English

Wondrous the gods, more wondrous are the men,
More wondrous, wonderous still, the cock and hen,
More wondrous still, the table, stool and chair;
But ah! more wondrous still the charming fair.

It is very nice to think
The world is full of meat and drink,
With little children saying grace
In every Christian kind of place.

Be this thing written, e'er I write
The record of the Evil time:
That day my soul repented not
One idle hour, one braggart rhyme.

The grass brought up its million spears
Aye—for the honour of our star,
Write that no thorn or thistledown,
Failed me when I went forth to War.

Old tunes of revelry and sport
Danced on my deafening drums of fight
The hoarded sunlight of spring days
Blazed for my beacon all the night

After, the days were grey and long
But for that hour Life battled well,

High as the heav'ns above the ground,
Reigns the Creator, God;
Wide as the whole creation's bound,
Extends his awful rod.

Let princes of exalted state
To him ascribe their crown;
Render their homage at his feet,
And cast their glories down.

Know that his kingdom is supreme,
Your lofty thoughts are vain;
He calls you gods—that awful name,—
But ye must die like men.

Then let the sov'reigns of the globe
Not dare to vex the just;
He puts on vengeance like a robe,
And treads the worms to dust.

Heavy the scent of elder in the air
As on the night he went: the starry bloom
He'd brushed in passing dusted face and hair,
And the hot fragrance filled the little room.

Heavy the scent of elder—in the night
Where I lie lone abed with stifling breath
And eyes that dread to see the morning light,
The heavy fume of elder smells of death.

He went, and he was gay to go;
And I smiled on him as he went—
My boy! 'Twas well he didn't know
My darkest dread, or what it meant—

Just what it meant to smile and smile
And let my son go cheerily—
My son … and wondering all the while
What stranger would come back to me.

Put back the Bible in its place: you know
Well enough where it lies upon the mat
Beside the aspidistra—ay, just so.
I cannot think at all what you'd be at,
Taking it down, and on a weekday, too!
You cannot have been after any good.
Surely a girl should have enough to do
Upon a Monday morning, ay, she should,
With the week's washing waiting to be done,
Without book-reading and such idleness!
What was it you were conning? Solomon!
A young wench reading Solomon, no less!
You should feel shame! I cannot think what lasses

O'er the sea the moon is trailing
Her silver glory wan.
A little boat comes sailing:
Two lovers sit alone.

“How pale thy cheek is growing,
Beloved and most dear!”—
“I hear the splash of rowing;
My father follows near.”

“Then swim we for our life now,
Beloved and most dear!”—
“His raging cries, at strife now
With his curses, I can hear.”

“Hold up thy head more boldly,
Beloved and most dear!”—
“Alas! the waves so coldly
Are thundering in my ear.”

“The water surges over,

Those who have laid the harp aside
And turn'd to idler things,
From very restlessness have tried
The loose and dusty strings;
And, catching back some favourite strain,
Run with it o'er the chords again.

But Memory is not a Muse,
O Wordsworth!—though 'tis said
They all descend from her, and use
To haunt her fountain-head:
That other men should work for me
In the rich mines of Poesie,

Pleases me better than the toil,
Of smoothing under hardened hand,
With attic emery and oil,

Nay , thank me not again for those
Camelias, that untimely rose;
But if, whence you might please the more,
And win the few unwon before,
I sought the flowers you loved to wear,
O'erjoy'd to see them in your hair,
Upon my grave, I pray you, set
One primrose or one violet.
. . . Stay . . . I can wait a little yet.