New Collected Rhymes. Lang Andrew

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      “These are but symbols that I sing,

      These names of Prince, and rose, and King;

      Types of things dear that do not die,

      But reign in loyal memory.

      Across the water surely they

      Abide their twenty-ninth of May;

      And we shall hail their happy reign,

      When Life comes to his own again,” —

      Dear Poet, now turned out to grass

            (Like him who reigned in Babylon),

         Forget the seasons overlaid

         By business and the Board of Trade:

      And sing of old-world lad and lass

            As in the summers that are gone.

      Back to the golden prime of Anne!

            When you ambassador had been,

         And brought o’er sea the King again,

         Beatrix Esmond in his train,

      Ah, happy bard to hold her fan,

            And happy land with such a Queen!

      We live too early, or too late,

            You should have shared the pint of Pope,

         And taught, well pleased, the shining shell

         To murmur of the fair Lepel,

      And changed the stars of St. John’s fate

            To some more happy horoscope.

      By duchesses with roses crowned,

            And fed with chicken and champagne,

         Urbane and witty, and too wary

         To risk the feud of Lady Mary,

      You should have walked the courtly ground

            Of times that cannot come again.

      Bring back these years in verse or prose,

            (I very much prefer your verse!)

         As on some Twenty-Ninth of May

         Restore the splendour and the sway,

      Forget the sins, the wars, the woes —

            The joys alone must you rehearse.

      Forget the dunces (there is none

            So stupid as to snarl at you);

         So may your years with pen and book

         Run pleasant as an English brook

      Through meadows floral in the sun,

            And shadows fragrant of the dew.

      And thus at ending of your span —

            As all must end – the world shall say,

         “His best he gave: he left us not

         A line that saints could wish to blot,

      For he was blameless, though a man,

            And though the poet, he was gay!”

      The Maiden called for her great destrier,

      But he lashed like a fiend when the Maid drew near:

      “Lead him forth to the Cross!” she cried, and he stood

      Like a steed of bronze by the Holy Rood!

      Then I saw the Maiden mount and ride,

      With a good steel sperthe that swung by her side,

      And girt with the sword of the Heavenly Bride,

      That is sained with crosses five for a sign,

      The mystical sword of St. Catherine.

      And the lily banner was blowing wide,

      With the flowers of France on the field of fame

      And, blent with the blossoms, the Holy Name!

      And the Maiden’s blazon was shown on a shield,

      Argent, a dove, on an azure field;

      That banner was wrought by this hand, ye see,

      For the love of the Maid and chivalry.

      Her banner was borne by a page of grace,

      With hair of gold, and a lady’s face;

      And behind it the ranks of her men were dressed —

      Never a man but was clean confessed,

      Jackman and archer, lord and knight,

      Their souls were clean and their hearts were light:

      There was never an oath, there was never a laugh,

      And La Hire swore soft by his leading staff!

      Had we died in that hour we had won the skies,

      And the Maiden had marched us through Paradise!

      A moment she turned to the people there,

      Who had come to gaze on the Maiden fair;

      A moment she glanced at the ring she wore,

      She murmured the Holy Name it bore,

      Then, “For France and the King, good people pray!”

      She spoke, and she cried to us, “On and away!”

      And the shouts broke forth, and the flowers rained down,

      And the Maiden led us to Orleans town.

      Lone places of the deer,

         Corrie, and Loch, and Ben,

      Fount that wells in the cave,

      Voice of the burn and the wave,

      Softly you sing and СКАЧАТЬ