John Smith, U.S.A. eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 82 pages of information about John Smith, U.S.A..

  So to your shrine, O patron mine,
    With precious wine and victims fare you;
      Poor as I am,
      A humble lamb
    Must testify what love I bear you. 
  But to the skies shall sweetly rise
    The sacrifice from shrine and heather,
      And thither bear
      The solemn prayer
    That, when we go, we go together!



  You, who have compassed land and sea
    Now all unburied lie;
  All vain your store of human lore,
    For you were doomed to die. 
  The sire of Pelops likewise fell,
    Jove’s honored mortal guest—­
  So king and sage of every age
    At last lie down to rest. 
  Plutonian shades enfold the ghost
    Of that majestic one
  Who taught as truth that he, forsooth,
    Had once been Pentheus’ son;
  Believe who may, he’s passed away
    And what he did is done. 
  A last night comes alike to all—­
    One path we all must tread,
  Through sore disease or stormy seas
    Or fields with corpses red—­
  Whate’er our deeds that pathway leads
    To regions of the dead.


  The fickle twin Illyrian gales
    O’erwhelmed me on the wave—­
  But that you live, I pray you give
    My bleaching bones a grave! 
  Oh, then when cruel tempests rage
    You all unharmed shall be—­
  Jove’s mighty hand shall guard by land
    And Neptune’s on the sea. 
  Perchance you fear to do what shall
    Bring evil to your race. 
  Or, rather fear that like me here
    You’ll lack a burial place. 
  So, though you be in proper haste,
  Bide long enough I pray,
  To give me, friend, what boon will send
    My soul upon its way!


  Yonder stands the hillside chapel,
    ’Mid the evergreens and rocks,
  All day long it hears the song
    Of the shepherd to his flocks.

  Then the chapel bell goes tolling—­
    Knolling for a soul that’s sped;
  Silent and sad the shepherd lad
    Hears the requiem for the dead.

  Shepherd, singers of the valley,
    Voiceless now, speed on before;
  Soon shall knell that chapel bell
    For the songs you’ll sing no more.


  Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles
    In the golden haze off yonder,
  Where the song of the sun-kissed breeze beguiles
    And the ocean loves to wander.

  Fragrant the vines that mantle those hills,
    Proudly the fig rejoices,
  Merrily dance the virgin rills,
    Blending their myriad voices.

  Our herds shall suffer no evil there,
    But peacefully feed and rest them—­
  Never thereto shall prowling bear
    Or serpent come to molest them.

Project Gutenberg
John Smith, U.S.A. from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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