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Henry Kirke White (Генри Керк Уайт) Athanatos Away with Death—away With all her sluggish sleeps and chilling damps, Impervious to the day, Where nature sinks into inanity. How can the soul desire Such hateful nothingness to crave, And yield with joy the vital fire To moulder in the grave! Yet mortal life is sad, Eternal storms molest its sullen sky; And sorrows ever rife Drain the sacred fountain dry— Away with mortal life! But, hail the calm reality, The seraph Immortality! Hail the heavenly bowers of peace, Where all the storms of passion cease. Wild life's dismaying struggle o'er, The wearied spirit weeps no more; But wears the eternal smile of joy, Tasting bliss without alloy. Welcome, welcome, happy bowers, Where no passing tempest lowers; But the azure heavens display The everlasting smile of day; Where the choral seraph choir Strike to praise the harmonious lyre; And the spirit sinks to ease, Lull'd by distant symphonies. Oh! to think of meeting there The friends whose graves received our tear, The daughter loved, the wife adored, To our widow'd arms restored; And all the joys which death did sever, Given to us again for ever! Who would cling to wretched life, And hug the poison'd thorn of strife; Who would not long from earth to fly, A sluggish senseless lump to lie, When the glorious prospect lies Full before his raptured eyes? Henry Kirke White's other poems:
Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1194 |
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Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru |