 | Fra Dolcino, and other poems |  |
185
KARA GEORGE.
“Father, what palsy cramps thy feet
When we should cross this boundary river?
The ford is here, the stream runs fleet,
Yet not to drown, but to deliver.
There Freedom waves to us her hands,
Here comes the shade of Turkish bands—
One step decides for ever.”
When we should cross this boundary river?
The ford is here, the stream runs fleet,
Yet not to drown, but to deliver.
There Freedom waves to us her hands,
Here comes the shade of Turkish bands—
One step decides for ever.”
“Son, sharper than this frost's white tooth
A very knife my heart-strings tears;
In one same nook my happy youth
Stole through mid age to hoary hairs.
My flock bleats to me from afar—
I've folded them 'neath one white star,
Through one and fifty years.”
A very knife my heart-strings tears;
In one same nook my happy youth
Stole through mid age to hoary hairs.
My flock bleats to me from afar—
I've folded them 'neath one white star,
Through one and fifty years.”
“Father, where Freedom's hearth-lights glow,
A foreign home as dear may be.”
“Son, to my mother-land I grow,
Like moss that clings to its own tree.
Thy wild hawk wings flit here and there;
Where'er's a rock and open air,
A home is there for thee.
A foreign home as dear may be.”
“Son, to my mother-land I grow,
Like moss that clings to its own tree.
Thy wild hawk wings flit here and there;
Where'er's a rock and open air,
A home is there for thee.
186
“Of sixty Mays I 've missed not one
That round my walls from apple spray
Shook snow-flowers down—my son, my son,
I cannot from these walls away.
No picture will my brain supply
Of other homestead—here must I,
A Servian herdsman, stay.”
That round my walls from apple spray
Shook snow-flowers down—my son, my son,
I cannot from these walls away.
No picture will my brain supply
Of other homestead—here must I,
A Servian herdsman, stay.”
“A Servian herdsman stay—thy place
Next morn will hold a turbaned slave;
Recall that ghastly struggling face,
My mother's—try again to save
Her live corpse dragged from out thy door—
God grant thou hast a wife no more,
Set free by Bosphorus' wave!”
Next morn will hold a turbaned slave;
Recall that ghastly struggling face,
My mother's—try again to save
Her live corpse dragged from out thy door—
God grant thou hast a wife no more,
Set free by Bosphorus' wave!”
“Oh, stay we both, my son—not long
Thy youth my age's shield need be;
But if the tyrant be too strong,
Then to this river will I flee,
And in its frozen calms my life
Dream over—there with that young wife,
My herds, my hopes, and thee.”
Thy youth my age's shield need be;
But if the tyrant be too strong,
Then to this river will I flee,
And in its frozen calms my life
Dream over—there with that young wife,
My herds, my hopes, and thee.”
“Father, and would you that we both
Should try the dreams no morn breaks through?
That can I not; I have an oath,
Servia shall own I kept it true,
When many a Turk is gone to tell
His howling brethren down in hell
What Kara George can do.
Should try the dreams no morn breaks through?
That can I not; I have an oath,
Servia shall own I kept it true,
When many a Turk is gone to tell
His howling brethren down in hell
What Kara George can do.
187
“The moments waste; pale Death's behind,
Urging their hoof-tramps through the night,
His voice is hollow on the wind.”
“Son, leave me to my chance—take flight!”
“Not so, a surer way I see:
Stand thou against that old oak-tree,
And bid thy son good-night.”
Urging their hoof-tramps through the night,
His voice is hollow on the wind.”
“Son, leave me to my chance—take flight!”
“Not so, a surer way I see:
Stand thou against that old oak-tree,
And bid thy son good-night.”
The old man stood against the tree,
As firm for all that might betide,
His eyes upon his son; but he
Turned with a rigid frown aside.
Sharp cracked a shot—the wildfowl spring,
And screaming shake a blood-stained wing
By the river's reedy side.
As firm for all that might betide,
His eyes upon his son; but he
Turned with a rigid frown aside.
Sharp cracked a shot—the wildfowl spring,
And screaming shake a blood-stained wing
By the river's reedy side.
In that bare oak-tree sat an owl
Forlorn and old, and hooted slow,
Shivering in his last summer's hole,
Now filled, instead of moss, with snow.
The dying and the living ear
Received his dismal parting cheer
With thoughts that none can know.
Forlorn and old, and hooted slow,
Shivering in his last summer's hole,
Now filled, instead of moss, with snow.
The dying and the living ear
Received his dismal parting cheer
With thoughts that none can know.
Stiff in the frozen bloody sedge
The father lay, when day dawned red;
Along the far hills' orange-edge
The unrepenting murderer sped.
Burns all red-hot thy bosom, George?
Burn on, and thence the weapon forge
To strike th'oppressor dead!
The father lay, when day dawned red;
Along the far hills' orange-edge
The unrepenting murderer sped.
Burns all red-hot thy bosom, George?
Burn on, and thence the weapon forge
To strike th'oppressor dead!
| Fra Dolcino, and other poems | |