Читать книгу Poems by Speranza онлайн
3 страница из 40
Thy golden harp,
Loved Ireland!
IV.
For I can breathe no trumpet call,
To make the slumb'ring Soul arise;
I only lift the funeral-pall,
That so God's light might touch thine eyes,
And ring the silver prayer-bell clear,
To rouse thee from thy trance of fear;
Yet, if thy mighty heart has stirred,
Even with one pulse-throb at my word,
Then not in vain my woman's hand
Has struck thy gold harp while I stand,
Waiting thy rise
Loved Ireland!
POEMS.
THE BROTHERS.
ssss1
A SCENE FROM '98.
ssss1
————"Oh! give me truths, For I am weary of the surfaces, And die of inanition."—Emerson.
I.
'TIS midnight, falls the lamp-light dull and sickly,
On a pale and anxious crowd,
Through the court, and round the judges, thronging thickly,
With prayers none dare to speak aloud.
Two youths, two noble youths, stand prisoners at the bar—
You can see them through the gloom—
In pride of life and manhood's beauty, there they are
Awaiting their death doom.
II.
All eyes an earnest watch on them are keeping,