The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 03. Коллектив авторов
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СКАЧАТЬ wail from the steeple!—aloud

        The bell shrills its voice to the crowd!

            Look—look—red as blood

               All on high!

        It is not the daylight that fills with its flood

         The sky!

        What a clamor awaking

         Roars up through the street!

        What a hell-vapor breaking

         Rolls on through the street!

         And higher and higher

         Aloft moves the Column of Fire!

         Through the vistas and rows

         Like a whirlwind it goes,

         And the air like the steam from a furnace glows.

        Beams are crackling—posts are shrinking—

        Walls are sinking—windows clinking

          Children crying—

          Mothers flying—

        And the beast (the black ruin yet smoldering under)

        Yells the howl of its pain and its ghastly wonder!

        Hurry and skurry—away—away,

        The face of the night is as clear as day!

                As the links in a chain,

                Again and again

              Flies the bucket from hand to hand;

                High in arches up-rushing

                The engines are gushing,

        And the flood, as a beast on the prey that it hounds,

        With a roar on the breast of the element bounds.

                To the grain and the fruits,

                Through the rafters and beams,

        Through the barns and the garners it crackles and streams!

        As if they would rend up the earth from its roots,

                Rush the flames to the sky

                Giant-high;

        And at length,

        Wearied out and despairing, man bows to their strength!

        With an idle gaze sees their wrath consume,

        And submits to his doom!

          Desolate

        The place, and dread

        For storms the barren bed!

        In the blank voids that cheerful casements were,

        Comes to and fro the melancholy air,

          And sits despair;

        And through the ruin, blackening in its shroud,

        Peers, as it flits, the melancholy cloud.

          One human glance of grief upon the grave

          Of all that Fortune gave

          The loiterer takes—then turns him to depart,

          And grasps the wanderer's staff and mans his heart:

          Whatever else the element bereaves

          One blessing more than all it reft—it leaves

          The face that he loves!—He counts them o'er,

          See—not one look is missing from that store!

VI

          Now clasped the bell within the clay—

            The mold the mingled metals fill—

          Oh, may it, sparkling into day,

          Reward the labor and the skill!

            Alas! should it fail,

            For the mold may be frail—

        And still with our hope must be mingled the fear—

        And, ev'n now, while we speak, the mishap may be near!

          To the dark womb of sacred earth

            This labor of our hands is given,

          As seeds that wait the second birth,

            And turn to blessings watched by heaven!

          Ah seeds, how dearer far than they

            We bury in the dismal tomb,

          Where Hope and Sorrow bend to pray

          That suns beyond the realm of day

            May warm them into bloom!

                  From the steeple

                    Tolls the bell,

                  Deep and heavy,

                    The death-knell,

        Guiding with dirge-note—solemn, sad, and slow,

        To the last home earth's weary wanderers know.

          It is that worshipped wife—

          It is that faithful mother![14]

        Whom the dark Prince of Shadows leads benighted,

        From that dear arm where oft she hung delighted.

        Far from those blithe companions, born

        Of her, and blooming in their morn;

        On whom, when couched her heart above,

        So often looked the Mother-Love!

          Ah! rent the sweet Home's union-band,

            And never, never more to come—

          She dwells within the shadowy land,

            Who was the Mother of that Home!

          How oft they miss that tender guide,

            The care—the watch—the face—the MOTHER—

        And where she sate the babes beside,

          Sits with unloving looks—ANOTHER!

VII

        While the mass is cooling now,

          Let the labor yield to leisure,

        As the bird upon the bough,

          Loose the travail to the pleasure.

            When the soft stars awaken!

            Each task be forsaken!

        And the vesper-bell, lulling the earth into peace,

        If the master still toil, chimes the workman's release!

        Homeward from the tasks of day,

        Through the greenwood's welcome way

        Wends the wanderer, blithe and cheerily,

        To the cottage loved so dearly!

        And the eye and ear are meeting,

        Now, the slow sheep homeward bleating;

        Now, the wonted shelter near,

        Lowing СКАЧАТЬ