« ForrigeFortsæt »
POETRY OF TERROR.
"There are points from which we can command our life, When the soul sweeps the Future like a glass,
And coming things full freighted with our fate
Jut out dark on the offing of the mind."- BAILEY: Festus.
SONG OF THE PARCE.
WITHIN my ears resounds that ancient song,
Forgotten was it, and forgotten gladly,
Song of the Parcæ, which they shuddering sang,
When Tantalus fell from his golden seat.
They suffered with their noble friend; indignant
Their bosom was, and terrible their
To me and to my sisters, in our youth, The nurse would sing it; and I marked it well.
"The Gods be your terror,
Ye children of men!
They hold the dominion
In hands everlasting,
All free to exert it
"Let him fear them doubly
"But they remain seated
Steams towards them the breathing
Like offerings of incense,
A light-rising vapor.
the proud masters
From whole generations
And was embarked to cross to Burgundy;
And in my company, my brother Gloster:
Who from nry cabin, tempted me to walk
Upon the hatches: thence we looked toward England,
And cited up a thousand heavy times,
During the wars of York and Lan
That had befallen us. As we paced along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
Methought that Gloster stumbled; and, in falling,
Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard,
Into the tumbling billows of the main. O heaven! methought what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of water in mine ears!
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes!
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;
A thousand men, that fishes gnawed upon;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, All scattered in the bottom of the
Some lay in dead men's skulls; and in those holes
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept
(As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems,
That wooed the slimy bottom of the deep,
And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by.
Brak. - Had you such leisure in the time of death
To gaze upon these secrets of the deep?
Clar. Methought I had: and
often did I strive
To yield the ghost: but still the envious flood
Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth
To seek the empty, vast, and wandering air;