My little doves have left a nestUpon an Indian tree,Whose leaves fantastic take their restOr motion from the sea;For, ever there, the sea winds goWith sunlit paces to and fro.The tropic flowers looked up to it,The tropic stars looked down,And there my little doves did sitWith feathers softly brown,And glittering eyes that showed their rightTo gentle Nature's deep delight.And God them taught, at every closeOf murmuring waves beyond,And green leaves round to interposeTheir choral voices fond,Interpreting that love must beThe meaning of the earth and sea.Fit ministers! Of living loves,Theirs hath the calmest fashion,Their living voice the likest movesTo lifeless intonation,The lovely monotone of springAnd winds, and such insensate things.My little doves were ta'en awayFrom that glad nest of theirs,Across an ocean rolling gray,And tempest-clouded airs.My little doves,—who lately knewThe sky and wave by warmth and blue!And now, within the city prison,In mist and chillness pent,With' sudden upward look they listenFor sounds of past content—For lapse of water, swell of breeze,Or nut fruit falling from the trees.The stir without the glow of passion,The triumph of the mart,The gold and silver as they clash onMan's cold metallic heart—The roar of wheels, the cry for bread,—These only sounds are heard instead.Yet still, as on my human handTheir fearless heads they lean,And almost seem to understandWhat human musings mean,(Their eyes, with such a plaintive shine,Are fastened upwardly to mine!)Soft falls their chant as on the nestBeneath the sunny zone;For love that stirred it in their breastHas not aweary grown,And 'neath the city's shade can keepThe well of music clear and deep.And love that keeps the music, fillsWith pastoral memories:All echoing from out the hills,All droppings from the skies,All flowings from the wave and wind,Remembered in their chant, I find.So teach ye me the wisest part,My little doves! to moveAlong the city ways with heartAssured by holy love,And vocal with such songs as ownA fountain to the world unknown.'Twas hard to sing by Babel's stream—More hard, in Babel's street!But if the soulless creatures deemTheir music not unmeetFor sunless walls—letusbegin,Who wear immortal wings within!To me, fair memories belongOf scenes that used to bless,For no regret, but present song,And lasting thankfulness,And very soon to break away,Like types, in purer things than they.I will have hopes that cannot fade,For flowers the valley yields!I will have humble thoughts insteadOf silent, dewy fields!My spirit and my God shall beMy seaward hill, my boundless sea.
My little doves have left a nestUpon an Indian tree,Whose leaves fantastic take their restOr motion from the sea;For, ever there, the sea winds goWith sunlit paces to and fro.
The tropic flowers looked up to it,The tropic stars looked down,And there my little doves did sitWith feathers softly brown,And glittering eyes that showed their rightTo gentle Nature's deep delight.
And God them taught, at every closeOf murmuring waves beyond,And green leaves round to interposeTheir choral voices fond,Interpreting that love must beThe meaning of the earth and sea.
Fit ministers! Of living loves,Theirs hath the calmest fashion,Their living voice the likest movesTo lifeless intonation,The lovely monotone of springAnd winds, and such insensate things.
My little doves were ta'en awayFrom that glad nest of theirs,Across an ocean rolling gray,And tempest-clouded airs.My little doves,—who lately knewThe sky and wave by warmth and blue!
And now, within the city prison,In mist and chillness pent,With' sudden upward look they listenFor sounds of past content—For lapse of water, swell of breeze,Or nut fruit falling from the trees.
The stir without the glow of passion,The triumph of the mart,The gold and silver as they clash onMan's cold metallic heart—The roar of wheels, the cry for bread,—These only sounds are heard instead.
Yet still, as on my human handTheir fearless heads they lean,And almost seem to understandWhat human musings mean,(Their eyes, with such a plaintive shine,Are fastened upwardly to mine!)
Soft falls their chant as on the nestBeneath the sunny zone;For love that stirred it in their breastHas not aweary grown,And 'neath the city's shade can keepThe well of music clear and deep.
And love that keeps the music, fillsWith pastoral memories:All echoing from out the hills,All droppings from the skies,All flowings from the wave and wind,Remembered in their chant, I find.
So teach ye me the wisest part,My little doves! to moveAlong the city ways with heartAssured by holy love,And vocal with such songs as ownA fountain to the world unknown.
'Twas hard to sing by Babel's stream—More hard, in Babel's street!But if the soulless creatures deemTheir music not unmeetFor sunless walls—letusbegin,Who wear immortal wings within!
To me, fair memories belongOf scenes that used to bless,For no regret, but present song,And lasting thankfulness,And very soon to break away,Like types, in purer things than they.
I will have hopes that cannot fade,For flowers the valley yields!I will have humble thoughts insteadOf silent, dewy fields!My spirit and my God shall beMy seaward hill, my boundless sea.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
a schooner and a sailboat on a river
As ships becalmed at eve, that layWith canvas drooping, side by side,Two towers of sail at dawn of dayAre scarce, long leagues apart, descried;When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,And all the darkling hours they plied,Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seasBy each was cleaving, side by side:E'en so,—but why the tale revealOf those whom, year by year unchanged,Brief absence joined anew to feel,Astounded, soul from soul estranged?At dead of night their sails were filled,And onward each rejoicing steered;Ah, neither blame, for neither willed,Or wist, what first with dawn appeared!To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,Through winds and tides one compass guides,—To that, and your own selves, be true.But O blithe breeze, and O great seas,Though ne'er, that earliest parting past,On your wide plain they join again,Together lead them home at last!One port, methought, alike they sought,One purpose hold where'er they fare,—O bounding breeze, O rushing seas,At last, at last, unite them there!
As ships becalmed at eve, that layWith canvas drooping, side by side,Two towers of sail at dawn of dayAre scarce, long leagues apart, descried;
When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,And all the darkling hours they plied,Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seasBy each was cleaving, side by side:
E'en so,—but why the tale revealOf those whom, year by year unchanged,Brief absence joined anew to feel,Astounded, soul from soul estranged?
At dead of night their sails were filled,And onward each rejoicing steered;Ah, neither blame, for neither willed,Or wist, what first with dawn appeared!
To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,Through winds and tides one compass guides,—To that, and your own selves, be true.
But O blithe breeze, and O great seas,Though ne'er, that earliest parting past,On your wide plain they join again,Together lead them home at last!
One port, methought, alike they sought,One purpose hold where'er they fare,—O bounding breeze, O rushing seas,At last, at last, unite them there!
Arthur Hugh Clough.
The sad and solemn nightHath yet her multitude of cheerful fires;The glorious host of lightWalk the dark hemisphere till she retires;All through her silent watches, gliding slow,Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go.Day, too, hath many a starTo grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they:Through the blue fields afar,Unseen, they follow in his flaming way:Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim,Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him.And thou dost see them rise,Star of the Pole! and thou dost see them set.Alone, in thy cold skies,Thou keep'st thy old unmoving station yet,Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train,Nor dipp'st thy virgin orb in the blue western main.There, at morn's rosy birth,Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air,And eve, that round the earthChases the day, beholds thee watching there;There noontide finds thee, and the hour that callsThe shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure walls.Alike, beneath thine eye,The deeds of darkness and of light are done;High towards the starlit skyTowns blaze, the smoke of battle blots the sun,The night storm on a thousand hills is loudAnd the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud.On thy unaltering blazeThe half-wrecked mariner, his compass lost,Fixes his steady gaze,And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast;And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night,Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right.And, therefore, bards of old,Sages and hermits of the solemn wood,Did in thy beams beholdA beauteous type of that unchanging good,That bright eternal beacon, by whose rayThe voyager of time should shape his heedful way.
The sad and solemn nightHath yet her multitude of cheerful fires;The glorious host of lightWalk the dark hemisphere till she retires;All through her silent watches, gliding slow,Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go.
Day, too, hath many a starTo grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they:Through the blue fields afar,Unseen, they follow in his flaming way:Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim,Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him.
And thou dost see them rise,Star of the Pole! and thou dost see them set.Alone, in thy cold skies,Thou keep'st thy old unmoving station yet,Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train,Nor dipp'st thy virgin orb in the blue western main.
There, at morn's rosy birth,Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air,And eve, that round the earthChases the day, beholds thee watching there;There noontide finds thee, and the hour that callsThe shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure walls.
Alike, beneath thine eye,The deeds of darkness and of light are done;High towards the starlit skyTowns blaze, the smoke of battle blots the sun,The night storm on a thousand hills is loudAnd the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud.
On thy unaltering blazeThe half-wrecked mariner, his compass lost,Fixes his steady gaze,And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast;And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night,Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right.
And, therefore, bards of old,Sages and hermits of the solemn wood,Did in thy beams beholdA beauteous type of that unchanging good,That bright eternal beacon, by whose rayThe voyager of time should shape his heedful way.
William Cullen Bryant.
Now came still evening on, and twilight grayHad in her sober livery all things clad:Silence accompanied; for beast and bird,They to their grassy couch, these to their nests,Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale;She all night long her amorous descant sung;Silence was pleased: now glowed the firmamentWith living sapphires: Hesperus, that ledThe starry host, rode brightest, till the moon,Rising in clouded majesty, at length,Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light,And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.
Now came still evening on, and twilight grayHad in her sober livery all things clad:Silence accompanied; for beast and bird,They to their grassy couch, these to their nests,Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale;She all night long her amorous descant sung;Silence was pleased: now glowed the firmamentWith living sapphires: Hesperus, that ledThe starry host, rode brightest, till the moon,Rising in clouded majesty, at length,Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light,And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.
John Milton.
From "Paradise Lost."
One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee,One lesson which in every wind is blown,One lesson of two duties kept at oneThough the loud world proclaim their enmity—Of toil unsevered from tranquillity;Of labor, that in lasting fruit outgrowsFar noisier schemes, accomplished in repose,Too great for haste, too high for rivalry.Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring,Man's senseless uproar mingling with his toil,Still do thy quiet ministers move on,Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting;Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil,Laborers that shall not fail, when man is gone.
One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee,One lesson which in every wind is blown,One lesson of two duties kept at oneThough the loud world proclaim their enmity—Of toil unsevered from tranquillity;Of labor, that in lasting fruit outgrowsFar noisier schemes, accomplished in repose,Too great for haste, too high for rivalry.Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring,Man's senseless uproar mingling with his toil,Still do thy quiet ministers move on,Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting;Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil,Laborers that shall not fail, when man is gone.
Matthew Arnold.
Portrait of Samuel Taylor ColeridgeSAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
Hast thou a charm to stay the morning starIn his steep course? so long he seems to pauseOn thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!The Arvé and Arveiron at thy baseRave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form,Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,How silently! Around thee and above,Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,As with a wedge! But when I look again,It is thy own calm home, thy crystal shrine,Thy habitation from eternity!O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee,Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,Didst vanish from my thoughts: entranced in prayerI worshiped the Invisible alone.Yet, like some sweet, beguiling melody,So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,Thou the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy:Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused,Into the mighty vision passing,—there,As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven!Awake, my soul! not only passive praiseThou owest,—not alone these swelling tears,Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake,Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn!Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale!O, struggling with the darkness all the night,And visited all night by troops of stars,Or when they climb the sky or when they sink;Companion of the morning star at dawn,Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawnCoherald! O, wake, and utter praise!Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad,Who called you forth from night and utter death,From dark and icy caverns called you forth,Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,Forever shattered and the same forever?Who gave you your invulnerable life,Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?And who commanded—and the silence came—"Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?"Ye ice falls! ye that from the mountain's brow,Adown enormous ravines slope amain,Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!Who made you glorious as the gates of heavenBeneath the keen, full moon? Who bade the sunClothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowersOf loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?"God!" let the torrents, like a shout of nations,Answer; and let the ice plains echo, "God!""God!" sing, ye meadow streams with gladsome voice!Ye pine groves, with your soft and soullike sounds!And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow,And in their perilous fall shall thunder, "God!"Ye living flowers, that skirt the eternal frost!Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle's nest!Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm!Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!Ye signs and wonders of the elements!Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!Thou, too, hoar mount, with thy sky-pointing peaks!Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,Shoots downward, glittering through the pure sereneInto the depths of clouds that veil thy breast,Thou, too, again, stupendous mountain! thouThat as I raise my head, awhile bowed lowIn adoration, upward from thy baseSlow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears,Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud,To rise before me,—rise, O, ever rise,Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth!Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills,Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven,Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,Earth, with her thousand voices praises God.
Hast thou a charm to stay the morning starIn his steep course? so long he seems to pauseOn thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!The Arvé and Arveiron at thy baseRave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form,Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,How silently! Around thee and above,Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,As with a wedge! But when I look again,It is thy own calm home, thy crystal shrine,Thy habitation from eternity!O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee,Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,Didst vanish from my thoughts: entranced in prayerI worshiped the Invisible alone.
Yet, like some sweet, beguiling melody,So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,Thou the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy:Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused,Into the mighty vision passing,—there,As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven!
Awake, my soul! not only passive praiseThou owest,—not alone these swelling tears,Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake,Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn!
Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale!O, struggling with the darkness all the night,And visited all night by troops of stars,Or when they climb the sky or when they sink;Companion of the morning star at dawn,Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawnCoherald! O, wake, and utter praise!Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad,Who called you forth from night and utter death,From dark and icy caverns called you forth,Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,Forever shattered and the same forever?Who gave you your invulnerable life,Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?And who commanded—and the silence came—"Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?"
Ye ice falls! ye that from the mountain's brow,Adown enormous ravines slope amain,Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!Who made you glorious as the gates of heavenBeneath the keen, full moon? Who bade the sunClothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowersOf loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?"God!" let the torrents, like a shout of nations,Answer; and let the ice plains echo, "God!""God!" sing, ye meadow streams with gladsome voice!Ye pine groves, with your soft and soullike sounds!And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow,And in their perilous fall shall thunder, "God!"
Ye living flowers, that skirt the eternal frost!Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle's nest!Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm!Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!Ye signs and wonders of the elements!Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!
Thou, too, hoar mount, with thy sky-pointing peaks!Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,Shoots downward, glittering through the pure sereneInto the depths of clouds that veil thy breast,Thou, too, again, stupendous mountain! thouThat as I raise my head, awhile bowed lowIn adoration, upward from thy baseSlow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears,Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud,To rise before me,—rise, O, ever rise,Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth!Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills,Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven,Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,Earth, with her thousand voices praises God.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
village nestled in a valley in the AlpsMONT BLANC. (Vale of Chamouni.)
Much have I traveled in the realms of gold,And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;Round many western islands have I beenWhich bards in fealty to Apollo hold.Oft of one wide expanse had I been toldThat deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne:Yet did I never breathe its pure sereneTill I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold.Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken;Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyesHe stared at the Pacific—and all his menLooked at each other with a wild surmise—Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
Much have I traveled in the realms of gold,And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;Round many western islands have I beenWhich bards in fealty to Apollo hold.Oft of one wide expanse had I been toldThat deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne:Yet did I never breathe its pure sereneTill I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold.Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken;Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyesHe stared at the Pacific—and all his menLooked at each other with a wild surmise—Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
John Keats.
It little profits that an idle king,By this still hearth, among these barren crags,Matched with an aged wife, I mete and doleUnequal laws unto a savage race,That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.I cannot rest from travel: I will drinkLife to the lees: all times have I enjoyedGreatly, have suffered greatly, both with thoseThat loved me, and alone; on shore, and whenThro' scudding drifts the rainy HyadesVext the dim sea: I am become a name;For always roaming with a hungry heartMuch have I seen and known; cities of menAnd manners, climates, councils, governments,Myself not least, but honored of them all;And drunk delight of battle with my peers,Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.I am a part of all that I have met;Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'Gleams that untraveled world, whose margin fadesFor ever and for ever when I move.How dull it is to pause, to make an end,To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on lifeWere all too little, and of one to meLittle remains: but every hour is savedFrom that eternal silence, something more,A bringer of new things; and vile it wereFor some three suns to store and hoard myself,And this gray spirit yearning in desireTo follow knowledge like a sinking star,Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.This is my son, mine own Telemachus,To whom I leave the scepter and the isle—Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfillThis labor, by slow prudence to make mildA rugged people, and thro' soft degreesSubdue them to the useful and the good.Most blameless is he, centered in the sphereOf common duties, decent not to failIn offices of tenderness, and payMeet adoration to my household gods,When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.There lies the port: the vessel puffs her sail:There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me—That ever with a frolic welcome tookThe thunder and the sunshine, and opposedFree hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;Old age hath yet his honor and his toil;Death closes all: but something ere the end,Some work of noble note, may yet be done,Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deepMoans round with many voices. Come, my friends,'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.Push off, and sitting well in order smiteThe sounding furrows; for my purpose holdsTo sail beyond the sunset, and the bathsOf all the western stars, until I die.It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.Tho' much is taken, much abides: and tho'We are not now that strength which in old daysMoved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;One equal temper of heroic hearts,Made weak by time and fate, but strong in willTo strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
It little profits that an idle king,By this still hearth, among these barren crags,Matched with an aged wife, I mete and doleUnequal laws unto a savage race,That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.I cannot rest from travel: I will drinkLife to the lees: all times have I enjoyedGreatly, have suffered greatly, both with thoseThat loved me, and alone; on shore, and whenThro' scudding drifts the rainy HyadesVext the dim sea: I am become a name;For always roaming with a hungry heartMuch have I seen and known; cities of menAnd manners, climates, councils, governments,Myself not least, but honored of them all;And drunk delight of battle with my peers,Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.I am a part of all that I have met;Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'Gleams that untraveled world, whose margin fadesFor ever and for ever when I move.How dull it is to pause, to make an end,To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on lifeWere all too little, and of one to meLittle remains: but every hour is savedFrom that eternal silence, something more,A bringer of new things; and vile it wereFor some three suns to store and hoard myself,And this gray spirit yearning in desireTo follow knowledge like a sinking star,Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.This is my son, mine own Telemachus,To whom I leave the scepter and the isle—Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfillThis labor, by slow prudence to make mildA rugged people, and thro' soft degreesSubdue them to the useful and the good.Most blameless is he, centered in the sphereOf common duties, decent not to failIn offices of tenderness, and payMeet adoration to my household gods,When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.There lies the port: the vessel puffs her sail:There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me—That ever with a frolic welcome tookThe thunder and the sunshine, and opposedFree hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;Old age hath yet his honor and his toil;Death closes all: but something ere the end,Some work of noble note, may yet be done,Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deepMoans round with many voices. Come, my friends,'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.Push off, and sitting well in order smiteThe sounding furrows; for my purpose holdsTo sail beyond the sunset, and the bathsOf all the western stars, until I die.It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.Tho' much is taken, much abides: and tho'We are not now that strength which in old daysMoved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;One equal temper of heroic hearts,Made weak by time and fate, but strong in willTo strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Alfred Tennyson.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.The evil that men do lives after them;The good is oft interrèd with their bones;So let it be with Cæsar. The noble BrutusHath told you Cæsar was ambitious:If it were so, it were a grievous fault,And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest—For Brutus is an honorable man;So are they all, all honorable men—Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.He was my friend, faithful and just to me:But Brutus says he was ambitious;And Brutus is an honorable man.He hath brought many captives home to Rome,Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept:Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;And Brutus is an honorable man.You all did see that on the LupercalI thrice presented him a kingly crown,Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;And, sure, he is an honorable man.I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,But here I am to speak what I do know.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.The evil that men do lives after them;The good is oft interrèd with their bones;So let it be with Cæsar. The noble BrutusHath told you Cæsar was ambitious:If it were so, it were a grievous fault,And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest—For Brutus is an honorable man;So are they all, all honorable men—Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.He was my friend, faithful and just to me:But Brutus says he was ambitious;And Brutus is an honorable man.He hath brought many captives home to Rome,Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept:Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;And Brutus is an honorable man.You all did see that on the LupercalI thrice presented him a kingly crown,Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;And, sure, he is an honorable man.I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,But here I am to speak what I do know.
Cæsar being mournedDEATH OF CÆSAR.
You all did love him once, not without cause:What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,And men have lost their reason. Bear with me:My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,And I must pause till it come back to me.·········
You all did love him once, not without cause:What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,And men have lost their reason. Bear with me:My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,And I must pause till it come back to me.·········
But yesterday the word of Cæsar mightHave stood against the world; now lies he there,And none so poor to do him reverence.O masters, if I were disposed to stirYour hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,Who, you all know, are honorable men:I will not do them wrong; I rather chooseTo wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,Than I will wrong such honorable men.But here's a parchment with the seal of Cæsar;I found it in his closet, 'tis his will:Let but the commons hear this testament—Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read—And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar's woundsAnd dip their napkins in his sacred blood,Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,And, dying, mention it within their wills,Bequeathing it as a rich legacyUnto their issue.·········
But yesterday the word of Cæsar mightHave stood against the world; now lies he there,And none so poor to do him reverence.O masters, if I were disposed to stirYour hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,Who, you all know, are honorable men:I will not do them wrong; I rather chooseTo wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,Than I will wrong such honorable men.But here's a parchment with the seal of Cæsar;I found it in his closet, 'tis his will:Let but the commons hear this testament—Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read—And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar's woundsAnd dip their napkins in his sacred blood,Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,And, dying, mention it within their wills,Bequeathing it as a rich legacyUnto their issue.·········
Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it;It is not meet you know how Cæsar loved you.You are not wood, you are not stones, but men;And, being men, hearing the will of Cæsar,It will inflame you, it will make you mad:Tis good you know not that you are his heirs;For, if you should, O, what would come of it!·········
Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it;It is not meet you know how Cæsar loved you.You are not wood, you are not stones, but men;And, being men, hearing the will of Cæsar,It will inflame you, it will make you mad:Tis good you know not that you are his heirs;For, if you should, O, what would come of it!·········
Will you be patient? will you stay awhile?I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it:I fear I wrong the honorable menWhose daggers have stabbed Cæsar; I do fear it.·········
Will you be patient? will you stay awhile?I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it:I fear I wrong the honorable menWhose daggers have stabbed Cæsar; I do fear it.·········
You will compel me, then, to read the will?Then make a ring about the corpse of Cæsar,And let me show you him that made the will.Shall I descend? and will you give me leave?·········
You will compel me, then, to read the will?Then make a ring about the corpse of Cæsar,And let me show you him that made the will.Shall I descend? and will you give me leave?·········
Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off.·········
Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off.·········
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.You all do know this mantle: I rememberThe first time ever Cæsar put it on;'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent,That day he overcame the Nervii:Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through:See what a rent the envious Casca made:Through this the well-belovèd Brutus stabbed;And as he plucked his cursèd steel away,Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it,As rushing out of doors, to be resolvedIf Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no;For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel:Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him!This was the most unkindest cut of all:For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty heart;And, in his mantle muffling up his face,Even at the base of Pompey's statua,Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feelThe dint of pity: these are gracious drops.Kind souls, what, weep you when you but beholdOur Cæsar's vesture wounded? Look you here,Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors.·········
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.You all do know this mantle: I rememberThe first time ever Cæsar put it on;'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent,That day he overcame the Nervii:Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through:See what a rent the envious Casca made:Through this the well-belovèd Brutus stabbed;And as he plucked his cursèd steel away,Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it,As rushing out of doors, to be resolvedIf Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no;For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel:Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him!This was the most unkindest cut of all:For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty heart;And, in his mantle muffling up his face,Even at the base of Pompey's statua,Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feelThe dint of pity: these are gracious drops.Kind souls, what, weep you when you but beholdOur Cæsar's vesture wounded? Look you here,Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors.·········
Stay, countrymen.·········
Stay, countrymen.·········
Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you upTo such a sudden flood of mutiny.They that have done this deed are honorable:What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,That made them do it: they are wise and honorable,And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts:I am no orator, as Brutus is;But, as you know me, a plain blunt man,That love my friend; and that they know full wellThat gave me public leave to speak of him:For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,To stir men's blood: I only speak right on:I tell you that which you yourselves do know:Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths,And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus,And Brutus Antony, there were an AntonyWould ruffle up your spirits and put a tongueIn every wound of Cæsar that should moveThe stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.·········
Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you upTo such a sudden flood of mutiny.They that have done this deed are honorable:What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,That made them do it: they are wise and honorable,And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts:I am no orator, as Brutus is;But, as you know me, a plain blunt man,That love my friend; and that they know full wellThat gave me public leave to speak of him:For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,To stir men's blood: I only speak right on:I tell you that which you yourselves do know:Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths,And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus,And Brutus Antony, there were an AntonyWould ruffle up your spirits and put a tongueIn every wound of Cæsar that should moveThe stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.·········
Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak.·········
Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak.·········
Why, friends, you go to do you know not what:Wherein hath Cæsar thus deserved your loves?Alas, you know not: I must tell you, then:You have forgot the will I told you of.·········
Why, friends, you go to do you know not what:Wherein hath Cæsar thus deserved your loves?Alas, you know not: I must tell you, then:You have forgot the will I told you of.·········
Here is the will, and under Cæsar's seal.To every Roman citizen he gives,To every several man, seventy five drachmas.·········
Here is the will, and under Cæsar's seal.To every Roman citizen he gives,To every several man, seventy five drachmas.·········
Hear me with patience.·········
Hear me with patience.·········
Moreover, he hath left you all his walks,His private arbors, and new-planted orchards,On this side Tiber; he hath left them you,And to your heirs forever, common pleasures,To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves.Here was a Cæsar! when comes such another?
Moreover, he hath left you all his walks,His private arbors, and new-planted orchards,On this side Tiber; he hath left them you,And to your heirs forever, common pleasures,To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves.Here was a Cæsar! when comes such another?
William Shakespeare.
From "Julius Cæsar."
Portrait of the Duke of WellingtonDUKE OF WELLINGTON.
Lo, the leader in these glorious warsNow to glorious burial slowly borne,Followed by the brave of other lands,He, on whom from both her open handsLavish Honor showered all her stars,And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn.Yea, let all good things awaitHim who cares not to be great,But as he saves or serves the state.Not once or twice in our rough island-story,The path of duty was the way to glory:He that walks it, only thirstingFor the right, and learns to deadenLove of self, before his journey closes,He shall find the stubborn thistle burstingInto glossy purples, which outreddenAll voluptuous garden roses.Not once or twice in our fair island-story,The path of duty was the way to glory:He, that ever following her commands,On with toil of heart and knees and hands,Thro' the long gorge to the far light has wonHis path upward, and prevailed,Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaledAre close upon the shining table landsTo which our God himself is moon and sun,Such was he: his work is done,But while the races of mankind endure,Let his great example standColossal, seen of every land,And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure;Till in all lands and thro' all human storyThe path of duty be the way to glory:And let the land whose hearths he saved from shameFor many and many an age proclaimAt civic revel and pomp and game,And when the long-illumined cities flame,Their ever loyal iron leader's fame,With honor, honor, honor, honor to him,Eternal honor to his name.
Lo, the leader in these glorious warsNow to glorious burial slowly borne,Followed by the brave of other lands,He, on whom from both her open handsLavish Honor showered all her stars,And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn.Yea, let all good things awaitHim who cares not to be great,But as he saves or serves the state.Not once or twice in our rough island-story,The path of duty was the way to glory:He that walks it, only thirstingFor the right, and learns to deadenLove of self, before his journey closes,He shall find the stubborn thistle burstingInto glossy purples, which outreddenAll voluptuous garden roses.Not once or twice in our fair island-story,The path of duty was the way to glory:He, that ever following her commands,On with toil of heart and knees and hands,Thro' the long gorge to the far light has wonHis path upward, and prevailed,Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaledAre close upon the shining table landsTo which our God himself is moon and sun,Such was he: his work is done,But while the races of mankind endure,Let his great example standColossal, seen of every land,And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure;Till in all lands and thro' all human storyThe path of duty be the way to glory:And let the land whose hearths he saved from shameFor many and many an age proclaimAt civic revel and pomp and game,And when the long-illumined cities flame,Their ever loyal iron leader's fame,With honor, honor, honor, honor to him,Eternal honor to his name.
Alfred Tennyson.
Portrait of John MiltonJOHN MILTON.
Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour:England hath need of thee: she is a fenOf stagnant waters! altar, sword, and pen,Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,Have forfeited their ancient English dowerOf inward happiness. We are selfish men;Oh! raise us up, return to us again;And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart:Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,So didst thou travel on life's common way,In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heartThe lowliest duties on herself did lay.
Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour:England hath need of thee: she is a fenOf stagnant waters! altar, sword, and pen,Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,Have forfeited their ancient English dowerOf inward happiness. We are selfish men;Oh! raise us up, return to us again;And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart:Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,So didst thou travel on life's common way,In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heartThe lowliest duties on herself did lay.
William Wordsworth.
While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,My truelove has mounted his steed, and awayOver hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down,—Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!He has doffed the silk doublet the breastplate to bear,He has placed the steel cap o'er his long-flowing hair,From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down,—Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws;Her King is his leader, her church is his cause;His watchward is honor, his pay is renown,—God strike with the gallant that strikes for the crown!They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and allThe roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town,That the spears of the North have encircled the crown.There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;There's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose!Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and BrownWith the Barons of England, that fight for the crown?Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier!Be his banner unconquered, resistless his spear,Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown,In a pledge to fair England, her church, and her crown.
While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,My truelove has mounted his steed, and awayOver hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down,—Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!
He has doffed the silk doublet the breastplate to bear,He has placed the steel cap o'er his long-flowing hair,From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down,—Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!
For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws;Her King is his leader, her church is his cause;His watchward is honor, his pay is renown,—God strike with the gallant that strikes for the crown!
They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and allThe roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town,That the spears of the North have encircled the crown.
There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;There's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose!Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and BrownWith the Barons of England, that fight for the crown?
Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier!Be his banner unconquered, resistless his spear,Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown,In a pledge to fair England, her church, and her crown.
Sir Walter Scott.