Poems (May)/Lines
For works with similar titles, see Lines.
LINES.
Up, up, thou sluggard, ere the noon reposing! Don thy bright armour—breast-plate, casque, and spear; Thou that went forth so glad to meet the morning, Tarriest thou here?
Oh, go thy way! steep winds the path before me; There mourns the cypress, there pale willows nod,Standing for waymarks o'er their graves, who, toiling, Fell as they trod.
Too early didst thou call me from my slumber, From my sweet morning rest, and I am fain,Unduly tasked, to dream away unheeded Fever and pain.
Hear'st thou their songs who rock and rift surmounting Shout to their brethren in the vales beneath? Seest thou the foremost on his spear point lifting Trophy and wreath?
I hear sharp cries, a sound, of stifled moaning Blent with brave music, and a din of strife, Discordant tones to dove-eyed peace, proclaiming War to the knife.
I see coiled adders, by the roadside lurking, Watch for the failing step, the foot astray, While overhead the keen-eyed eagles circling Wait for their prey.
Look right nor left; stand firm, and dauntless meeting Death by the open stroke, the secret spring,Gathering thy proud fame as a robe around thee, Fall like a king!
Oh hence, I pray! my soul, athirst for slumber, Close to her fount lies fainting on the brim; Hears the sweet trilling of her waves, grass-muffled, Low-toned and dim.
Let the old yews beside my pillow standing Spread wide their arms, surround me with their gloom; And let the few pale blooms that I have gathered Fade on my tomb.
Not so, not so! unsheath a trenchant purpose, Press on with firm lip and uplifted eye, And hew out even from the rocks that daunt thee A fair white effigy.