Rose
Dear little three-year-old sportsman of mine,
Queen of the woodland, my merry-heart Rose!
See how the starry eyes sparkle and shine:
Out with Papa to the shooting she goes.
Dear little three-year-old sportsman of mine,
Queen of the woodland, my merry-heart Rose!
See how the starry eyes sparkle and shine:
Out with Papa to the shooting she goes.
Whoa! Here's the stubble — now look to the lines;
Sportsman and gun they are gone with a bound;
How in the sunlight old Silky-hair shines,
Velvety nostrils held close to the ground!
Twisting and trailing. Hi! steady, boy, there!
Standing — I thought so — as carven in stone!
" Steady, boy, steady! " — the hazel eyes glare,
Lifts the quick ear as he catches the tone.
Note the neck arched to his quivering side,
Nostrils expanded, and motionless tail,
Stiff-spreading limbs, as if stemming a tide,
Firm as the ash in the midsummer gale.
Beautiful, sure, is his spotless attire —
Hark! a loved voice chides my lingering foot.
" What is Papa doing? Why don't he fire?
What is Papa doing? Shoot, Papa, shoot! "
Drops the quick lark as he springs from the meadow,
Falls the swift dove as he dives through the air,
Shower the blackbirds like handfuls of shadow, —
Little Queen Rose takes them all to her care.
Onward we drive. I can hear her behind me
Prattling the fables that childhood loves well.
" Baby-bird; mother-bird " — how they remind me
Of the great secrets that science can tell,
How through the ages the instincts eternal
Flow to the child from the ancestor's frame:
Comes from the mother the love ever vernal.
What from the father? — The hunger for game.
Well, there's a showing! — I hear her, unseen,
Pleading my cause in the realm where she rules:
" Poor little birdie, Papa didn't mean —
Wouldn't hurt birdie " — my zeal how it cools!
" Poor little bunny, right there in the nose!
Did Papa shoot him? — Oh, bad Papa, bad!
Was he a bad Papa? " — Hush, little Rose:
Let us stop preaching, and play and be glad.
Questions like yours may be answered in time.
Are we not made to be eaten and eat?
Death to the feeble, — conception sublime! —
Life to the strong and the bold and the fleet!
Tangled we are in a mystical skein:
Right melts in wrong, and the wrong turns to right:
Soon comes a sportsman to shoot it in twain,
Plunging us all in the darkness of night.
Bright little Rose, I remember right well
How you first shrank at the sight of the dead,
Though but a bird. — Did some mystical spell
Stretch from that blankness its hand o'er thy head?
Who could have taught thee to feel the dread foe?
Who could have warned thee to shudder and fear?
Now the dull tread wakes no echoes of woe.
Now the weird tokens are petted and dear.
Wondrous! How soon the mysterious voices
Born with the soul become voiceless and dumb!
Only three years, yet she laughs and rejoices: —
Still booms the warning of evil to come.
Yet one would fancy the bird he had stricken
Endeth not all with its suffering here;
Yet one must feel, when the darling ones sicken,
Life, and not death, fills the round of the sphere.
Death is but death to the walking or flying;
Life is still life in its gladness and joy.
Why should we question (what need of replying?)
Happier future for bird and for boy?
Queen of the woodland, my merry-heart Rose!
See how the starry eyes sparkle and shine:
Out with Papa to the shooting she goes.
Dear little three-year-old sportsman of mine,
Queen of the woodland, my merry-heart Rose!
See how the starry eyes sparkle and shine:
Out with Papa to the shooting she goes.
Whoa! Here's the stubble — now look to the lines;
Sportsman and gun they are gone with a bound;
How in the sunlight old Silky-hair shines,
Velvety nostrils held close to the ground!
Twisting and trailing. Hi! steady, boy, there!
Standing — I thought so — as carven in stone!
" Steady, boy, steady! " — the hazel eyes glare,
Lifts the quick ear as he catches the tone.
Note the neck arched to his quivering side,
Nostrils expanded, and motionless tail,
Stiff-spreading limbs, as if stemming a tide,
Firm as the ash in the midsummer gale.
Beautiful, sure, is his spotless attire —
Hark! a loved voice chides my lingering foot.
" What is Papa doing? Why don't he fire?
What is Papa doing? Shoot, Papa, shoot! "
Drops the quick lark as he springs from the meadow,
Falls the swift dove as he dives through the air,
Shower the blackbirds like handfuls of shadow, —
Little Queen Rose takes them all to her care.
Onward we drive. I can hear her behind me
Prattling the fables that childhood loves well.
" Baby-bird; mother-bird " — how they remind me
Of the great secrets that science can tell,
How through the ages the instincts eternal
Flow to the child from the ancestor's frame:
Comes from the mother the love ever vernal.
What from the father? — The hunger for game.
Well, there's a showing! — I hear her, unseen,
Pleading my cause in the realm where she rules:
" Poor little birdie, Papa didn't mean —
Wouldn't hurt birdie " — my zeal how it cools!
" Poor little bunny, right there in the nose!
Did Papa shoot him? — Oh, bad Papa, bad!
Was he a bad Papa? " — Hush, little Rose:
Let us stop preaching, and play and be glad.
Questions like yours may be answered in time.
Are we not made to be eaten and eat?
Death to the feeble, — conception sublime! —
Life to the strong and the bold and the fleet!
Tangled we are in a mystical skein:
Right melts in wrong, and the wrong turns to right:
Soon comes a sportsman to shoot it in twain,
Plunging us all in the darkness of night.
Bright little Rose, I remember right well
How you first shrank at the sight of the dead,
Though but a bird. — Did some mystical spell
Stretch from that blankness its hand o'er thy head?
Who could have taught thee to feel the dread foe?
Who could have warned thee to shudder and fear?
Now the dull tread wakes no echoes of woe.
Now the weird tokens are petted and dear.
Wondrous! How soon the mysterious voices
Born with the soul become voiceless and dumb!
Only three years, yet she laughs and rejoices: —
Still booms the warning of evil to come.
Yet one would fancy the bird he had stricken
Endeth not all with its suffering here;
Yet one must feel, when the darling ones sicken,
Life, and not death, fills the round of the sphere.
Death is but death to the walking or flying;
Life is still life in its gladness and joy.
Why should we question (what need of replying?)
Happier future for bird and for boy?
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.