Читать книгу Rhymes a la Mode - Lang Andrew, May Kendall - Страница 1

Thepainted Briton built his mound,

And left his celts and clay,

On yon fair slope of sunlit ground

That fronts your garden gay;

The Roman came, he bore the sway,

He bullied, bought, and sold,

Your fountain sweeps his works away

Beside your manor old!

But still his crumbling urns are found

Within the window-bay,

Where once he listened to the sound

That lulls you day by day; —

The sound of summer winds at play,

The noise of waters cold

To Yarty wandering on their way,

Beside your manor old!

The Roman fell: his firm-set bound

Became the Saxon’s stay;

The bells made music all around

For monks in cloisters grey,

Till fled the monks in disarray

From their warm chantry’s fold,

Old Abbots slumber as they may,

Beside your manor old!

Creeds, empires, peoples, all decay,

Down into darkness, rolled;

May life that’s fleet be sweet, I pray,

Beside your manor old.