The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Complete. Oliver Wendell Holmes

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Bound to no clime, for Passion's throb is one

       In Greenland's twilight or in India's sun;

       Born for no age, for all the thoughts that roll

       In the dark vortex of the stormy soul,

       Unchained in song, no freezing years can tame;

       God gave them birth, and man is still the same.

       So full on life her magic mirror shone,

       Her sister Arts paid tribute to her throne;

       One reared her temple, one her canvas warmed,

       And Music thrilled, while Eloquence informed.

       The weary rustic left his stinted task

       For smiles and tears, the dagger and the mask;

       The sage, turned scholar, half forgot his lore,

       To be the woman he despised before.

       O'er sense and thought she threw her golden chain,

       And Time, the anarch, spares her deathless reign.

      Thus lives Medea, in our tamer age,

       As when her buskin pressed the Grecian stage;

       Not in the cells where frigid learning delves

       In Aldine folios mouldering on their shelves,

       But breathing, burning in the glittering throng,

       Whose thousand bravoes roll untired along,

       Circling and spreading through the gilded halls,

       From London's galleries to San Carlo's walls!

      Thus shall he live whose more than mortal name

       Mocks with its ray the pallid torch of Fame;

       So proudly lifted that it seems afar

       No earthly Pharos, but a heavenly star,

       Who, unconfined to Art's diurnal bound,

       Girds her whole zodiac in his flaming round,

       And leads the passions, like the orb that guides,

       From pole to pole, the palpitating tides!

V.

       Table of Contents

      Though round the Muse the robe of song is thrown,

       Think not the poet lives in verse alone.

       Long ere the chisel of the sculptor taught

       The lifeless stone to mock the living thought;

       Long ere the painter bade the canvas glow

       With every line the forms of beauty know;

       Long ere the iris of the Muses threw

       On every leaf its own celestial hue,

       In fable's dress the breath of genius poured,

       And warmed the shapes that later times adored.

      Untaught by Science how to forge the keys

       That loose the gates of Nature's mysteries;

       Unschooled by Faith, who, with her angel tread,

       Leads through the labyrinth with a single thread,

       His fancy, hovering round her guarded tower,

       Rained through its bars like Danae's golden shower.

      He spoke; the sea-nymph answered from her cave

       He called; the naiad left her mountain wave

       He dreamed of beauty; lo, amidst his dream,

       Narcissus, mirrored in the breathless stream;

       And night's chaste empress, in her bridal play,

       Laughed through the foliage where Endymion lay;

       And ocean dimpled, as the languid swell

       Kissed the red lip of Cytherea's shell.

      Of power—Bellona swept the crimson field,

       And blue-eyed Pallas shook her Gorgon shield;

       O'er the hushed waves their mightier monarch drove,

       And Ida trembled to the tread of Jove!

      So every grace that plastic language knows

       To nameless poets its perfection owes.

       The rough-hewn words to simplest thoughts confined

       Were cut and polished in their nicer mind;

       Caught on their edge, imagination's ray

       Splits into rainbows, shooting far away;—

       From sense to soul, from soul to sense, it flies,

       And through all nature links analogies;

       He who reads right will rarely look upon

       A better poet than his lexicon!

      There is a race which cold, ungenial skies

       Breed from decay, as fungous growths arise;

       Though dying fast, yet springing fast again,

       Which still usurps an unsubstantial reign,

       With frames too languid for the charms of sense,

       And minds worn down with action too intense;

       Tired of a world whose joys they never knew,

       Themselves deceived, yet thinking all untrue;

       Scarce men without, and less than girls within,

       Sick of their life before its cares begin;—

       The dull disease, which drains their feeble hearts,

       To life's decay some hectic thrill's imparts,

       And lends a force which, like the maniac's power,

       Pays with blank years the frenzy of an hour.

      And this is Genius! Say, does Heaven degrade

       The manly frame, for health, for action made?

       СКАЧАТЬ