Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 127

THANK Heaven! the crisis-- The danger is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last-- And the fever called 'Living'

Is conquer'd at last.

Sadly, I know I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I lie at full length: But no matter--I feel I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly Now, in my bed, That any beholder Might fancy me dead-- Might start at beholding me, Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing At heart--ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing!

The sickness--the nausea-- The pitiless pain-- Have ceased, with the fever That madden'd my brain-- With the fever called 'Living'

That burn'd in my brain.

And O! of all tortures That torture the worst Has abated--the terrible Torture of thirst For the naphthaline river Of Pa.s.sion accurst-- I have drunk of a water That quenches all thirst.

--Of a water that flows, With a lullaby sound, From a spring but a very few Feet under ground-- From a cavern not very far Down under ground.

And ah! let it never Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy, And narrow my bed; For man never slept In a different bed-- And, to sleep, you must slumber In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes, Forgetting, or never Regretting its roses-- Its old agitations Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly Lying, it fancies A holier odour About it, of pansies-- A rosemary odour, Commingled with pansies-- With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily, Bathing in many A dream of the truth And the beauty of Annie-- Drown'd in a bath Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kiss'd me, She fondly caress'd, And then I fell gently To sleep on her breast-- Deeply to sleep From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguish'd, She cover'd me warm, And she pray'd to the angels To keep me from harm-- To the queen of the angels To s.h.i.+eld me from harm.

And I lie so composedly, Now, in my bed (Knowing her love), That you fancy me dead-- And I rest so contentedly, Now, in my bed (With her love at my breast), That you fancy me dead-- That you shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead.

But my heart it is brighter Than all of the many Stars in the sky, For it sparkles with Annie-- It glows with the light Of the love of my Annie-- With the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie.

Edward Fitzgerald. 1809-1883

697. Old Song

TIS a dull sight To see the year dying, When winter winds Set the yellow wood sighing: Sighing, O sighing!

When such a time cometh I do retire Into an old room Beside a bright fire: O, pile a bright fire!

And there I sit Reading old things, Of knights and lorn damsels, While the wind sings-- O, drearily sings!

I never look out Nor attend to the blast; For all to be seen Is the leaves falling fast: Falling, falling!

But close at the hearth, Like a cricket, sit I, Reading of summer And chivalry-- Gallant chivalry!

Then with an old friend I talk of our youth-- How 'twas gladsome, but often Foolish, forsooth: But gladsome, gladsome!

Or, to get merry, We sing some old rhyme That made the wood ring again In summer time-- Sweet summer time!

Then go we smoking, Silent and snug: Naught pa.s.ses between us, Save a brown jug-- Sometimes!

And sometimes a tear Will rise in each eye, Seeing the two old friends So merrily-- So merrily!

And ere to bed Go we, go we, Down on the ashes We kneel on the knee, Praying together!

Thus, then, live I Till, 'mid all the gloom, By Heaven! the bold sun Is with me in the room s.h.i.+ning, s.h.i.+ning!

Then the clouds part, Swallows soaring between; The spring is alive, And the meadows are green!

I jump up like mad, Break the old pipe in twain, And away to the meadows, The meadows again!

Edward Fitzgerald. 1809-1883

698. From Omar Khayyam

I

A BOOK of Verses underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness-- O, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

Some for the Glories of This World; and some Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come; Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!

Look to the blowing Rose about us--'Lo, Laughing,' she says, 'into the world I blow, At once the silken ta.s.sel of my Purse Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.'

And those who husbanded the Golden grain And those who flung it to the winds like Rain Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd As, buried once, Men want dug up again.

II

Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day, How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.

They say the Lion and the Lizard keep The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep: And Bahram, that great Hunter--the wild a.s.s Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.

I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.

And this reviving Herb whose tender Green Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean-- Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!

Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears TO-DAY of past Regrets and Future Fears: To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.

For some we loved, the loveliest and the best That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest, Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, And one by one crept silently to rest.

And we, that now make merry in the Room They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom, Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend; Dust unto Dust, and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!

III

Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, And wash my Body whence the Life has died, And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf, By some not unfrequented Garden-side....