«Стандартные избранные произведения: Сборник для чтения и выступлений»

"I cannot marry Dora; by my life,

I will not marry Dora." Then the old man

Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said,

"You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!

But in my time a father's word was law,

And so it shall be now for me. Look to it;

Consider, William, take a month to think,

And let me have an answer to my wish;

Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,

And never more darken my doors again."

But William answer'd madly; bit his lips,

And broke away. The more he look'd at her

The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;

But Dora bore them meekly. Then before

The month was out he left his father's house,

And hired himself to work within the fields;

And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed

A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison.

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd

His niece and said, "My girl, I love you well;

But if you speak with him that was my son,

Or change a word with her he calls his wife,

My home is none of yours. My will is law."

And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,

"It cannot be, my uncle's mind will change!"

And days went on, and there was born a boy

To William; then distresses came on him;

And day by day he pass'd his father's gate,

Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not.

But Dora stored what little she could save,

And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know

Who sent it; till at last a fever seized

On William, and in harvest time he died.

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat

And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought

Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said,

"I have obey'd my uncle until now,

And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me

This evil came on William at the first.

But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,

And for your sake, the woman that he chose,

And for this orphan, I am come to you.

You know there has not been for these five years

So full a harvest; let me take the boy,

And I will set him in my uncle's eye

Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad

Of the full harvest, he may see the boy,

And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."

And Dora took the child, and went her way

Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound

That was unsown, where many poppies grew.

Far off the farmer came into the field

And spied her not; for none of all his men

Dare tell him Dora waited with the child;

And Dora would have risen and gone to him,

But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd,

And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

But when the morrow came, she rose and took

The child once more, and sat upon the mound;

And made a little wreath of all the flowers

That grew about, and tied it round his hat

To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.

Then when the farmer pass'd into the field

He spied her, and he left his men at work,

And came and said, "Where were you yesterday?

Whose child is that? What are you doing here?"

So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,

And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!"

"And did I not," said Allan, "did I not

Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again,

"Do with me as you will, but take the child,

And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!"

And Allan said, "I see it is a trick

Got up betwixt you and the woman there.

I must be taught my duty, and by you!

You knew my word was law, and yet you dared

To slight it. Well—for I will take the boy,

But go you hence, and never see me more."

So saying, he took the boy that cried aloud

And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell

At Dora's, feet. She bow'd upon her hands,

And the boy's cry came to her from the field,

More and more distant. She bow'd down her head,

Remembering the day when first she came,

And all the things that had been. She bow'd down

And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd,

And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood

Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy

Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise

To God, that help'd her in her widowhood.

And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy;

But, Mary, let me live and work with you:

He says that he will never see me more."

Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be,

That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself:

And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,

For he will teach him hardness, and to slight

His mother; therefore thou and I will go,

And I will have my boy, and bring him home;

And I will beg of him to take thee back;

But if he will not take thee back again,

Then thou and I will live within one house,

And work for William's child, until he grows

Of age to help us."

So the women kiss'd

Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm.

The door was off the latch. They peep'd, and saw

The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,

Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,

And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,

Like one that loved him; and the lad stretch'd out

And babbled for the golden seal, that hung

From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.

Then they came in; but when the boy beheld

His mother, he cried out to come to her,

And Allan set him down, and Mary said,

"O Father!—if you let me call you so—

I never came a-begging for myself,

Or William, or this child; but now I come

For Dora. Take her back, she loves you well.

O Sir, when William died, he died at peace

With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said,

He could not ever rue his marrying me—

I had been a patient wife; but, Sir, he said

That he was wrong to cross his father thus,

'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know

The troubles I have gone thro!' Then he turn'd

His face and pass'd—unhappy that I am!

But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you

Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight

His father's memory; and take Dora back,

And let all this be as it was before."

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face

By Mary. There was silence in the room;

And all at once the old man burst in sobs:—

"I have been to blame—to blame. I have kill'd my son.

I have kill'd him—but I loved him—my dear son.

May God forgive me!—I have been to blame.

Kiss me, my children."

Then they clung about

The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times.

And all the man was broken with remorse;

And all his love came back a hundred-fold;

And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child

Thinking of William.

So those four abode

Within one house together; and as years

Went forward, Mary took another mate;

But Dora lived unmarried till her death.

ПАСХА С ПАРЕПОЙ

Майра С. Делано

Когда Парепа была здесь, она повсюду была кумиром народа. Великие оперные театры во всех наших городах были переполнены. Не было никого, кто бы критиковал или придирался. Ее молодой, богатый, величественный голос был несравненным. Его славные звуки вспоминаются с таким же восторгом, с каким ее встречали, когда она пела.

Ее труппа выступала в Нью-Йорке во время пасхальных праздников, и я, как старый друг, претендовала на часть ее свободного времени. Мы подружились в Италии, и этот день Пасхи она должна была провести со мной.

В одиннадцать утра она пела в одной из больших церквей; я ждала ее, и наконец мы остались вдвоем в моей уютной маленькой комнате. В полдень небо затянуло серыми тучами. Повалил снег, окрашивая улицы и крыши в белый цвет. Ветер гнал ледяные порывы с воды, поднимаясь от залива и проносясь мимо городских шпилей и высоких зданий, кружа вокруг нас снег и бурю. Мы поспешили домой, закрыли и заперли ставни, плотно задернули шторы и подбросили угля в пылающий камин. Мы сняли верхнюю одежду и теперь сидели у веселого огня, наслаждаясь благословенным послеобеденным отдыхом.

Парепа сказала: «Мэри, это идеальный отдых! Мы будем совершенно одни целых четыре часа».

«Да, четыре долгих часа!» — ответила я. — «Никаких репетиций, никаких встреч. Никто не знает, где ты!»

Парепа весело рассмеялась этой мысли.

«Обед подадут в эту комнату, и я не позволю даже слуге взглянуть на тебя!» — сказала я.

Она сложила свои пухлые руки, как ребенок в предвкушении радости, а затем вскочила, чтобы пододвинуть маленький столик к камину.

Снег теперь превратился в мокрый снег; на весь город опустился сильный холод. Мы выглядывали из окон, подглядывая сквозь ставни и жалея людей, которые проносились мимо.

Резкий стук в мою дверь. Джон просунул записку.

«Дорогой друг: — Можешь ли ты прийти? Энни ушла. Она сказала, что ты обязательно придешь на ее похороны. Она говорила о тебе до последнего. Ее похоронят в четыре».

Я вложила бедную, всю в пятнах записку в руку Парепы. Как же бушевала буря! Мы беспомощно посмотрели друг другу в лицо. Я сказала: «Дорогая, я должна идти, но ты посиди у огня и отдохни. Я вернусь домой через два часа. И бедная Энни ушла!»

«Расскажи мне об этом, Мэри, потому что я иду с тобой», — ответила она.

Она накинула свой тяжелый плащ, плотно обмотала горло длинным белым шерстяным шарфом, натянула шерстяные перчатки, и мы вместе отправились в путь в разгар пасхальной бури.

Мать Энни была портнихой и шила для меня и моих друзей. Она осталась вдовой, когда ее единственной маленькой девочке было пять лет. Ее муж утонул у побережья Джерси, и из ослепляющей боли, утраты и тоски выросло своего рода идолопоклонство перед хрупким, прекрасным ребенком, чьи карие глаза напоминали глаза молодого мужа.

Пятнадцать лет эта мать любила и работала ради Энни, все ее существо было направлено на то, чтобы благословить своего единственного ребенка. Я привязалась к ним; и с помощью небольших знаков внимания — книг, цветов, прогулок и простых радостей — я стала им дорога. Конец жизни этой хрупкой девушки казался не таким уж близким, хотя ее судьба висела над ней годами.

Я все обдумала, когда взяла пасхальные лилии с подоконника, завернула их в плотную бумагу и спрятала под плащом от бури. Я знала, что в их убогой комнате не будет других цветов. Как бесконечен был путь к этому многоквартирному дому в Ист-Сайде! Тогда не было ни надземных дорог, ни скоростного транспорта через весь огромный город, как сейчас. Наконец мы добрались до места. На улице стоял крытый брезентом катафалк, знакомый только беднякам.

Мы поднялись по пролетам узких темных лестниц в небольшие верхние комнаты. Посреди пола стоял гроб, обитый жестким, шуршащим ситцем и дешевой марлей, покоящийся на открытых деревянных козлах.

Мы обе взяли мать за руку и постояли с ней мгновение в молчании. Всякая надежда ушла с ее лица. Она не проронила ни слезинки, но, когда я держала ее холодную руку, я почувствовала, как по ней пробежала дрожь, но она не проронила ни слова и не всхлипнула.

Из-за бушующей бури мы опоздали, и простые, работящие люди сидели, скованно прижавшись к стенам. Кто-то дал нам стулья, и мы сели рядом с матерью.

Вошел священник — грубый, суровый на вид человек, самодовольный и чопорный. Одна женщина сказала, что его привез гробовщик. Холоднее, чем безжалостная буря снаружи, да, холоднее льда были его слова. Он прочитал несколько стихов из Библии и предостерег «скорбящую мать против бунта против божественных указов». Он произнес молитву и ушел.

Ужасная тишина опустилась на маленькую комнату. Я прошептала матери и спросила: «Почему вы так долго не посылали за мной? Все могло бы быть иначе».

Она посмотрела на меня каким-то остекленевшим взглядом.

«Я не могу вспомнить, почему не послала», — сказала она, приложив руку к голове, и добавила: — «Я, казалось, тоже умерла и все забыла, пока они не принесли гроб. Тогда я все поняла».

Подошел гробовщик и засуетился. Он посмотрел на меня и Парепу, как бы говоря: «Пора уходить». Убогая погребальная служба закончилась.

Не говоря ни слова, Парепа встала и подошла к изголовью гроба. Она положила свой белый шарф на пустой стул, откинула плащ с плеч, где он лег длинными, мягкими черными складками от ее благородной фигуры, подобно траурному облачению. Она положила свою мягкую, светлую руку на холодный лоб, нежно провела ею по изможденному, хрупкому лицу, мгновение смотрела на умершую девушку, переложила мои пасхальные лилии из испачканного ящика в тонкие пальцы, затем подняла голову и с озаренными глазами запела славную мелодию:

"Angels, ever bright and fair,

Take, oh! take her to thy care."

Ее великолепный голос поднимался и опускался во всем своем богатстве, силе, сострадании и красоте! Она смотрела поверх убогой комнаты и усталых лиц мужчин и женщин, рабочих рук и измученных сердец. Она откинула голову и пела так, что хоры рая, должно быть, замерли, чтобы послушать пасхальную музыку того дня.

Она ласково провела рукой по мягким темным волосам девушки и пела дальше — и дальше — «Прими — о! прими ее под свою опеку!»

Лицо матери стало восторженным и бледным. Я держала ее за руки и смотрела ей в глаза. Внезапно она оттолкнула мою руку и опустилась на колени у ног Парепы, рядом с деревянными козлами. Она сцепила пальцы, разразившись слезами и рыданиями. Она молилась вслух, чтобы Бог благословил ангела, поющего для Энни. На ее губах застыла терпеливая улыбка, свет вернулся в ее бедные, потускневшие глаза, и она поцеловала лицо дочери с любовью, не поддающейся никакому толкованию или человеческим словам. Я отвела ее на место, когда последние славные ноты голоса Парепы поднялись, торжествуя над всей земной болью и печалью.

И я подумала, что ни одна королева не отправлялась в могилу с большей церемонией, чем эта юная дочь нищеты и труда, преданная на попечение ангелов.

В тот же вечер тысячи слушали несравненный голос Парепы. Аплодисменты взлетали до небес, и лицо самой Парепы было озарено волнением. Я присоединилась к восторгу, но выше блеска и мерцания драгоценностей и платьев, тяжелых ароматов пасхальных цветов, моря улыбающихся лиц и ропота голосов я могла видеть лишь при тусклом свете окна многоквартирного дома поднятое лицо певицы, изумленное выражение лиц бедных зрителей и широко раскрытые, испуганные, полные слез глаза матери; я могла слышать лишь, поверх шума дождя по крыше и бури снаружи, голос Парепы, поющий в небеса: «Прими, о! прими ее под свою опеку!»

ТЕ ВЕЧЕРНИЕ КОЛОКОЛА

Томас Мур

Those evening bells! those evening bells!

How many a tale their music tells

Of youth, and home, and that sweet time

When last I heard their soothing chime.

Those joyous hours are passed away;

And many a heart that then was gay

Within the tomb now darkly dwells,

And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 'twill be when I am gone;

That tuneful peal will still ring on,

While other bards shall walk these dells,

And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.

ДЖИНЕВРА

Сьюзен Кулидж

So it is come! The doctor's glossy smile

Deceives me not. I saw him shake his head,

Whispering, and heard poor Giulia sob without,

As, slowly creeping, he went down the stair.

Were they afraid that I should be afraid?

I, who have died once and been laid in tomb?

They need not.

Little one, look not so pale.

I am not raving. Ah! you never heard

The story. Climb up there upon the bed:

Sit close and listen. After this one day

I shall not tell you stories any more.

How old are you, my rose? What! almost twelve?

Almost a woman! scarcely more than that

Was your fair mother when she bore her bud;

And scarcely more was I when, long years since,

I left my father's house, a bride in May.

You know the house, beside St. Andrea's church,

Gloomy and rich, which stands and seems to frown

On the Mercato, humming at its base.

That was my play-place ever as a child;

And with me used to play a kinsman's son,

Antonio Rondinelli. Ah, dear days!

Two happy things we were, with none to chide,

Or hint that life was anything but play.

Sudden the play-time ended. All at once

"You must wed," they told me. "What is wed?"

I asked; but with the word I bent my brow,

Let them put on the garland, smiled to see

The glancing jewels tied about my neck;

And so, half-pleased, half-puzzled, was led forth

By my grave husband, older than my sire.

O the long years that followed! It would seem

That the sun never shone in all those years,

Or only with a sudden, troubled glint

Flashed on Antonio's curls, as he went by

Doffing his cap, with eyes of wistful love

Raised to my face—my conscious, woeful face.

Were we so much to blame? Our lives had twined

Together, none forbidding, for so long.

They let our childish fingers drop the seed,

Unhindered, which should ripen to tall grain;

They let the firm, small roots tangle and grow,

Then rent them, careless that it hurt the plant.

I loved Antonio, and he loved me.

Life was all shadow, but it was not sin!

I loved Antonio; but I kept me pure,

Not for my husband's sake, but for the sake

Of him, my first-born child, my little child,

Mine for a few short weeks, whose touch, whose look

Thrilled all my soul and thrills it to this day.

I loved: but, hear me swear, I kept me pure!

It was hard

To sit in darkness while the rest had light,

To move to discords when the rest had song,

To be so young and never to have lived.

I bore, as women bear, until one day

Soul said to flesh, "This I endure no more,"

And with the word uprose, tore clay apart,

And what was blank before grew blanker still.

It was a fever, so the leeches said.

I had been dead so long, I did not know

The difference or heed. Oil on my breast,

The garments of the grave about me wrapped,

They bore me forth and laid me in the tomb.

Open the curtain, child. Yes, it is night.

It was night then, when I awoke to feel

That deadly chill, and see by ghostly gleams

Of moonlight, creeping through the grated door,

The coffins of my fathers all about.

Strange, hollow clamors rang and echoed back,

As, struggling out of mine, I dropped and fell.

With frantic strength I beat upon the grate;

It yielded to my touch. Some careless hand

Had left the bolt half-slipped. My father swore

Afterward, with a curse, he would make sure

Next time. Next time! That hurts me even now!

Dead or alive I issued, scarce sure which,

And down the darkling street I wildly fled,

Led by a little, cold, and wandering moon,

Which seemed as lonely and as lost as I.

I had no aim, save to reach warmth and light

And human touch; but still my witless steps

Led to my husband's door, and there I stopped,

By instinct, knocked, and called.

A window oped.

A voice—'twas his—demanded: "Who is there?"

"'Tis I, Ginevra." Then I heard the tone

Change into horror, and he prayed aloud

And called upon the saints, the while I urged,

"O, let me in, Francesco; let me in!

I am so cold, so frightened, let me in!"

Then with a crash, the window was shut fast:

And, though I cried and beat upon the door

And wailed aloud, no other answer came.

Weeping, I turned away, and feebly strove

Down the hard distance toward my father's house.

"They will have pity and will let me in,"

I thought. "They loved me and will let me in."

Cowards! At the high window overhead

They stood and trembled, while I plead and prayed.

"I am your child, Ginevra. Let me in!

I am not dead. In mercy, let me in!"

"The holy saints forbid!" declared my sire.

My mother sobbed and vowed whole pounds of wax

To St. Eustachio, would he but remove

This fearful presence from her door. Then sharp

Came click of lock, and a long tube was thrust

From out the window, and my brother cried,

"Spirit or devil, go! or else I fire!"

Where should I go? Back to the ghastly tomb

And the cold coffined ones! Up the long street,

Wringing my hands and sobbing low, I went.

My feet were bare and bleeding from the stones;

My hands were bleeding too; my hair hung loose

Over my shroud. So wild and strange a shape

Saw never Florence since.

At last I saw a flickering point of light

High overhead, in a dim window set.

I had lain down to die: but at the sight

I rose, crawled on, and with expiring strength

Knocked, sank again, and knew not even then

It was Antonio's door by which I lay.

A window opened, and a voice called out:

"Qui e?" "I am Ginevra." And I thought,

"Now he will fall to trembling, like the rest,

And bid me hence." But, lo, a moment more

The bolts were drawn, and arms whose very touch

Was life, lifted and clasped and bore me in.

"O ghost or angel of my buried love,

I know not, I care not which, be welcome here!

Welcome, thrice welcome, to this heart of mine!"

I heard him say, and then I heard no more.

It was high noontide when I woke again,

To hear fierce voices wrangling by my bed—

My father's and my husband's; for, with dawn,

Gathering up valor, they had sought the tomb,

Had found me gone, and tracked my bleeding feet,

Over the pavement to Antonio's door.

Dead, they cared nothing; living, I was theirs.

Hot raged the quarrel: then came Justice in,

And to the court we swept—I in my shroud—

To try the cause.

This was the verdict given:

"A woman who has been to burial borne,

Made fast and left and locked in with the dead;

Who at her husband's door has stood and plead

For entrance, and has heard her prayer denied;

Who from her father's house is urged and chased,

Must be adjudged as dead in law and fact.

The Court pronounces the defendant—dead!

She can resume her former ties at will,

Or may renounce them, if such be her will.

She is no more a daughter or a spouse,

Unless she choose, and is set free to form

New ties if so she choose."

O, blessed words!

That very day we knelt before the priest,

My love and I, were wed, and life began.

Child of my child, child of Antonio's child,

Bend down and let me kiss your wondering face.

'Tis a strange tale to tell a rose like you.

But time is brief, and, had I told you not,

Haply the story would have met your ears

From them, the Amieris.

Now go, my dearest. When they wake thee up,

To tell thee I am dead, be not too sad.

I who have died once, do not fear to die.

Sweet was that waking, sweeter will be this.

Close to Heaven's gate my own Antonio sits

Waiting, and, spite of all the Frati say,

I know I shall not stand long at that gate,

Or knock and be refused an entrance there,

For he will start up when he hears my voice,

The saints will smile, and he will open quick.

Only a night to part me from that joy.

Jesu Maria! let the dawning come!

ВЫСОКИЙ ПРИЛИВ В ЛИНКОЛЬНШИРЕ

Джин Ингелоу

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower,

The ringers rang by two, by three;

"Pull, if ye never pulled before;

Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he.

"Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!

Ply all your changes, all your swells,

Play uppe, 'The Brides of Enderby.'"

Men say it was a stolen tyde—

The Lord that sent it, He knows all;

But in myne ears doth still abide

The message that the bells let fall:

And there was naught of strange, beside

The flight of mews and peewits pied

By millions crouched on the old sea-wall.

I sat and spun within the doore,

My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes;

The level sun, like ruddy ore,

Lay sinking in the barren skies,

And dark against day's golden death

She moved where Lindis wandereth,

My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling

Ere the early dews were falling,

Farre away I heard her song.

"Cusha! Cusha!" all along;

Where the reedy Lindis floweth,

Floweth, floweth,

From the meads where melick groweth,

Faintly came her milking song.

Alle fresh the level pasture lay,

And not a shadowe mote be seene,

Save where full fyve good miles away

The steeple towered from out the greene;

And lo! the great bell farre and wide

Was heard in all the country side

That Saturday at eventide.

I looked without, and lo! my sonne

Came riding down with might and main:

He raised a shout as he drew on,

Till all the welkin rang again,

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath

Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)

"The old sea wall (he cried) is downe,

The rising tide comes on apace,

And boats adrift in yonder towne

Go sailing uppe the market-place."

He shook as one that looks on death:

"God save you, mother!" straight he saith,

"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"

"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away,

With her two bairns I marked her long;

And ere yon bells beganne to play

Afar I heard her milking song."

He looked across the grassy lea,

To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!"

They rang "The Brides of Enderby!"

With that he cried and beat his breast;

For, lo! along the river's bed

A mighty eygre reared his crest,

And uppe the Lindis raging sped.

It swept with thunderous noises loud;

Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,

Or like a demon in a shroud.

So farre, so fast the eygre drave,

The heart had hardly time to beat,

Before a shallow, seething wave

Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet.

The feet had hardly time to flee

Before it brake against the knee,

And all the world was in the sea.

Upon the roofe we sat that night,

The noise of bells went sweeping by;

I marked the lofty beacon light

Stream from the church tower, red and high—

A lurid mark and dread to see;

And awesome bells they were to me,

That in the dark rang "Enderby."

They rang the sailor lads to guide

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed,

And I—my sonne was at my side,

And yet the ruddy beacon glowed;

And yet he moaned beneath his breath,

"O come in life, or come in death!

O lost! my love, Elizabeth."

And didst thou visit him no more?

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare;

The waters laid thee at his doore,

Ere yet the early dawn was clear,

Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,

The lifted sun shone on thy face,

Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass,

That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea;

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!

To manye more than myne and me:

But each will mourn his own (she saith),

And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath

Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

I shall never hear her more

By the reedy Lindis shore,

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,

Ere the early dews be falling;

I shall never hear her song,

"Cusha! Cusha!" all along

Where the sunny Lindis floweth,

Goeth, floweth;

From the meads where melick groweth,

When the water winding down,

Onward floweth to the town.

I shall never see her more

Where the reeds and rushes quiver,

Shiver, quiver;

Stand beside the sobbing river,

Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling

To the sandy lonesome shore;

I shall never hear her calling,

"Leave your meadow grasses mellow,

Mellow, mellow;

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;

Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot;

Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,

Hollow, hollow;

Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow;

Lightfoot, Whitefoot,

From your clovers lift the head;

Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow,

Jetty, to the milking-shed."

КАК ТЫ УМЕР?

Эдмунд Вэнс Кук

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way

With a resolute heart and cheerful,

Or hide your face from the light of day

With a craven soul and fearful?

Oh, a trouble is a ton, or a trouble is an ounce,

Or a trouble is what you make it,

And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,

But only—how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?

Come up with a smiling face.

It's nothing against you to fall down flat,

But to lie there—that's disgrace.

The harder you're thrown, why, the higher you bounce;

Be proud of your blackened eye!

It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts;

It's how did you fight—and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?

If you battled the best you could,

If you played your part in the world of men,

Why The Critic will call it good.

Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,

And whether he's slow, or spry,

It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,

But only—how did you die?

СНОСКА:

[5] С разрешения издательства Forbes & Co и автора.

ИНДИГОВАЯ ПТИЦА

Джон Берроуз

Oh, late to come but long to sing,

My little finch of deep-dyed wing,

I welcome thee this day!

Thou comest with the orchard bloom,

The azure days, the sweet perfume

That fills the breath of May.

A winged gem amid the trees,

A cheery strain upon the breeze

From tree-top sifting down;

A leafy nest in covert low;

When daisies come and brambles blow,

A mate in Quaker brown.

But most I prize, past summer's prime,

When other throats have ceased to chime,

Thy faithful tree-top strain;

No brilliant bursts our ears enthrall—

A prelude with a "dying fall,"

That soothes the summer's pain.

Where blackcaps sweeten in the shade,

And clematis a bower hath made,

Or, in the bushy fields,

On breezy slopes where cattle graze,

At noon on dreamy August days,

Thy strain its solace yields.

Oh, bird inured to sun and heat,

And steeped in summer languor sweet,

The tranquil days are thine.

The season's fret and urge are o'er,

Its tide is loitering on the shore;

Make thy contentment mine!

СНОСКА:

[6] С разрешения издательства Harper & Bros. и автора.

ГАЛКА ИЗ РЕЙМСА

Р. Х. Бархэм

The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair!

Bishop and abbot and prior were there;

Many a monk, and many a friar,

Many a knight, and many a squire,

With a great many more of lesser degree,—

In sooth, a goodly company;

And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.

Never, I ween, was a prouder seen,

Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,

Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!

In and out through the motley rout,

That little Jackdaw kept hopping about:

Here and there, like a dog in a fair,

Over comfits and cates, and dishes and plates,

Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,

Miter and crosier! he hopped upon all.

With a saucy air, he perched on the chair

Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat,

In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat;

And he peered in the face

Of his Lordship's Grace,

With a satisfied look, as if he would say,

"We two are the greatest folks here to-day!"

And the priests with awe, as such freaks they saw,

Said, "The deuce must be in that little Jackdaw!"

The feast was over, the board was cleared,

The flawns and the custards had all disappeared,

And six little singing-boys—dear little souls

In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles—

Came, in order due, two by two,

Marching that grand refectory through!

A nice little boy held a golden ewer,

Embossed and filled with water, as pure

As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,

Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch

In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.

Two nice little boys, rather more grown,

Carried lavender-water, and eau de Cologne;

And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,

Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.

One little boy more a napkin bore,

Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink,

And a Cardinal's hat marked in "permanent ink."

The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight

Of these nice little boys dressed all in white;

From his finger he draws his costly turquoise:

And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,

Deposits it straight by the side of his plate,

While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;

Till when nobody's dreaming of any such thing,

That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!

There's a cry and a shout, and a terrible rout,

And nobody seems to know what they're about,

But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out;

The friars are kneeling, and hunting and feeling

The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.

The Cardinal drew off each plum-colored shoe,

And left his red stockings exposed to the view;

He peeps, and he feels in the toes and the heels;

They turn up the dishes, they turn up the plates,

They take up the poker and poke out the grates,

They turn up the rugs, they examine the mugs;

But, no! no such thing,—they can't find The Ring!

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,

He called for his candle, his bell, and his book!

In holy anger and pious grief

He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!

Never was heard such a terrible curse!

But what gave rise to no little surprise,

Nobody seemed one penny the worse!

The day was gone, the night came on,

The monks and the friars they searched till dawn;

When the sacristan saw, on crumpled claw,

Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw!

No longer gay, as on yesterday;

His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way;

His pinions drooped, he could hardly stand,—

His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;

His eye so dim, so wasted each limb,

Regardless of grammar, they all cried, "That's Him!

That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing,

That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's ring!"

The poor little Jackdaw, when the monks he saw,

Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;

And turned his bald head as much as to say,

"Pray be so good as to walk this way!"

Slower and slower he limped on before,

Till they came to the back of the belfry-door,

Where the first thing they saw,

Midst the sticks and the straw,

Was the Ring, in the nest of the little Jackdaw!

Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book,

And off that terrible curse he took;

The mute expression served in lieu of confession,

And, being thus coupled with full restitution,

The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!

When these words were heard, the poor little bird

Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd:

He grew slick and fat; in addition to that,

A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!

His tail waggled more even than before;

But no longer it wagged with an impudent air,

No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair.

He hopped now about with a gait devout;

At matins, at vespers, he never was out;

And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,

He always seemed telling the Confessor's beads.

If any one lied, or if any one swore,

Or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore,

That good Jackdaw would give a great "Caw!"

As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!"

While many remarked, as his manners they saw,

That they never had known such a pious Jackdaw!

He long lived the pride of that country side,

And at last in the order of sanctity died:

When, as words were too faint his merits to paint,

The Conclave determined to make him a Saint.

And on newly made Saints and Popes, as you know,

It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow,

So they canonized him by the name of Jim Crow!

ДЖАФФАР

Ли Хант

Jaffar the Barmecide, the good vizier,

The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer,

Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust;

And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust

Of what the good, and e'en the bad, might say,

Ordained that no man living, from that day,

Should dare to speak his name on pain of death.

All Araby and Persia held their breath;

All but the brave Mondeer; he, proud to show

How far for love a grateful soul could go,

And facing death for very scorn and grief

(For his great heart wanted a great relief),

Stood forth in Bagdad, daily, in the square

Where once had stood a happy house, and there

Harangued the tremblers at the scimitar

On all they owed to the divine Jaffar.

"Bring me this man," the caliph cried; the man

Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began

To bind his arms. "Welcome, brave cords," cried he,

"From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me;

From wants, from shames, from loveliest household fears,

Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears;

Restored me, loved me, put me on a par

With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?"

Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this

The mightiest vengeance could not fall amiss,

Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate

Might smile upon another half as great.

He said, "Let worth grow frenzied if it will;

The caliph's judgment shall be master still.

Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem,

The richest in the Tartar's diadem,

And hold the giver as thou deemest fit!"

"Gifts!" cried the friend; he took, and holding it

High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star,

Exclaimed, "This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar!"

ДЖИМ БЛАДСУ

Джон Хэй

Wall, no! I can't tell where he lives,

Because he don't live, you see;

Leastways, he's got out of the habit

Of livin' like you and me.

Whar have you been for the last three years,

That you haven't heard folks tell

How Jimmy Bludsoe passed in his checks,

The night of the Prairie Belle?

He warn't no saint—them engineers

Is all pretty much alike—

One wife in Natchez-Under-the-Hill,

And another one here in Pike.

A careless man in his talk was Jim,

And an awkward man in a row—

But he never flunked, and he never lied—

I reckon he never knowed how.

And this was all the religion he had—

To treat his engine well;

Never be passed on the river;

To mind the pilot's bell;

And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire;

A thousand times he swore,

He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank

Till the last soul got ashore.

All boats has their day on the Mississip',

And her day came at last—

The Movastar was a better boat,

But the Belle, she wouldn't be passed,

And so came a-tearin' along that night,

The oldest craft on the line,

With a nigger squat on her safety-valve,

And her furnaces crammed, rosin and pine.

The fire burst out as she cleared the bar,

And burnt a hole in the night,

And quick as a flash she turned and made

For that willer-bank on the right.

Ther' was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out

Over all the infernal roar,

"I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank

Till the last galoot's ashore."

Thro' the hot black breath of the burnin' boat

Jim Bludsoe's voice was heard,

And they all had trust in his cussedness,

And know'd he would keep his word.

And sure's you're born, they all got off

Afore the smokestacks fell,

And Bludsoe's ghost went up alone

In the smoke of Prairie Belle.

He warn't no saint—but at judgment

I'd run my chance with Jim

Longside of some pious gentleman

That wouldn't shook hands with him.

He'd seen his duty, a dead sure thing,

And went fer it thar and then;

And Christ ain't a-goin' to be too hard

On a man that died for men.

СНОСКА:

[7] С разрешения миссис Хэй.

КОРОЛЬ РОБЕРТ СИЦИЛИЙСКИЙ

Генри Уодсворт Лонгфелло

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane

And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,

Appareled in magnificent attire,

With retinue of many a knight and squire,

On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat,

And heard the priests chant the Magnificat,

And as he listened, o'er and o'er again

Repeated, like a burden or refrain,

He caught the words, "Deposuit potentes

De sede et exultavit humiles;"

And slowly lifting up his kingly head,

He to the learned clerk beside him said,

"What mean those words?" The clerk made answer meet,

"He has put down the mighty from their seat,

And has exalted them of low degree."

Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully,

"'Tis well that such seditious words are sung

Only by priests and in the Latin tongue;

For unto priests and people be it known,

There is no power can push me from my throne!"

And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep,

Lulled by the chant, monotonous and deep.

When he awoke it was already night;

The church was empty, and there was no light,

Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint,

Lighted a little space before some saint.

He started from his seat and gazed around,

But saw no living thing and heard no sound.

He groped toward the door, but it was locked;

He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked,

And uttered awful threatenings and complaints,

And imprecations upon men and saints.

The sounds reëchoed from the roof and walls

As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls.

At length the sexton hearing from without

The tumult of the knocking and the shout,

And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer,

Came with his lantern asking, "Who is there?"

Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said,

"Open: 'Tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?"

The frightened sexton muttering with a curse,

"This is some drunken vagabond or worse!"

Turned the great key and flung the portal wide;

A man rushed by him at a single stride,

Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak,

Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke,

But leaped into the blackness of the night,

And vanished like a spectre from his sight.

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane

And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,

Despoiled of his magnificent attire,

Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with mire,

With sense of wrong and outrage desperate,

Strode on and thundered at the palace gate;

Rushed through the courtyard, thrusting in his rage

To right and left each seneschal and page,

And hurried up the broad and sounding stair,

His white face ghastly in the torches' glare.

From hall to hall he rushed in breathless speed,

Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed,

Until at last he reached the banquet room,

Blazing with light and breathing with perfume.

There on the dais sat another king,

Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet ring,

King Robert's self in feature, form and height,

But all transfigured with angelic light.

It was an Angel; and his presence there

With a divine effulgence filled the air,

An exaltation piercing the disguise,

Though none the hidden Angel recognize.

A moment speechless, motionless, amazed,

The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed,

Who met his look of anger and surprise

With the divine compassion of his eyes;

Then said, "Who art thou, and why comest thou here?"

To which King Robert answered with a sneer,

"I am the King, and come to claim my own

From an imposter, who usurps my throne!"

And suddenly, at these audacious words,

Up sprang the angry guests and drew their swords!

The Angel answered with unruffled brow,

"Nay, not the king, but the king's Jester, thou

Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape,

And for thy counselor shalt lead an ape;

Thou shalt obey my servants when they call,

And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!"

Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers,

They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs;

A group of tittering pages ran before,

And as they opened wide the folding doors,

His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms,

The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms,

And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring

With the mock plaudits of "Long live the King!"

Next morning, waking with the day's first beam,

He said within himself, "It was a dream!"

But the straw rustled as he turned his head,

There were the cap and bells beside his bed,

Around him rose the bare discolored walls,

Close by the steeds were champing in their stalls,

And in the corner, a revolting shape,

Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape.

It was no dream; the world he loved so much

Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch!

Days came and went; and now returned again

To Sicily the old Saturnian reign;

Under the Angel's governance benign

The happy island danced with corn and wine,

And deep within the mountain's burning breast

Enceladus, the giant, was at rest.

Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate,

Sullen and silent and disconsolate,

Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear,

With look bewildered and a vacant stare,

Close shaven above the ears as monks are shorn,

By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn,

His only friend the ape, his only food

What others left,—he still was unsubdued.

And when the Angel met him on his way,

And half in earnest, half in jest, would say,

Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel,

The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel,

"Art thou the King?" the passion of his woe,

Burst from him in resistless overflow,

And, lifting high his forehead he would fling

The haughty answer back, "I am, I am, the King!"

Almost three years were ended, when there came

Ambassadors of great repute and fame

From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,

Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane

By letter summoned them forthwith to come

On Holy Thursday to his City of Rome.

The Pope received them with great pomp and blare

Of bannered trumpets, on St. Peter's Square,

Giving his benediction and embrace,

Fervent, and full of apostolic grace.

While with congratulations and with prayers

He entertained the Angel unawares.

Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd,

Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud,

"I am the King! Look and behold in me

Robert, your brother, King of Sicily!

This man who wears my semblance in your eyes,

Is an imposter in a king's disguise.

Do you not know me? Does no voice within

Answer my cry, and say we are akin?"

The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien,

Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene;

The Emperor, laughing said, "It is strange sport

To keep a madman for thy fool at court!"

And the poor baffled Jester in disgrace

Was hustled back among the populace.

In solemn state the Holy Week went by,

And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky;

The presence of the Angel, with its light,

Before the sun rose, made the city bright,

And with new fervor filled the hearts of men,

Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again.

Even the Jester, on his bed of straw,

With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw,

He felt within a power unfelt before,

And, kneeling humbly on the chamber floor,

He heard the rushing garments of the Lord

Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward.

And now the visit ending, and once more

Valmond returning to the Danube's shore,

Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again

The land was made resplendent with his train,

Flashing along the towns of Italy

Unto Salerno, and from thence by sea.

And when once more within Palermo's wall,

And, seated on the throne in his great hall,

He heard the Angelus from convent towers,

As if a better world conversed with ours,

He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher,

And with a gesture bade the rest retire;

And when they were alone, the Angel said,

"Art thou the King?" Then, bowing down his head,

King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast,

And meekly answered him: "Thou knowest best!

My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence,

And in some cloister's school of penitence,

Across those stones that pave the way to heaven,

Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul be shriven!"

The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face

A holy light illumined all the place,

And through the open window, loud and clear,

They heard the monks chant in the chapel near,

Above the noise and tumult of the street:

"He has put down the mighty from their seat,

And has exalted them of low degree!"

And through the chant a second melody

Rose like the throbbing of a single string:

"I am an Angel, and thou art the King!"

King Robert, who was standing near the throne,

Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone!

But all appareled as in days of old,

With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold,

And when his courtiers came, they found him there

Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer.

СНОСКА:

[8] Использовано с разрешения и по специальной договоренности с Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., уполномоченными издателями его произведений.

ШАЛОТТСКАЯ ДЕВА

Альфред лорд Теннисон

ЧАСТЬ I

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And thro' the field the road runs by

To many-tower'd Camelot;

And up and down the people go,

Gazing where the lilies blow

Round an island there below,

The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,

Little breezes dusk and shiver

Thro' the wave that runs forever

By the island in the river

Flowing down to Camelot.

Four gray walls, and four gray towers,

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle embowers

The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veil'd

Slide the heavy barges trail'd

By slow horses; and unhail'd

The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd

Skimming down to Camelot.

But who hath seen her wave her hand?

Or at the casement seen her stand?

Or is she known in all the land,

The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early

In among the bearded barley,

Hear a song that echoes cheerly

From the river winding clearly,

Down to tower'd Camelot:

And by the moon the reaper weary

Piling sheaves in uplands airy,

Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy

Lady of Shalott."

ЧАСТЬ II

There she weaves by night and day

A magic web with colors gay.

She has heard a whisper say,

A curse is on her if she stay

To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be,

And so she weaveth steadily,

And little other care hath she,

The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear

That hangs before her all the year,

Shadows of the world appear,

There she sees the highway near

Winding down to Camelot:

There the river eddy whirls,

And there the surly village-churls,

And the red cloaks of market girls,

Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,

An abbot on an ambling pad,

Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,

Goes by to tower'd Camelot;

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue

The knights come riding two and two:

She hath no loyal knight and true,

The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror's magic sights,

For often thro' the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

And music, went to Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead,

Came two young lovers lately wed;

"I am half sick of shadows," said

The Lady of Shalott.

ЧАСТЬ III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,

He rode between the barley sheaves,

The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,

And flamed upon the brazen greaves

Of bold Sir Lancelot.

A red-cross knight forever kneel'd

To a lady in his shield,

That sparkled on the yellow field,

Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather

Thick jewel'd shone the saddle-leather,

The helmet and the helmet-feather

Burn'd like one burning flame together,

As he rode down to Camelot.

As often thro' the purple night,

Below the starry clusters bright,

Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flow'd

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

As he rode down to Camelot.

From the bank and from the river

He flashed into the crystal mirror,

"Tirra lirra," by the river

Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,

She made three paces thro' the room,

She saw the water lily bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,

She look'd down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack'd from side to side;

"The curse is come upon me," cried

The Lady of Shalott.

ЧАСТЬ IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,

The pale yellow woods were waning,

The broad stream in his banks complaining,

Heavily the low sky raining

Over tower'd Camelot;

Down she came and found a boat

Beneath a willow left afloat,

And round about the prow she wrote

The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse

Like some bold seer in a trance,

Seeing all his own mischance—

With a glassy countenance

Did she look to Camelot.

And at the closing of the day

She loosed the chain, and down she lay;

The broad stream bore her far away,

The Lady of Shalott.

Lying robed in snowy white

That loosely flew to left and right—

The leaves upon her falling light—

Thro' the noises of the night

She floated down to Camelot:

And as the boat-head wound along

The willowy hills and fields among,

They heard her singing her last song,

The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,

Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

Till her blood was frozen slowly

And her eyes were darken'd wholly,

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.

For ere she reached upon the tide

The first house by the water side,

Singing in her song she died,

The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,

By garden-wall and gallery,

A gleaming shape she floated by,

Dead-pale between the houses high,

Silent into Camelot.

Out upon the wharfs they came,

Knight and burgher, lord and dame,

And around the prow they read her name,

The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?

And in the lighted palace near

Died the sound of royal cheer;

And they cross'd themselves for fear,

All the knights at Camelot:

But Lancelot mused a little space;

He said, "She has a lovely face;

God in His mercy lend her grace,

The Lady of Shalott."

ЛЕГЕНДА О СЛУЖЕНИИ

Генри ван Дайк

It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise his name!)

To hear, one day, report from those who came

With pitying sorrow, or exultant joy,

To tell of earthly tasks in His employ;

For some were sorry when they saw how slow

The stream of heavenly love on earth must flow;

And some were glad because their eyes had seen,

Along its banks, fresh flowers and living green.

So, at a certain hour, before the throne

The youngest angel, Asmiel, stood alone;

Nor glad, nor sad, but full of earnest thought,

And thus his tidings to the Master brought:

"Lord, in the city Lupon I have found

Three servants of thy holy name, renowned

Above their fellows. One is very wise,

With thoughts that ever range above the skies;

And one is gifted with the golden speech

That makes men glad to hear when he will teach;

And one, with no rare gift or grace endued,

Has won the people's love by doing good.

With three such saints Lupon is trebly blest;

But, Lord, I fain would know which loves thee best?"

Then spake the Lord of Angels, to whose look

The hearts of all are like an open book:

"In every soul the secret thought I read,

And well I know who loves me best indeed.

But every life has pages vacant still,

Whereon a man may write the thing he will;

Therefore I read in silence, day by day,

And wait for hearts untaught to learn my way.

But thou shalt go to Lupon, to the three

Who serve me there, and take this word from me:

Tell each of them his Master bids him go

Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow;

There he shall find a certain task for me,

But what, I do not tell to them nor thee.

Give thou the message, make my word the test,

And crown for me the one who answers best."

Silent the angel stood, with folded hands,

To take the imprint of his Lord's commands;

Then drew one breath, obedient and elate,

And passed the self-same hour, through Lupon's gate.

First to the Temple door he made his way;

And then because it was an holy-day,

He saw the folk by thousands thronging, stirred

By ardent thirst to hear the preacher's word.

Then, while the echoes murmured Bernol's name,

Through aisles that hushed behind him, Bernol came;

Strung to the keenest pitch of conscious might,

With lips prepared and firm, and eyes alight.

One moment at the pulpit step he knelt

In silent prayer, and on his shoulder felt

The angel's hand:—"The Master bids thee go

Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow,

To serve Him there." Then Bernol's hidden face

Went white as death, and for about the space

Of ten slow heart-beats there was no reply;

Till Bernol looked around and whispered, "Why?"

But answer to this question came there none;

The angel sighed, and with a sigh was gone.

Within the humble house where Malvin spent

His studious years, on holy things intent,

Sweet stillness reigned; and there the angel found

The saintly sage immersed in thought profound,

Weaving with patient toil and willing care

A web of wisdom, wonderful and fair:

A seamless robe for Truth's great bridal meet,

And needing but one thread to be complete.

Then Asmiel touched his hand and broke the thread

Of fine-spun thought, and very gently said,

"The One of whom thou thinkest bids thee go

Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow,

To serve Him there." With sorrow and surprise

Malvin looked up, reluctance in his eyes.

The broken thought, the strangeness of the call,

The perilous passage of the mountain-wall,

The solitary journey, and the length

Of ways unknown, too great for his frail strength,

Appalled him. With a doubtful brow

He scanned the doubtful task, and muttered, "How?"

But Asmiel answered, as he turned to go,

With cold disheartened voice, "I do not know."

Now as he went, with fading hope, to seek

The third and last, to whom God bade him speak,

Scarce twenty steps away whom should he meet

But Fermor, hurrying cheerful down the street,

With ready heart that faced his work like play,

And joyed to find it greater day by day!

The angel stopped him with uplifted hand,

And gave without delay his Lord's command:

"He whom thou servest here would have thee go

Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow,

To serve Him there." Ere Asmiel breathed again

The eager answer leaped to meet him, "When?"

The angel's face with inward joy grew bright,

And all his figure glowed with heavenly light;

He took the golden circlet from his brow

And gave the crown to Fermor, answering; "Now!