English

He was all I had to give,
Now life has nothing for me:
For my heart lies dead in a nameless grave
On far Gallipoli.

Why should I dry my tears,
Or talk of victory?
For my heart lies dead in a nameless grave
On far Gallipoli.

God guard all mothers' sons
Fighting for liberty,
—But my heart lies dead in a nameless grave
On far Gallipoli.

O Wondrous Art! that grace to shadows gives!
By whose command the lovely phantom lives!
Smiles with her smiles! the mimic eye instils
A real frame! the fancy'd lightning kills!
Thus mirrors catch the love-inspiring face,
And the new charmer grace returns for grace.
Hence shall thy beauties, when no more appears
Their fair possessor, shine a thousand years;
By age uninjur'd, future times adorn,
And wann the hearts of millions yet unborn,
Who, gazing on the portrait with a sigh,
Shall grieve such perfect charms could ever die.

Joy rules the hour—the Fancy Ball
Invites us all to pleasure—
Who would not answer to the call,
And tread one jocund measure.

Ten fathoms deep let Care go down
Beneath the sparkling tides
Where Strife and Envy sink and drown,
And Beauty's smile presides.

The lamps are lit, and Music's swell
Voluptuous fills the Hall,
And, yielding to the magic spell,
Let's view the Fancy Ball.

Not Xerxe's eye, from Salamis,
Such countless tribes discerned—
Not Peter's army equall'd this,

Wild native of the western woods,
I grieve to see thee here,
Far from the hills, and groves, and floods,
To both of us so dear.

What evil stroke to bondage gave
That gaunt but agile frame?
Curse on the mercenary slave,
That sold thee to this shame.

Wast thou in full career o'erthrown,
Wounded, but not to die,
Or, lured by notes adroitly blown,
Didst read the sylvan lie?

Or wast thou caught in tender years,
And brought from o'er the sea,
To grow, in agony and tears,

Queen of the thousand Isles! whose fragile form,
'Midst the proud structures of our Father Land,
Graces the throne, that each subsiding storm
That shakes the earth, assures us yet shall stand
Thy gentle voice, of mild yet firm command,
Is heard in ev'ry clime, on ev'ry wave,
Thy dazzling sceptre, like a fairy wand,
Strikes off the shackles from the struggling slave,
And gathers, 'neath its rule, the great, the wise, the brave.

But yet, 'midst all the treasures that surround
Thy Royal Halls, one bliss is still denied,—

You say that beauty is a rose,
And you are right—I cannot doubt it;
Show me the garden where it grows,
And I will never be without it.

I'll pluck it every day—and be
Fresh as the buds the dews drop over,
A never-fading flower to thee—
Be thou to me—a faithful lover.

O God, whose forces far extend,
Who creatures which from waters spring
Back to the flood dost partly send,
And up to th' air dost partly bring;

Some in the waters deeply div'd,
Some playing in the heavens above,
That natures from one stock deriv'd
May thus to several dwellings move;

Upon thy servants grace bestow,
Whose souls thy bloody waters clear,
That they no sinful falls may know,
Nor heavy grief of death may bear;

That sin no soul opprest may thrall,
That none be lifted high with pride,

I was homesick once for a far land, a fair land,
All the day long my wish turned there;
The rose seemed a shadow, the bird call an echo
Of the fulness of beauty in that far land, that fair land.
All the morning the sun shone terribly,
Lighting my eyes that they could not see,
Flame was the noontide, flame the twilight;
I but a spark in the furious splendour
Waxed or waned as the hot winds blew.

Now at nightfall, belovéd darkness,
Tenderest, most passionate of all things holy,
Breathes on my heart and its secret flower.

Now with grey hair begins defeat,
Our sap is running downward;
So turn we from the hurrying street,
And look no longer townward.

'Mid yonder crowds, o'er roof and mart,
A hundred clocks are striking
The hour for us who played a part
Which was not to their liking.

And this is wisdom: not to carp
With wasted breath grown wordy;
For if you harp too long your harp
Becomes a hurdy-gurdy.

For wearied hand and laboured head
That fail to gain their guerdon,
Farewell, when once the word is said,

Between the Winter and the Spring
between day and night
a no man's time a mean light
with cold mist creeping along the alleys
and the sun like a world withdrawn.

The shrill voices of surplus children
shake up the frosty dust
lamps are lit
and bleak shadows like bruises
rise under their golden eyes.

Through these cavernous streets
between a winter and a spring
between night and day
we wander our hearts lifted
above the shadows and the dust
secure in an alien light.