Songs of Travel, and Other Verses. Роберт Стивенсон

thrilled to feel her influence near,

         I struck my flag at sight.

      Her starry silence smote my ear

         Like sudden drums at night.

      I ran as, at the cannon’s roar,

         The troops the ramparts man —

      As in the holy house of yore

         The willing Eli ran.

      Here, lady, lo! that servant stands

         You picked from passing men,

      And should you need nor heart nor hands

         He bows and goes again.

      VIII

      To you, let snow and roses

         And golden locks belong.

      These are the world’s enslavers,

         Let these delight the throng.

      For her of duskier lustre

         Whose favour still I wear,

      The snow be in her kirtle,

         The rose be in her hair!

      The hue of highland rivers

         Careering, full and cool,

      From sable on to golden,

         From rapid on to pool —

      The hue of heather-honey,

         The hue of honey-bees,

      Shall tinge her golden shoulder,

         Shall gild her tawny knees.

      IX

      Let Beauty awake in the morn from beautiful dreams,

            Beauty awake from rest!

            Let Beauty awake

            For Beauty’s sake

      In the hour when the birds awake in the brake

            And the stars are bright in the west!

      Let Beauty awake in the eve from the slumber of day,

            Awake in the crimson eve!

            In the day’s dusk end

            When the shades ascend,

      Let her wake to the kiss of a tender friend

            To render again and receive!

      X

      I know not how it is with you —

         I love the first and last,

      The whole field of the present view,

         The whole flow of the past.

      One tittle of the things that are,

         Nor you should change nor I —

      One pebble in our path – one star

         In all our heaven of sky.

      Our lives, and every day and hour,

         One symphony appear:

      One road, one garden – every flower

         And every bramble dear.

      XI

      I will make you brooches and toys for your delight

      Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.

      I will make a palace fit for you and me

      Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

      I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,

      Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,

      And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white

      In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.

      And this shall be for music when no one else is near,

      The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!

      That only I remember, that only you admire,

      Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.

      XII – WE HAVE LOVED OF YORE

(To an air of Diabelli)

      Berried brake and reedy island,

         Heaven below, and only heaven above,

      Through the sky’s inverted azure

         Softly swam the boat that bore our love.

            Bright were your eyes as the day;

            Bright ran the stream,

            Bright hung the sky above.

      Days of April, airs of Eden,

         How the glory died through golden hours,

      And the shining moon arising,

         How the boat drew homeward filled with flowers!

            Bright were your eyes in the night:

            We have lived, my love —

            O, we have loved, my love.

      Frost has bound our flowing river,

         Snow has whitened all our island brake,

      And beside the winter fagot

         Joan and Darby doze and dream and wake.

            Still, in the river of dreams

            Swims the boat of love —

            Hark! chimes the falling oar!

      And again in winter evens

         When on firelight dreaming fancy feeds,

      In those ears of agèd lovers

         Love’s own river warbles in the reeds.

            Love still the past, O my love!

            We have lived of yore,

            O, we have loved of yore.

      XIII – MATER TRIUMPHANS

      Son of my woman’s body, you go, to the drum and fife,

      To taste the colour of love and the other side of life —

      From out of the dainty the rude, the strong from out of the frail,

      Eternally through the ages from the female comes the male.

      The ten fingers and toes, and the shell-like nail on each,

      The eyes blind as gems and the tongue attempting speech;

      Impotent hands in my bosom, and yet they shall wield the sword!

      Drugged with slumber and milk, you wait the day of the Lord.

      Infant bridegroom, uncrowned king, unanointed priest,

      Soldier, lover, explorer, I see you nuzzle the breast.

      You that grope in my bosom shall load the ladies with rings,

      You, that came forth through the doors, shall burst the doors of kings.

      XIV

      Bright is the ring of words

         When the right man rings them,

      Fair the fall of songs