Читать книгу Fairy Realm: A Collection of the Favourite Old Tales Told in Verse - Tom Hood - Страница 7
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ОглавлениеBut that embowered pile did seem
A cloud from some fantastic dream—
Some visioned place:
Its towers were clothed in misty sheen,
And slumbering forests seemed to lean
About its base.
The branches nodded, and the breeze
Sighed ceaseless through the sleepy trees,
A long-drawn breath:
Nature's warm pulses here seemed stayed,
Steeped in a trance that all dismayed,
'T was so like death!
Only for ever grew and spread
The sombre branches overhead,
Thick leaf and bloom;
As if to make for Nature's sleep
The brooding silence still more deep—
More deep the gloom!
Into the heart a terror sank:
The vegetation lush and rank
On all sides ran,
And looped and drooped in bine and twine;
And never trace or track or sign
Of living man!
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Down by the river that runs through the wood
The horns are gaily winding.
Tra-la-la-la! That music good
Denotes the red deer's finding!
Tra-la-la-la!
La-la! la-la!
The echoes repeat
The music sweet
That tells of the red deer's finding!
Over the river and over the plain,
Through forest, vale, and hollow!
Tra-la-la-la! That note again
Bids all good huntsmen follow.
Tra-la-la-la!
La-la! la-la!
The sweet notes fail
Along the gale,
Then, all good huntsmen, follow!
By many a mile of moorland vast,
By many a mile of forest—
Tra-la-la-la!—the huntsman's blast
Tells where the chase is sorest.
Tra-la-la-la!
La-la! la-la!
Oh, hapless deer,
Thy fate is near,
Which vainly thou deplorest.
In vain the flying quarry seeks
The dark wood's friendly branches:
The chase is done—its race is run,
The dogs are at its haunches.
The Prince looks back. He rides alone,
His suite no longer follow,
And he can hear no friendly cheer
In answer to his holloa!
What a chase!
What a race!
What a terrible pace!
He's outridden his friends. It's a very queer case—
Where can he have got? What's the name of the place He 'll never be able his steps to retrace! He pulls up his steed, Not too early, indeed, For the poor beast is finished, it shakes like a reed. If his home lay quite near, And he knew where to steer, His horse could not carry him there—that is clear. Meanwhile each lengthening shadow shows That day is drawing to a close. In two more hours the glowing sun Will down the western heavens run, And quench its glories manifold In yon bright sea of molten gold. Before him that dense thicket vast and dim Spreads out its awful silence and seclusion, And none is near to tell its tale to him And scare intrusion. On either side his path a giant bole Rears its huge form, a rude gigantic column. That gloomy portal does not fill his soul With fancies solemn. His step is light on the luxuriant sod, From the green blades a thousand dew-drops spurning. Little he dreams that path has ne'er been trod By foot returning. Heedless he views the dark nooks in the glades, Passing to spots that shafts of sunlight brighten— Nor knows that human bones within those shades Are laid to whiten. For him there is no terror in the spot, No hint of deaths to which it interest sad owes; For him no spectres its bright sunshine blot, Or fill its shadows. For him the secret of that grove profound Is locked away—that tragic tale, and tearful. To him the death-like calm that reigns around Is strange, not fearful. So on he fares, through sunshine and through shade, By paths that ne'er before were trod by mortal, To where the dusky forest's green arcade Leads to a portal. Along that silent avenue the young Prince gaily passes, 'T is carpeted with velvet moss beneath the nodding grasses. The dreamy sunlight through the boughs upon the green sward streaming, Sets here and there with radiance rare a lingering dew-drop gleaming. On either hand rise lofty stems; above, the branches mingle; And, as a glimpse of blue shuts in the end of some green dingle, Framed in an arch of greenery where that long alley closes He sees a flight of steps, a gate o'ergrown with truant roses, And some one who beside the gate in that warm sunshine dozes.
