On the Massacre of Glencoe
by Sire Walter Scott (1771-1832)

This was set to music by Beethoven. Here is Richard Dyer-Bennet’s rendition

Oh! Tell me, Harper, wherefore flow
Thy wayward notes of wail and woe
Far down the desert of Glencoe,
      Where non may list their melody?
Say, harp’st thou to the mist that fly,
Or to the dun deer glancing by,
Or to the eagle, that from high
      Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy?

No, not to these, for they have rest,
The mist-wreath has the mountain crest,
The stag his lair, the erne her nest,
      Abode of lone security.
But those for whom I pour the lay,
Not wild wood deep, nor mountain grey,
Not this deep dell that shrouds from day
      Could screen from treach’rous cruelty.

The hand that mingled in the meal,
At midnight drew the felon steel,
And gave the host’s kind breast to feel,
      Meed for his hospitality.
The friendly hearth which warm’d that hand,
At midnight arm’d it with a brand
That bade destruction’s flames expand
      Their red and fearful blazonry.

Long have my harp’s best notes been gone,
Few are its strings, and faint their tone,
They can but sound in desert lone
      Their grey-hair’d master’s misery.
Were each grey hair a minstrel string,
Each chord should imprecations fling,
’Till startled Scotland loud should ring,
      “Revenge for blood and treachery!”

Views: 44

Nature and Life
by George Meredith (1828-1909)

Leave the uproar! At a leap
Thou shalt strike a woodland path,
Enter silence, not of sleep,
Under shadows, not of wrath;
Breath which is the spirit’s bath
In the old Beginnings find,
And endow them with a mind,
Seed for seedling, swathe for swathe.
That gives Nature to us, this
Give we her, and so we kiss.

Fruitful is it so—but hear
How within the shell thou art,
Music sounds; nor other near
Can to such a tremor start.
Of the waves our life is part;
They our running harvests bear—
Back to them for manful air,
Laden with the woodland’s heart!
That gives Battle to us, this
Give we it, and good the kiss.

Views: 51

À la Liberté
by Marie-Joseph Chénier (1764-1811)

Descends, ô liberté! fille de la nature:
Le peuple a reconquis son pouvoir immortel;
Sur les pompeux débris de l’antique imposture
Ses mains relèvent ton autel.

Venez, vainqueurs des rois: l’Europe vous contemple;
Venez; sur les faux dieux étendez vos succès;
Toi, sainte liberté, viens habiter ce temple;
Sois la déesse des Français.

Ton aspect réjouit le mont le plus sauvage.
Au milieu des rochers enfante les moissons;
Embelli par tes mains, le plus affreux rivage
Rit, environné de glaçons.

Tu doubles les plaisirs, les venus, le génie;
L’homme est toujours vainqueur sous tes saints étendards;
Avant de te connaître, il ignorait la vie:
Il est créé par tes regards.

Au peuple souverain tous les rois font la guerre;
Qu’à tes pieds, ô déesse, ils tombent désormais!
Bientôt sur les cercueils des tyrans de la terre
Les peuples vont jurer la paix.

Views: 36

Song (“Why so pale and wan, fond lover?”)
by John Suckling (1609-1642)

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
      Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can’t move her,
      Looking ill prevail?
      Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
      Prithee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can’t win her,
      Saying nothing do’t?
      Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move:
      This cannot take her.
If of herself she cannot love,
      Nothing can make her:
      The devil take her!

Views: 41

The Painted Ceiling
by Amy Lowell (1874-1925)

My Grandpapa lives in a wonderful house
      With a great many windows and doors,
There are stairs that go up, and stairs that go down,
      And such beautiful, slippery floors.

But of all of the rooms, even mother’s and mine,
      And the bookroom, and parlour and all,
I like the green dining-room so much the best
      Because of its ceiling and wall.

Right over your head is a funny round hole
      With apples and pears falling through;
There’s a big bunch of grapes all purply and sweet,
      And melons and pineapples too.

They tumble and tumble, but never come down
      Though I’ve stood underneath a long while
With my mouth open wide, for I always have hoped
      Just a cherry would drop from the pile.

No matter how early I run there to look
      It has always begun to fall through;
And one night when at bedtime I crept in to see,
      It was falling by candle-light too.

I am sure they are magical fruits, and each one
      Makes you hear things, or see things, or go
Forever invisible; but it’s no use,
      And of course I shall just never know.

For the ladder’s too heavy to lift, and the chairs
      Are not nearly so tall as I need.
I’ve given up hope, and I feel I shall die
      Without having accomplished the deed.

It’s a little bit sad, when you seem very near
      To adventures and things of that sort,
Which nearly begin, and then don’t; and you know
      It is only because you are short.

Views: 45

Trust Thou Thy Love
by John Ruskin (1819-1900)

Trust thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet?
Trust thou thy Love: if she be mute, is she not pure?
Lay thou thy soul full in her hands, low at her feet;
Fail, Sun and Breath!–yet, for thy peace, She shall endure.

Views: 56

The Sorrows of Werther
by William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863)

Werther had a love for Charlotte
      Such as words could never utter;
Would you know how first he met her?
      She was cutting bread and butter.

Charlotte was a married lady,
      And a moral man was Werther,
And, for all the wealth of Indies,
      Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sighed and pined and ogled,
      And his passion boiled and bubbled,
Till he blew his silly brains out,
      And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his body
      Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
      Went on cutting bread and butter.

Views: 39