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John Armstrong (Джон Армстронг) Progne’s Dream Darkly expressive of some past Events that were soon to be revealed to her. Last night I dreamt, Whate'er it may forebode it moves me strangely, That I was rapt into the raving deep; An old and reverend sire conducted me: He plung'd into the bosom of the main, And bade me not to sear but follow him. I followed; with impetuous speed we div'd, And heard the dashing thunder o'er our heads. Many a slippery fathom down we sunk, Beneath all plummets' sound, and reached the bottom. When there, I ask'd my venerable guide If he could tell me where my fister was; He told me that she lay not far from thence Within the bosom of a flinty rock, Where Neptune kept her for his paramour Hid from the jealous Amphitrite's sight; And said he could conduct me to the place. I beg'd he wou'd. Through dreadful ways we past, 'Twixt rocks that frightfully lower'd on either side, Whence here and there the branching coral sprung; O'er dead men's bones we walk'd, o'er heaps of gold and gems, Into a hideous kind of wilderness, Where stood a stern and prison--looking rock, Dawb'd with a mossy verdure all around, The mockery of paint. As we drew near Out sprung a hydra from a den below, A speckl'd fury; fearfully it hiss'd, And roll'd its sea--green eyes so angrily As it wou'd kill with looking. My old guide Against its sharp head hurl'd a rugged stone-- The curling monster raised a brazen shriek, Wallow'd and died in fitful agonies. We gain'd the cave. Thro' woven adamant I look'd, and saw my sifter all alone. Employ'd she seem'd in writing something sad, So sad she looked: Her cheek was wond'rous wan, Her mournful locks like weary sedges hung. I call'd--she turning, started when she saw me, And threw her head aside as if asham'd; She wept, but would not speak--I call'd again; Still she was mute.--Then madly I addrest, With all the lion--sinews of despair, To break the flinty ribs that held me out; And with the struggling wak'd— John Armstrong's other poems:
Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1914 |
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Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru |