Читать книгу Auld Lang Syne - Various - Страница 19

His Mother was a Prince’s child,

   His Father was a King;

There wanted not to that proud lot

   What power or wealth could bring;

Great nobles served him, bending low,

   Strong captains wrought his will;

Fair fortune! – but it wearied him,

   His spirit thirsted still!

For him the glorious music roll’d

   Of singers, silent long;

Grave histories told, in scrolls of old,

   The strife of right and wrong;

For him Philosophy unveil’d

   Athenian Plato’s lore,

Might these not serve to fill a life?

   Not this! he sigh’d for more!

He loved! – the truest, newest lip

   That ever lover pressed,

The queenliest mouth of all the south

   Long love for him confess’d:

Round him his children’s joyousness

   Rang silverly and shrill;

Thrice blessed! save that blessedness

   Lack’d something – something still!

To battle all his spears he led,

   In streams of winding steel;

On breast and head of foeman dead

   His war-horse set its heel;

The jewell’d housings of its flank

   Swung wet with blood of kings;

Yet the rich victory seem’d rank

   With the blood taint it brings!

The splendid passion seized his soul

   To heal, by statutes sage,

The ills that bind our hapless kind.

   And chafe to crime and rage;

And dear the people’s blessing was,

   The praising of the poor;

But evil stronger is than thrones,

   And hate no laws can cure!

He laid aside the sword and pen,

   And lit the lamp, to wrest

From nature’s range the secrets strange,

   The treasures of her breast;

And wisdom deep his guerdon was,

   And wondrous things he knew;

Yet from each vanquish’d mystery

   Some harder marvel grew!

No pause! no respite! no sure ground,

   To stay the spirit’s quest!

In all around not one thing found

   So good as to be “best;”

Not even love proved quite divine;

   Therefore his search did cease,

Lord of all gifts that life can give

   Save the one sweet gift – Peace!

Then came it! – crown, sword, wreath – each lay,