SONNET ON CHILLON E TERNAL spirit of the chainless mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heart The heart which love of thee alone can bind; And when thy sons to fetters are consigned To fetters and the damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar-for 'twas trod, Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface; For they appeal from tyranny to God. -Lord Byron. FROM "RABBI BEN EZRA" G ROW old along with me! The last of life, for which Our times are in His hand Who saith, "A whole I planned Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!” So take and use Thy work, Amend what flaws may lurk, What strain o' the stuff, what warping past the aim! My times be in Thy hand! Perfect the cup as planned! Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same! -Robert Browning. ICH DACHT' AN SIE DEN I GANZEN TAG THOUGT on her throughout the day, And thought on her through half the night, And when at last in sleep I lay A dream restored her to my sight. Fresh as the youngest rose she glowed, With on her knees a frame which showed She sat so calm, and could not guess She looked in soft amaze that I Should look upon her weeping so: "Why weepest thou so bitterly, My Heinrich, say, who makes thy woe?" She gazed thus softly while I strove, know: "Who makes my pain is thou, my love, And in my breast there lies my woe. She rose and laid her hand upon My breast as 'twere some holy rite; And suddenly my grief was gone, And I awoke for sheer delight. -Heinrich Heine. 66 ""TIS SWEET TO HEAR" 'T IS sweet to hear the watch dog's honest bark Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home; "Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming and look brighter when we come; "Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark, Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children and their earliest words. -Lord Byron. |