English

A pleasant Passage often lurks
A midst the grave, in finish'd Works —
For Proof (a Proof is ne'er amiss)
Le Sieur Despreaux has left us this.

A canting Priest, of special Note
For leathern Lungs and brazen Throat,
Had got the Knack to draw Respect
From all of feeble Intellect;
And, without Learning, Wit, or Art,
To govern each old Woman's Heart.

From Time to Time his Audience grew —
From Time to Time their Tears he drew —
On no Occasion would he fail

Are there two hearts that are united, they will part in two a mountain,
To the union of two natures how many joys succumb?
Black must be her tresses, dimples she must have and jewels;
The face that is a fair one all men love to gaze upon it.
They who sincerely in this world love one another,
Trouble and good fortune to them are all alike.
People curse the Devil as the source of every evil,
Yet it is their own passions that rule all in their actions.
A hundred troubles round, the result of our own passions,

If thou consider poetry in its nature is no harm,
The only fault in it is that some make foolish verses.
He who makes verses without rhythm and without measure.
No poet is he, his are howlings of the dogs.
Persian poetry have I learnt, I have the taste for all;
Pushtoo poetry I prefer, each one thinks his own the best.
In measure, in meaning, in nicety, in metaphor,
Have I the Pushtoo language made to rival with the Persian.
The Pushtoo tongue is difficult, its measures hard to find;

Through the leaves of my Tulip tree,
Through the dim, green leaves
Faded by Summer,
Glistens the sky of Autumn;
My thoughts like the leaves are dim,
Faded by memories more passionate
Than the burning of Summer.
Frost will brighten the faded leaves,
But my thoughts will not glow again
Under the frosty touch of age:
Only when Death draws near,
Ardent and luminous,
Will they quicken, —
Death that I imagine to be like April sunrise
Through leaves.

But for my father's angry talking,
I'd frankly own that I was walking
With one — whom he could not discover —
Frown he or not — it was my lover.

And if my father would not scold me,
I'd tell him what my lover told me;
And what he gave — a secret this is —
Scold he or not — 'twas love's sweet kisses.

And if my father would not wonder
I'd tear the secret's veil asunder —
Wonder or not — my lover made me
A sweet and solemn vow to wed me.

H E vow'd — sincere and eager-hearted —

To singe as was of old, is but a scorne,
The king's chaffe is better than others' corne;
Kelso can tell his chaffe away did fly,
Yet had no wind: Benedicite!
The corne unmoued on Duns-Law strong did shine,
Lesley, could thou haue shorne, it might beene thyne.

(Snow in Autumn)

Rose of November,
It was only yesterday that I saw you quivering
Warm with sunshine
Under the last, wild honey bee;—
Now to your freezing heart
Cling spectral snow-moths.
Yet you should die proudly,
Rose of November,
For you have known more than all the roses of June
Through immemorial summers.

Gaea, Mother Gaea, now at last,
Wearied with too much seeking, here I cast
My soul, my heart, my body down on thee!
Dust of thy dust, canst thou not mother me?

Not as an infant weeping do I come;
These tears are tears of battle; like a drum
Struck by wild fighting hands my temples throb;
Sob of the breathless swordsman is my sob,
Cry of the charging spearman is my cry!

O Mother, not as one who craves to die
I fall upon thee panting. Fierce as hate,
Strong as a tiger fighting for his mate,

Lord, is it Thou who knockest at my door?
I made it fast and 't will not open more;
Barred it so tight I scarce can hear Thy knock,
And am too feeble now to turn the lock,
Clogged with my folly and my grievous sin:
Put forth Thy might, O Lord, and burst it in.

They bade me come to the House of Prayer,
They said I should find my Saviour there:
I was wicked enough, God wot, at best,
And weary enough to covet rest.

I paused at the door with a timid knock:
The People within were a silken flock —
By their scowls of pride it was plain to see
Salvation was not for the likes of me.

The Bishop was there in his lace and lawn,
And the cassocked priest, — I saw him yawn, —
The rich and great and virtuous too,
Stood smug and contented each in his pew.