Within his sober realm of leafless trees
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air;
Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease,
When all the fields are lying brown and bare.
The gray barns looking from their lazy hills
O’er the dim waters widening in the vales,
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder of...
Or, Love in the Country
I.
THE HILL blast comes howling through leaf-rifted trees
That late were as harp-strings to each gentle breeze;
The strangers and cousins and every one flown,
While we sit happy-hearted—together—alone.
II.
Some are off to the mountain, and some to the fair,
The snow is on their cheek, on mine your black hair...
From the Spanish by John Ormsby
From “The Cid”
THEN cried my Cid—“In charity, as to the rescue—ho!”
With bucklers braced before their breasts, with lances pointing low,
With stooping crests and heads bent down above the saddle-bow,
All firm of hand and high of heart they roll upon the foe.
And he that in a good hour was born, his clarion voice...
Within the sober realm of leafless trees,
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air;
Like some tanned reaper, in his hour of ease,
When all the fields are lying brown and bare.
The gray barns looking from their hazy hills,
O’er the dun waters widening in the vales,
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills
On the dull thunder of...
