Classic and Contemporary Poetry
MAN IS BORN TO DIE, by JAMES GATES PERCIVAL Poet's Biography Last Line: And he starts on his journey anew Subject(s): Incas | ||||||||
Man is born to die, And so are nations. Thus I mused, As on the Inca's pyramid I sat and gazed around. Here, methought, a royal race, To whom a nation bowed, As if they were the sons of Heaven, Came and paid their adoration To the all-o'erseeing sun. And where is now that royal race? Gone, and mingled with the ages That have passed away. Here a countless multitude Of self-made slaves, through weary years, Toiled and built this stately pile. Years on years have rolled away, Since they who built it lived. Still it rears its massy front, And stands unmoved, in proud defiance, 'Gainst the scythe of time And ruin's crumbling hand; While the same winds bleach the bones Of the poor slave, that toiled, And the great king, who bade. 'TWAS midnight,''"and the full round moon Was riding in the midway heaven, And poured her faint but spotless light Around the pillow where he lay. On the tender grass, and half-shut flowers, That closed their leaves against the nightly air, The dews, that hung in falling drops, Sparkled with a feeble ray. Sleep poured out her poppy dews, And spread her gauzy mantle o'er him; Like an infant in its cradle, There in innocence he lay, Unconscious of impending harm. Sudden from the ground he starts, And feels it rock beneath his feet, And like the ocean roll. From the north, a growling sound Rushes on his ear. Louder, louder, on it comes, Like the never-ending din Of some wide waterfall, That in the desert pours its ceaseless flood; Or like the roar of ocean When the tempest rages, And on a reef of broken rocks The billows chafing, bursting, foam; Or like the rush of myriad horsemen When to conflict fierce they ride, And 'neath the thundering tramp Quivers the embattled plain. Never ending, still increasing, On it comes, and now beneath him Bellows like the groans of hell: Instant to the ground he falls, And long entranced is lost. ''aHark! the volcan's thunder Rolling o'er the hills. As at midnight, when the storm Rears its front in Heaven, And sheds a thicker darkness o'er the gloom, Bursts the thunderbolt, And shakes the solid ground: So the volcan's thunder rolls. See the lightning's flash Quivering in the sky. Long red streams of flaring light Rise and lick the stars. From the crater's mouth Rolls the fiery flood: Down the rocks it sweeps its way, And the ice of ages In an instant melts, And bursts a torrent to the plains below. Slower rolls the fiery flood,''" From cliff to cliff it tumbles, And like the mingled roar of thousand cataracts, Deeper, deeper strikes the ear. ''aHast thou seen Niobe's statue Stand in speechless agony, With eye upraised, and clasped hand, As if to curse the bolt of Heaven? So Atalpa stood. THE night draws on, And closer o'er the wave Her sombre curtain spreads. The dark-blue Heaven swells o'er the sea, And rests its pillars on the tossing deep. The star of evening Has lit its lamp, And, hanging o'er the western wave, Sparkles upon the foam below. How calmly steal the winds along the main, And heave the water round the cleaving prow! The sail swells lightly overhead, And the streamer scarcely flutters; all is still, But the petrel, as he circles round, And skims the wave with snowy wing. 'TIS midnight, and the moon Has lit her lamp in heaven. Around her silver throne The twinkling stars grow pale, So bright she pours her beams. Below her, o'er the sea, Spread like a floor of glass Unruffled by the winds, Her image travels on. As the mariner looks at the wake of the ship, He sees a long track of light behind, And the sparkling foam a world of gems. I hear the voice of mirth, The song of love, and the flute's soft note Floating o'er the wave. A white sail steers its course against the moon And seems a sheet of snow. Beneath its shade the music breathes,''" 'Tis the ship of joy that sails. Streamers of silk wave on the topmast, Shining with purple and gold. So light the west wind blows,''" The sails flap and the cordage creaks; While, moving to the sound of flutes, The long white oars in order strike, And cut the marble main. THE morn is young in heaven, And the light is spread over the mountains; The sky is blue above, And the earth is green below; The mist rolls over the rocks, And curls its light folds in the valley; The grass is wet with dew, A gem is on every twinkling blade; The song of the birds has awaked the sleeper, And he starts on his journey anew. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EN BOCA DEL ULTIMO INCA by JOSE EUSEBIA CARO ON THE LIPS OF THE LAST OF THE INCAS by JOSE EUSEBIA CARO WORDS OF THE LAST INCA by JOSE EUSEBIA CARO ¡QUIÉN SABE! by JOSE SANTOS CHOCANO MANIFESTO by JOSE SANTOS CHOCANO WHO KNOWS? by JOSE SANTOS CHOCANO LOS ANTEPASADOS by RICARDO JAIMES FREYRE ANCESTORS by RICARDO JAIMES FREYRE THE CORAL GROVE by JAMES GATES PERCIVAL |
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