« PředchozíPokračovat »
As in that lov'd Athenian bow'r,
Poetic pieces, besides requiring the observance of all the rules for reading Prose, demand particular attention to the Quantities and Puusés.
Long quantity signifies the prolongation of sound on accented letters, as the pāle mõõn; short quantity the contraction of sound, as, on thě tall tree; and accentual stress, a percussion of the voice on accented syllables, as possible, tòlerable.
The due observance of these quantities, and the difference between simple prolongation of sound and accentual stress, is cssential to poetic harmony. The finest specimens of poetry, if read without regard to these accidence, lose half their beauty. The regular recurrence of accented and unaccented syllables, intermingled with long and short quantity, constitute, decidedly, the strongest beauties of poetic reading.
And to these must be added Pauses.
The cæsural, or primary pause, occurs at or near the middle of the line, as will be seen in the following example:
On her white breast-a sparkling cross she wore,
The secondary pauses occur, the one before, and the other after the primary one.
Still-on thy breast-enamour'd_let me lie,
And besides these pauses, one generally falls at the end of every line: generally, I say, for the intimate connection between two lines, in some instances, renders such a pause improper. This will be seen in the following example :
Blest is the tie that binds
Our hearts in Christian love :
Is like to that above,
BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
There was a sound of revelry by night,
looked love to eyes which spake again,
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet
up the soldier ere the morning star ; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb Or whispering with white lips" The foe! They come!
they come !" And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave,--alas ! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass, Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour rolling on the foe And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms,--the day Battle’s magnificently-stern array ! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent!
THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT.
Forced from home and all its pleasures,
Afric's coast I left forlorn;
O'er the raging billows borne.
Paid my price in paltry gold; But, though slave they have enrolled me,
Minds are never to be sold. Still in thought as free as ever,
What are England's rights, I ask, Me from my delights to sever,
Me to torture, me to task? Fleecy locks and black complexion
Cannot forfeit Nature's claim; Skins may differ, but affection
Dwells in white and black the same, Why did all-creating Nature
Make the plant for which we toil ; Sighs must fan it, tears must water,
Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters iron-hearted,
Lolling at your jovial boards; Think how many backs have started
For the sweets your cane affords. Is there, as you sometimes tell us,
Is there one who reigns on high? Has he bid you buy and sell us,
Speaking from his throne tie sky? Ask him, if your knotted
scourges, Matches, blood-extorting screws, Are the means that duty urges
Agents of his will, to use?
Strewing yonder sea with wrecks; Wasting towns, plantations, meadows,
Are the voice with which he speaks, He, foreseeing what vexations
Afric's sons should undergo, Fix'd their tyrants' habitations
Where his WHIRLWINDS answer-NO,
By our blood in Afric wasted,
Ere our necks received the chain;
Crossing in your barks the main;
To the man-degrading mart;
Only by a broken heart?
Till some reason ye shall find
Than the colour of our kind.
Tarnish all your boasted powers,
Ere you proudly question ours !
At midnight, (in his guarded tent,)
The Turk was dreaming of the hour,
Should tremble at his power ;
In dreams his song of triumph heard ;
As Eden's garden bird.
That bright dream was his last;
" To arms! they come ! the Greek! the Greek !"
Bozzaris cheer his band ; 86 Strike-till the last armed foe expires,