WHAT though the Italian pencil wrought not here, Nor such fine skill as did the meed bestow On Marathonian valor, yet the tear Springs forth in presence of this gaudy show, While narrow cares their limits overflow. Thrice happy, burghers, peasants, warriors old, Infants in arms, and ye, that as ye go Homeward or schoolward, ape what ye behold; Heroes before your time, in frolic fancy bold! And when that clam spectatress from on high Looks down, -- the bright and solitary moon, Who never gazes but to beautify; And snow-fed torrents, which the blaze of noon Roused into fury, murmur a soft tune That fosters peace, and gentleness recalls; Then might the passing monk receive a boon Of saintly pleasure from those pictured walls, While on the warlike groups the mellowing lustre falls. How blest the souls who when their trials come Yield not to terror or despondency, But face like that sweet boy their mortal doom, Whose head the ruddy apple tops, while he Expectant stands beneath the linden-tree; He quakes not like the timid forest game, But smiles, -- the hesitating shaft to free; Assured that Heaven its justice will proclaim, And to his father give its own unerring aim. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HILLS WERE MADE FOR FREEDOM by WILLIAM GOLDSMITH BROWN THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES OVER THE RIVER by NANCY WOODBURY PRIEST FALSTAFF'S SONG by EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN THE BROOK; AN IDYL: THE BROOK'S SONG by ALFRED TENNYSON THE CITY [OF THE DEAD]. by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON |