Cambridge Pieces [19]
for instance, "Lor!" "Oh, ah!" "Sech is life." "That's cheerful." "He's a lively man is Mr. . . . " His manners were affable and agreeable, and his playful gambols exhibited an agility scarcely to be expected from a man of his stature. On Thursday last Mr. Ward was dining off beef-steak pie when a bit of gristle, unfortunately causing him to cough, brought on a fit of apoplexy, the progress of which no medical assistance was able to arrest. It is understood that the funeral arrangements have been entrusted to our very respectable fellow-townsman Mr. Smith, and will take place on Monday.
NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA
I see a warrior 'neath a willow tree; His arms are folded, and his full fixed eye Is gazing on the sky. The evening breeze Blows on him from the sea, and a great storm Is rising. Not the storm nor evening breeze, Nor the dark sea, nor the sun's parting beam Can move him; for in yonder sky he sees The picture of his life, in yonder clouds That rush towards each other he beholds The mighty wars that he himself hath waged. Blow on him, mighty storm; beat on him, rain; You cannot move his folded arms nor turn His gaze one second from the troubled sky. Hark to the thunder! To him it is not thunder; It is the noise of battles and the din Of cannons on the field of Austerlitz, The sky to him is the whole world disturbed By war and rumours of great wars. He tumbled like a thunderbolt from heaven Upon the startled earth, and as he came The round world leapt from out her usual course And thought her time was come. Beat on him, rain; And roar about him, O thou voice of thunder. But what are ye to him? O more to him Than all besides. To him ye are himself, He knows it and your voice is lovely to him. Hath brought the warfare to a close. The storm is over; one terrific crash Now, now he feels it, and he turns away; His arms are now unfolded, and his hands Pressed to his face conceal a warrior's tears. He flings himself upon the springing grass, And weeps in agony. See, again he rises; His brow is calm, and all his tears are gone. The vision now is ended, and he saith: "Thou storm art hushed for ever. Not again Shall thy great voice be heard. Unto thy rest Thou goest, never never to return. I thank thee, that for one brief hour alone Thou hast my bitter agonies assuaged; Another storm may scare the frightened heavens, And like to me may rise and fill The elements with terror. I, alas! Am blotted out as though I had not been, And am become as though I was not born. My day is over, and my night is come - A night which brings no rest, nor quiet dreams, Nor calm reflections, nor repose from toil, But pain and sorrow, anguish never ceasing, With dark uncertainty, despair and pain, And death's wide gate before me. Fare ye well! The sky is clear and the world at rest; Thou storm and I have but too much in common."
THE TWO DEANS
I
Williams, I like thee, amiable divine! No milk-and-water character is thine. A lay more lovely should thy worth attend Than my poor muse, alas! hath power to lend. Shall I describe thee as thou late didst sit, The gater gated and the biter bit, When impious hands at the dead hour of night Forbade the way and made the barriers tight? Next morn I heard their impious voices sing; All up the stairs their blasphemies did ring: "Come forth, O Williams, wherefore thus supine Remain within thy chambers after nine? Come forth, suffer thyself to be admired, And blush not so, coy dean, to be desired." The captive churchman chafes with empty rage, Till some knight-errant free him from his cage. Pale fear and anger sit upon yon face Erst full of love and piety and grace, But not pale fear nor anger will undo The iron might of gimlet and of screw. Grin at the window, Williams, all is vain; The carpenter will come and let thee out again. Contrast with him the countenance serene And sweet remonstrance of the junior dean; The plural number and the accents mild, The language of a parent to a child. With plaintive voice the worthy man doth state, We've not been very regular of late.
NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA
I see a warrior 'neath a willow tree; His arms are folded, and his full fixed eye Is gazing on the sky. The evening breeze Blows on him from the sea, and a great storm Is rising. Not the storm nor evening breeze, Nor the dark sea, nor the sun's parting beam Can move him; for in yonder sky he sees The picture of his life, in yonder clouds That rush towards each other he beholds The mighty wars that he himself hath waged. Blow on him, mighty storm; beat on him, rain; You cannot move his folded arms nor turn His gaze one second from the troubled sky. Hark to the thunder! To him it is not thunder; It is the noise of battles and the din Of cannons on the field of Austerlitz, The sky to him is the whole world disturbed By war and rumours of great wars. He tumbled like a thunderbolt from heaven Upon the startled earth, and as he came The round world leapt from out her usual course And thought her time was come. Beat on him, rain; And roar about him, O thou voice of thunder. But what are ye to him? O more to him Than all besides. To him ye are himself, He knows it and your voice is lovely to him. Hath brought the warfare to a close. The storm is over; one terrific crash Now, now he feels it, and he turns away; His arms are now unfolded, and his hands Pressed to his face conceal a warrior's tears. He flings himself upon the springing grass, And weeps in agony. See, again he rises; His brow is calm, and all his tears are gone. The vision now is ended, and he saith: "Thou storm art hushed for ever. Not again Shall thy great voice be heard. Unto thy rest Thou goest, never never to return. I thank thee, that for one brief hour alone Thou hast my bitter agonies assuaged; Another storm may scare the frightened heavens, And like to me may rise and fill The elements with terror. I, alas! Am blotted out as though I had not been, And am become as though I was not born. My day is over, and my night is come - A night which brings no rest, nor quiet dreams, Nor calm reflections, nor repose from toil, But pain and sorrow, anguish never ceasing, With dark uncertainty, despair and pain, And death's wide gate before me. Fare ye well! The sky is clear and the world at rest; Thou storm and I have but too much in common."
THE TWO DEANS
I
Williams, I like thee, amiable divine! No milk-and-water character is thine. A lay more lovely should thy worth attend Than my poor muse, alas! hath power to lend. Shall I describe thee as thou late didst sit, The gater gated and the biter bit, When impious hands at the dead hour of night Forbade the way and made the barriers tight? Next morn I heard their impious voices sing; All up the stairs their blasphemies did ring: "Come forth, O Williams, wherefore thus supine Remain within thy chambers after nine? Come forth, suffer thyself to be admired, And blush not so, coy dean, to be desired." The captive churchman chafes with empty rage, Till some knight-errant free him from his cage. Pale fear and anger sit upon yon face Erst full of love and piety and grace, But not pale fear nor anger will undo The iron might of gimlet and of screw. Grin at the window, Williams, all is vain; The carpenter will come and let thee out again. Contrast with him the countenance serene And sweet remonstrance of the junior dean; The plural number and the accents mild, The language of a parent to a child. With plaintive voice the worthy man doth state, We've not been very regular of late.