 6
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When hard upon this longish muse,
Which, if it fail of absolute mold,
Is yet what, at a close peruse,
A muddled act does broadly hold—
When pat, to suit Godfather’s cue,
That pious child, the hungry League
Was christened snug and gospeled through,
Anoint with salve of high intrigue;
That pious child, the hungry League
Was christened snug and gospeled through,
Anoint with salve of high intrigue;
Nay, preached and bore the brainless gang,
Who gripped at throat the better hope
While Right, with due, past caution rang
How every neck was worth a rope.
Who gripped at throat the better hope
While Right, with due, past caution rang
How every neck was worth a rope.
And ’woke this cry with warning rouse—
“Since Neighbor Near seem Neighbor Pike,
’Twere time small fry made fast the house,
Girt fence and gate with double spike.”
* * * * * * * *
Since when, what other brood of kindred grace,
Which, true to stock, the devil yeans,
Joined trick and tooth and darksome ways
To work the bolts by subtler means!
“Since Neighbor Near seem Neighbor Pike,
’Twere time small fry made fast the house,
Girt fence and gate with double spike.”
* * * * * * * *
Since when, what other brood of kindred grace,
Which, true to stock, the devil yeans,
Joined trick and tooth and darksome ways
To work the bolts by subtler means!
While last—O, John, will ne’er thy friends be wise?
What balm, tho’ gross with clumsy tape,
What quacks’ set-up in surgeon’s guise
Came foisting, fuddling from the Cape!
What balm, tho’ gross with clumsy tape,
What quacks’ set-up in surgeon’s guise
Came foisting, fuddling from the Cape!
What hangman’s cure and mad appeal,
What blind invoke past doubt of suit,
What sowings thrust with iron heel,
Whose yet no half has bore its fruit!
What blind invoke past doubt of suit,
What sowings thrust with iron heel,
Whose yet no half has bore its fruit!
Oh, yes, thro’ stress and truce, and right along,
It still repeats the old-time game,
How brother Weak met brother Strong,
Who saw, and took, and felt no shame.
It still repeats the old-time game,
How brother Weak met brother Strong,
Who saw, and took, and felt no shame.
Whom so self-dread, that final awe,
Could graft on soul this chastening sense—
That endless widening circles Law,
Rules nations’ hopes as single mens’.
Could graft on soul this chastening sense—
That endless widening circles Law,
Rules nations’ hopes as single mens’.
But strangled fierce his safer light,
Let smiling Nears hide frowning Fars,
Whose then approach twice ruthless write,
To hastening pace, fulfilling Stars.
Let smiling Nears hide frowning Fars,
Whose then approach twice ruthless write,
To hastening pace, fulfilling Stars.
Who pinned on back of brazen years
This shrift o’ theirs to coming times:
“He minded not the silent leers,
The steady sooth the Sybil rhymes.”
This shrift o’ theirs to coming times:
“He minded not the silent leers,
The steady sooth the Sybil rhymes.”
Whose burdened wreath may never bear
’Mong graven gems this baser stone,
Which, from low seat tho’ crude it flare,
Twice sorry dims the blazoned throne—
’Mong graven gems this baser stone,
Which, from low seat tho’ crude it flare,
Twice sorry dims the blazoned throne—
While doubly thence its legend reads:
“I tithe no blench to higher Wills,
But hold it cardinal ’mong creeds
’Tis love of self that all fulfills.”
“I tithe no blench to higher Wills,
But hold it cardinal ’mong creeds
’Tis love of self that all fulfills.”
Since, certes, good John, the wide Fates kiss:
Their sum-up Clerks need not be told
By one grim page to set this quizz—
“So little wise and yet so old.”
Their sum-up Clerks need not be told
By one grim page to set this quizz—
“So little wise and yet so old.”
So heady still, spite curb of years,
Such toper there where hard heads brew
Against some Guest that sobering nears,
From draff o’ old the cleaner New.
Such toper there where hard heads brew
Against some Guest that sobering nears,
From draff o’ old the cleaner New.
From cross of Days some bear-up Creed—
To sum of Why the sweet Reply,
Than cyphered Fate of clearer breed,
And purge to text she teacheth by—
To sum of Why the sweet Reply,
Than cyphered Fate of clearer breed,
And purge to text she teacheth by—
The “yea” to “nay” of self-sick man,
What crowns his raw and groan-fed Stars;
With olived light the vulture’s span
That gores as yet all warding bars;
What crowns his raw and groan-fed Stars;
With olived light the vulture’s span
That gores as yet all warding bars;
Who, tho’ still she strew her trophied trail
O’er sanguine sore, but fading seas,
Marks lift, and girt with nobler mail,
As sturdy rise, white-bucklered Peace.
* * * * * * * *
But I have had my little say:—
The Muse is such a taunting lass;
She grips your hand, and will or nay,
’Tis bear her tongue ere brooked to pass—
O’er sanguine sore, but fading seas,
Marks lift, and girt with nobler mail,
As sturdy rise, white-bucklered Peace.
* * * * * * * *
But I have had my little say:—
The Muse is such a taunting lass;
She grips your hand, and will or nay,
’Tis bear her tongue ere brooked to pass—
In sooth, she says she’s really done:
O’erhead a prim and foolish Moon,
In trappings borrowed from the Sun,
Flaunts gay her frock and silver shoon.
O’erhead a prim and foolish Moon,
In trappings borrowed from the Sun,
Flaunts gay her frock and silver shoon.
E’en so will human Wit fling wide
Its took-on crest and glittering gear,
What are but glancings as they glide
From off the Truth’s all-spanning sphere.
Its took-on crest and glittering gear,
What are but glancings as they glide
From off the Truth’s all-spanning sphere.
So will the Muse stand hard at gaze
Beneath this mystic, myriad Arch,
Hear faint thro’ rush of whirling days
Time’s silent roundsmen file and march—
Beneath this mystic, myriad Arch,
Hear faint thro’ rush of whirling days
Time’s silent roundsmen file and march—
Their never ending, ordered beat,
Those footsteps yare that warning fall
And charge each hand to bide the meet,
Account his watch, or void the Roll.
Those footsteps yare that warning fall
And charge each hand to bide the meet,
Account his watch, or void the Roll.
Nay, nothing daunted, pause to catch
Perhaps their song, perhaps the jars;
Through sting and throb, at strain to match
Their measures to some boundless Star’s.
Perhaps their song, perhaps the jars;
Through sting and throb, at strain to match
Their measures to some boundless Star’s.
But yet at Wrong she cannot bide
Must have her jog at slug-slow Time:
How far it rouse his hard-bound hide—
Ah! there’s the test of quickening rhyme!
Must have her jog at slug-slow Time:
How far it rouse his hard-bound hide—
Ah! there’s the test of quickening rhyme!
THE GIBBET-SONG.[1]