The Mummers' Dance

When in the springtime of the year
When the trees are crowned with leaves
When the ash and oak, and the birch and yew
Are dressed in ribbons fair
When owls call the breathless moon
In the blue veil of the night
The shadows of the trees appear
Amidst the lantern light

   We've been rambling all the night
   And some time of this day
   Now returning back again
   We bring a garland gay

Who will go down to those shady groves
And summon the shadows there
And tie a ribbon on those sheltering arms
In the springtime of the year
The songs of birds seem to fill the wood
That when the fiddler plays
All their voices can be heard
Long past their woodland days

And so they linked their hands and danced
Round in circles and in rows
And so the journey of the night descends
When all the shades are gone
„A garland gay we bring you here
And at your door we stand
It is a sprout well budded out
The work of Our Lord's hand”

Skellig

O light the candle, John
The daylight has almost gone
The birds have sung their last
The bells call all to mass
Sit here by my side
For the night is very long
There's something I must tell
Before I pass along

I joined the brotherhood
My books were all to me
I scribed the words of God
And much of history
Many a year was I
Perched out upon the sea
The waves would wash my tears,
The wind, my memory

I'd hear the ocean breathe
Exhale upon the shore
I knew the tempest's blood
Its wrath I would endure
And so the years went by
Within my rocky cell
With only a mouse or bird
My friend; I loved them well
And so it came to pass
I'd come here to Romani
And many a year it took
Till I arrived here with thee
On dusty roads I walked
And over mountains high
Through rivers running deep
Beneath the endless sky

Beneath these jasmine flowers
Amidst these cypress trees
I give you now my books
And all their mysteries
Now take the hourglass
And turn it on its head
For when the sands are still
'Tis then you'll find me dead

O light the candle, John
The daylight is almost gone
The birds have sung their last

The Highwayman

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butt a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

And over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
„One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
He did not come at the dawning. He did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching,
Marching, marching
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
Hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
„Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say--
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
Tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse's hoofs ring clear;
Tlot-tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot, in the frosty silence. Tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him -with her death.
He turned. He spurred to the west, he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

And back, he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway.
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

Still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon the cloudy seas,

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highway man comes riding,
Riding, riding
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Pierwszy tom wierszy Noyesa, Loom of Years ukazał się w roku 1902, kiedy on sam był jeszcze na studiach w Oxfordzie. Utrzymany był w patriotycznej nucie i w szczególny sposób poświęcony morzu.
Po ukończeniu studiów Noyes został wykładowcą współczesnej literatury angielskiej na uniwersyteczie w Princeton w USA(lata 1914-1923). Z jego późniejszych prac wyróżnić można trylogię epicką The Torch-Beares poruszającą temat postepu nauki na przestrzeni wieków. Pod koniec życia wydał swą autobiografię, Two Worlds for Memory. (za: Encyclopaedia Britannica 1999)

Wiersz opowiada o miłości, zdradzie i śmierci. Jak wiele innych wierszy Noyesa i ten utrzymany jest w nieco mrocznym stylu romantycznych ballad z XIX wieku. Ten piękny poemat nie został chyba przetłumaczony na nasz język, a szkoda - w Wielkiej Brytanii należy już do „szkolnej klasyki” w zakresie angielskiej literatury. Ciekawe jest, że ów highwayman, czyli rozbójnik faktycznie istniał, był to John Nevison, który żył w hrabstwie York w latach 1640-1685. O jego czynach pozostało wiele legend i opowieści, w młodym wieku wyprawił się na nielegalny zarobek do Holandii, gdzie został schwytany, następnie ucieka i przyłącza się do angielskich wojsk Wilhelma Orańskiego. Niedługo potem jednak dezereruje i wraca do rodzinnego Yorkshire, gdzie zostaje rozbójnikiem, sławnym ze swych nienagannych manier. Wiele ze zrabowanych dóbr oddawał biednym, zjednując sobie tym okoliczną ludność. Aresztowany wiele razy, wciąż uciekał, w końcu został schwytany podstępem przy wykorzystaniu córki karczmarza, czyli znanej z wiersza Bess. Został złapany i powieszony w mieście Knaveshire.
Można kupić piękną ilustrowaną książkę z poemetem Noyesa, ilustrowaną przez Charlsa Keepinga, autora ilustracji do wielu romantycznych utworów literackich. Do nabycia chociażby tutaj.

Night Ride Across the Caucasus

   Ride on Through the night Ride on
   Ride on Through the night Ride on

There are visions, there are memories
There are echoes of thundering hooves
There are fires, there is laughter
There's the sound of a thousand doves

In the velvet of the darkness
By the silhouette of silent trees
They are watching, they are waiting
They are witnessing life's mysteries

Cascading stars on the slumbering hills
They are dancing as far as the sea
Riding o'er the land, you can feel its gentle hand
Leading on to its destiny

Take me with you on this journey
Where the boundaries of time are now tossed
In cathedrals of the forest
In the words of the tongues now lost

Find the answers, ask the questions
Find the roots of an ancient tree
Take me dancing, take me singing
I'll ride on till the moon meets the sea

Dante's Prayer

When the dark wood fell before me
And all the paths were overgrown
When the priests of pride say there is no other way
I tilled the sorrows of stone
I did not believe because I could not see
Though you came to me in the night
When the dawn seemed forever lost
You showed me your love in the light of the stars

   Cast your eyes on the ocean
   Cast your soul to the sea
   When the dark night seems endless
   Please remember me

Then the mountain rose before me
By the deep well of desire
From the fountain of forgiveness
Beyond the ice and fire

Though we share this humble path, alone
How fragile is the heart
Oh give these clay feet wings to fly
To touch the face of the stars
Breathe life into this feeble heart
Lift this mortal veil of fear
Take these crumbled hopes, etched with tears
We'll rise above these earthly cares

Dante jest powszechnie uznawany za najwybitniejszego włoskiego poetę (obok Petrarki). Jego dziełem życia była Boska Komedia opisująca jego fantastyczną podróż po Piekle, Czyśćcu i Niebie. Oparta na całym dorobku myśli i sztuki średniowiecznej uznawana jest za jedno z najcenniejszych dzieł w historii literatury.