The Monk (Archibald Lampman Poems)
IIn Nino's chamber not a sound intrudesUpon the midnight's tingling silentness,Where Nino sits before his book and broods,Thin and brow-burdened ...
IIn Nino's chamber not a sound intrudesUpon the midnight's tingling silentness,Where Nino sits before his book and broods,Thin and brow-burdened ...
Under the day-long sun there is life and mirth In the working earth, And the wonderful moon shines bright Through the soft spring night, The innocent flowers in the limitless woods are springing Far and away With the sound and the perfume of May, And ever up from the south the happy birds are winging, The waters glitter and leap and play While the grey hawk soars. But far in an open glade of the forest set Where the rapid plunges and roars, Is a ruined fort with a name that men forget,— A shelterless pen With its broken palisade, Behind it, musket in hand, Beyond message or aid In this savage heart of the wild, Mere youngsters, grown in a moment to men, Grim and alert and arrayed, The comrades of Daulac stand. Ever before them, night and day, The rush and skulk and cry Of foes, not men but devils, panting for prey; Behind them the sleepless dream Of the little frail-walled town, far away by the plunging stream, Of maiden and matron and child, With ruin and murder impending, and none but they To beat back the gathering horror Deal death while they may, And then die. Day and night they have watched while the little plain Grew dark with the rush of the foe, but their host Broke ever and melted away, with no boast But to number their slain; And now as the days renew Hunger and thirst and care Were they never so stout, so true, Press at their hearts; but none Falters or shrinks or utters a coward word, Though each setting sun Brings from the pitiless wild new hands to the Iroquois horde, And only to them despair. Silent, white-faced, again and again Charged and hemmed round by furious hands, Each for a moment faces them all and stands In his little desperate ring; like a tired bull moose Whom scores of sleepless wolves, a ravening pack, Have chased all night, all day Through the snow-laden woods, like famine let loose; And he turns at last in his track Against a wall of rock and stands at bay; Round him with terrible sinews and teeth of steel They charge and recharge; but with many a furious plunge and wheel, Hither and thither over the trampled snow, He tosses them bleeding and torn; Till, driven, and ever to and fro Harried, wounded, and weary grown, His mighty strength gives way And all together they fasten upon him and drag him down. So Daulac turned him anew With a ringing cry to his men In the little raging forest glen, And his terrible sword in the twilight whistled and slew. And all his comrades stood With their backs to the pales, and fought Till their strength was done; The thews that were only mortal flagged and broke Each struck his last wild stroke, And they fell one by one, And the world that had seemed so good Passed like a dream and was naught. And then the great night came With the triumph-songs of the foe and the flame Of the camp-fires. Out of the dark the soft wind woke, The song of the rapid rose alway And came to the spot where the comrades lay, Beyond help or care, With none but the red men round them To gnash their teeth and stare. All night by the foot of the mountain The little town lieth at rest, The sentries are peacefully pacing; And neither from East nor from West Is there rumour of death or of danger; None dreameth tonight in his bed That ruin was near and the heroes That met it and stemmed it are dead. But afar in the ring of the forest, Where the air is so tender with May And the waters are wild in the moonlight, They lie in their silence of clay. The numberless stars out of heaven Look down with a pitiful glance; And the lilies asleep in the forest Are closed like the lilies of France.(Archibald Lampman)
What would'st thou have for easement after grief, When the rude world hath used thee with despite, And care sits at thine elbow day and night, Filching thy pleasures like a subtle thief? To me, when life besets me in such wise, 'Tis sweetest to break forth, to drop the chain, And grasp the freedom of this pleasant earth, To roam in idleness and sober mirth, Through summer airs and summer lands, and drain The comfort of wide fields unto tired eyes. By hills and waters, farms and solitudes, To wander by the day with wilful feet; Through fielded valleys wide with yellowing wheat; Along gray roads that run between deep woods, Murmurous and cool; through hallowed slopes of pine, Where the long daylight dreams, unpierced, unstirred, And only the rich-throated thrush is heard; By lonely forest brooks that froth and shine In bouldered crannies buried in the hills; By broken beeches tangled with wild vine, And long-strewn rivers murmurous with mills. In upland pastures, sown with gold, and sweet With the keen perfume of the ripening grass, Where wings of birds and filmy shadows pass, Spread thick as stars with shining marguerite: To haunt old fences overgrown with brier, Muffled in vines, and hawthorns, and wild cherries, Rank poisonous ivies, red-bunched elder-berries, And pièd blossoms to the heart's desire, Gray mullein towering into yellow bloom, Pink-tasseled milkweed, breathing dense perfume, And swarthy vervain, tipped with violet fire. To hear at eve the bleating of far flocks, The mud-hen's whistle from the marsh at morn; To skirt with deafened ears and brain o'erborne Some foam-filled rapid charging down its rocks With iron roar of waters; far away Across wide-reeded meres, pensive with noon, To hear the querulous outcry of the loon; To lie among deep rocks, and watch all day On liquid heights the snowy clouds melt by; Or hear from wood-capped mountain-brows the jay Pierce the bright morning with his jibing cry. To feast on summer sounds; the jolted wains, The thresher humming from the farm near by, The prattling cricket's intermittent cry, The locust's rattle from the sultry lanes; Or in the shadow of some oaken spray, To watch, as through a mist of light and dreams, The far-off hayfields, where the dusty teams Drive round and round the lessening squares of hay, And hear upon the wind, now loud, now low, With drowsy cadence half a summer's day, The clatter of the reapers come and go. Far violet hills, horizons filmed with showers, The murmur of cool streams, the forest's gloom, The voices of the breathing grass, the hum Of ancient gardens overbanked with flowers: Thus, with a smile as golden as the dawn, And cool fair fingers radiantly divine, The mighty mother brings us in her hand, For all tired eyes and foreheads pinched and wan, Her restful cup, her beaker of bright wine: Drink, and be filled, and ye shall understand!(Archibald Lampman)
On such a day the shrunken streamSpends its last water and runs dry;Clouds like far turrets in a dreamStand baseless ...
By the Nile, the sacred river,I can see the captive hordes,Strain beneath the lash and quiverAt the long papyrus cords,While ...
Once, long ago, before the godsHad left this earth, by stream and forest glade,Where the first plough upturned the clinging ...
II lie upon my bed and hear and see.The moon is rising through the glistening trees;And momently a great and ...
What do poets want with gold,Cringing slaves and cushioned ease;Are not crusts and garments oldBetter for their souls than these?Gold ...
The full, clear moon uprose and spreadHer cold, pale splendor o'er the sea;A light-strewn path that seemed to leadOutward into ...
To-day the world is wide and fairWith sunny fields of lucid air,And waters dancing everywhere;The snow is almost gone;The noon ...
I saw the city's towers on a luminous pale-gray sky; Beyond them a hill of the softest mistiest green, With naught but frost and the coming of night between, And a long thin cloud above the colour of August rye. I sat in the midst of a plain on my snowshoes with bended knee Where the thin wind stung my cheeks, And the hard snow ran in little ripples and peaks, Like the fretted floor of a white and petrified sea. And a strange peace gathered about my soul and shone, As I sat reflecting there, In a world so mystically fair, So deathly silent—I so utterly alone.(Archibald Lampman)
White are the far-off plains, and whiteThe fading forests grow;The wind dies out along the height,And denser still the snow,A ...
I passed through the gates of the city,The streets were strange and still,Through the doors of the open churchesThe organs ...
How deep the April night is in its noon,The hopeful, solemn, many-murmured night!The earth lies hushed with expectation; brightAbove the ...
Slow figures in some live remorseless frieze,The approaching days escapeless and unguessed,With mask and shroud impenetrably dressed;Time, whose inexorable destiniesBear ...
The world is bright with beauty, and its daysAre filled with music; could we only knowTrue ends from false, and ...
Out of the Northland sombre weirds are calling;A shadow falleth southward day by day;Sad summers arms grow cold; his fire ...
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