« 이전계속 »
For the sun is shining, the swallows fly,
The bees and the blue-flies murmur low,
And I hear the water-cart go by,
With its cool splash 1 splash! down the dusty row;
And the little one close at my side perceives
Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves,
Where birds are chirping in summer shine;
And I hear, though I cannot look, and she,
Though she cannot hear, can the singers see,_
And the little soft fingers flutter in mine.
Hath not the dear little hand a tongue,
When it stirs on my palm for the love of me?
Do I not know she is pretty and young 2
Hath not my soul an eye to see?
'Tis pleasure to make one's bosom stir,
To wonder how things appear to her,
That I only hear as they pass around;
And as long as we sit in the music and light,
She is happy to keep God's sight,
And I am happy to keep God's sound.
Why, I know her face, though I am blind,-
I made it of music long ago:
Strange large eyes, and dark hair twined
Round the pensive light of a brow of snow;
And when I sit by my little one,
And hold her hand and talk in the sun,
And hear the music that haunts the place,
I know she is raising her eyes to me,
And guessing how gentle my voice must be,
And seeing the music upon my face.
Though, if ever the Lord should grant me a prayer,
(I know the fancy is only vain),
I should pray, just once, when the weather is fair,
To see little Fanny in Langley Lane;
Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear
The voice of the friend she holds so dear,
The song of the birds, the hum of the street,_
It is better to be as we have been—
Each keeping up something, unheard, unseen,
To make God's heaven more strange and sweet.
Ah! life is pleasant in Langley Lane !
There is always something sweet to hear—
Chirping of birds or patter of rain, -
And Fanny, my little one, always near.
And though I am weakly and can’t live long,
And Fanny my darling is far from strong,
And though we never can married be,
What then 2–since we hold each other so dear,
For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear,
And the pleasure that only one can see 2
They lay along the battery's side,
Below the smoking cannon;
Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks of Shannon.
They sang of love, and not of fame;
Forgot was Britain's glory;
Each heart recalled a different name,
But all sang “Annie Laurie.”
Voice after voice caught up the song,
Until its tender passion
Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,
Their battle-eve confession.
Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,
But, as the song grew louder,
Something upon the soldier's cheek
Washed off the stains of powder.
Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset's embers,
While the Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.
And once again a fire of hell
Rained on the Russian quarters,
With scream of shot and burst of shell,
And bellowing of the mortars 1
And Irish Nora's eyes are dim
For a singer, dumb and gory;
And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of “Annie Laurie.”
Sleep, soldiers still in honored rest
Your truth and valor wearing;
The bravest are the tenderest,-
The loving are the daring.
EAR Lillian, all I wished is won;
I sit beneath Italia's sun,
Where olive-orchards gleam and quiver
Along the banks of Arno's river.
Through laurel leaves the dim green light
Falls on my forehead as I write;
And the sweet chimes of vesper ringing
Blend with the contadina's singing.
The fair Italian dream Ichaced,
A single thought of thee effaced;
For the true land of song and sun
Lies in the heart that mine hath won.
MY ear-rings my ear-rings they’ve dropped into the well, And what to say to Muga, I cannot, cannot tell— 'T was thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter: — The well is deep—far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water; To me did Muga give them, when he spake his sad farewell, And what to say when he comes back, alas ! I cannot tell.
My ear-rings I my ear-rings l—they were pearls in silver set, That, when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget ; That I ne'er to other tongues should list, nor smile on other's tale, But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings pale. When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in the well, Oh! what will Muga think of me?—I cannot, cannot tell
My ear-rings my ear-rings l—he'll say they should have
Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen,
Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear,
Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere;
That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting
Thus will he think—and what to say, alas ! I cannot tell.