Читать книгу The Girl Philippa - Chambers Robert William - Страница 1

You can tell a better tale than I;

Trap and wing you shoot a better score;

You can cast a surer, lighter fly,

Catch as can, you'd put me on the floor;

Should I hoist a sail beneath the sky

Yours the race, away and back to shore.

You have mastered all my woodland lore,

In the saddle you can give me spades;

You have slain your first and mighty boar

In the classic Croyden Forest shades;

You have heard the Northern rivers roar,

You have seen the Southern Everglades.

You have creeled your Highland yellow trout

Where the Scottish moorlands call us back;

You have left me puzzled and in doubt

Over tropic specimens I lack —

Sphinxes that I know not, huge and stout;

Butterflies, un-named, in blue and black.

Well, we've had a jolly run, my son,

Through a sunny world has lain our trail

Trodden side by side with rod and gun

Under azure skies where white clouds sail;

– Send our journey is not nearly done!

Send the light has not begun to fail.

Yet, that day you tread the trail alone,

With no slower comrade to escort

On the path of spring with blossoms sown,

You may deem me not so bad a sort,

Smile and think, as one who would condone,

"He was sure a perfectly good sport."

The mad dog of Europe

Yelped in the dog-days' heat;

To his sick legs he staggered up

Swaying on twitching feet;

Snarled when he saw the offered cup,

And started down the street.

All hell has set his brain aflame;

All Europe shrieks with dread;

All mothers call on Mary's name,

Praying by shrine and bed,

"For Jesus' sake!" – Yet all the same

Each sees her son lie dead.

"On Guard!" the Western bugles blow;

"Boom!" from the Western main;

The Brabant flail has struck its blow;

The mad dog howls with pain

But lurches on, uncertain, slow,

Growling amid his slain.

They beat and kick his dusty hide,

He bleeds from every vein;

On his red trail the Cossacks ride

Across the reeking plain

While gun-shots rip his bloody sides

From Courland to Champagne.

Under the weary moons and suns

With phantom eyes aglow,

Dog-trotting still the spectre runs

Yelping at every blow

'Til through its ribs the flashing guns

And stars begin to show.

The moon shines through its riven wrack;

On the bleached skull the suns

Have baked the crusted blood all black,

But still the spectre runs,

Jogging along its hell-ward track

Lined with the tombs of Huns.

Back to the grave from whence it came

To foul the world with red;

Back to its bed of ancient shame

In the Hunnish tomb it fled

Where God's own name is but a name

And souls that lived lie dead.