The Yak

Listen to:

The Yak (:43)

by Hilaire Belloc 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

The Yak

          As a friend to the children

                             commend me the Yak.

            You will find it exactly the thing:

          It will carry and fetch,

                        you can ride on its back,

          Or lead it about

            with a string.

          The Tartar who dwells on the plains of Thibet

            (A desolate region of snow)

          Has for centuries made it a nursery pet,

            And surely the Tartar should know!

          Then tell your papa where the Yak can be got,

            And if he is awfully rich

          He will buy you the creature--

          or else

                  he will not.

          (I cannot be positive which.)

Young Love

Listen to:

Young Love (1:35)

by Andrew Marvell 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Andrew Marvell was born this day in 1621

Come, little infant, love me now,

   While thine unsuspected years

Clear thine agèd father’s brow

   From cold jealousy and fears.

Pretty, surely, ’twere to see

   By young love old time beguiled,

While our sportings are as free

   As the nurse’s with the child.

Common beauties stay fifteen;

   Such as yours should swifter move,

Whose fair blossoms are too green

   Yet for lust, but not for love.

Love as much the snowy lamb,

   Or the wanton kid, does prize,

As the lusty bull or ram,

   For his morning sacrifice.

Now then love me: time may take

   Thee before thy time away:

Of this need we’ll virtue make,

   And learn love before we may.

So we win of doubtful fate;

   And if good she to us meant,

We that good shall antedate,

   Or, if ill, that ill prevent.

Thus as kingdoms, frustrating

   Other titles to their crown,

In the cradle crown their king,

   So all foreign claims to drown,

So, to make all rivals vain,

   Now I crown thee with my love:

Crown me with thy love again,

   And we both shall monarchs prove.

Edward Fitzgerald, translator of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, was born this day in 1809

Listen to quatrains from Edward Fitzgerald's translation of Omar Khayyam on Eclectic Rhapsodics:

May 2, 2015

February 12, 2016

February 25, 2016

Sonnets Are Full of Love

Listen to:

Sonnets Are Full of Love (1:11)

by Christina Rossetti 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

(For my wonderful mother, Cruz Gonzalez, née Mondello, on her 84th birthday)

Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome 

Has many sonnets: so here now shall be 

One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me 

To her whose heart is my heart's quiet home, 

To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee 

I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome; 

Whose service is my special dignity, 

And she my loadstar while I go and come 

And so because you love me, and because 

I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath 

Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honoured name: 

In you not fourscore years can dim the flame 

Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the laws 

Of time and change and mortal life and death.

Winter-Time

Listen to:

Winter-Time (1:08)

by Robert Louis Stevenson 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Late lies the wintry sun a-bed, 

A frosty, fiery sleepy-head; 

Blinks but an hour or two; and then, 

A blood-red orange, sets again. 



Before the stars have left the skies, 

At morning in the dark I rise; 

And shivering in my nakedness, 

By the cold candle, bathe and dress. 



Close by the jolly fire I sit 

To warm my frozen bones a bit; 

Or with a reindeer-sled, explore 

The colder countries round the door. 



When to go out, my nurse doth wrap 

Me in my comforter and cap; 

The cold wind burns my face, and blows 

Its frosty pepper up my nose. 



Black are my steps on silver sod; 

Thick blows my frosty breath abroad; 

And tree and house, and hill and lake, 

Are frosted like a wedding cake.

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 4

Listen to:

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 4 (3:13)

by George Gordon, Lord Byron

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

A few short hours, and he will rise

   To give the morrow birth;

And I shall hail the main and skies,

   But not my mother earth.

Deserted is my own good hall,

   Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,

   My dog howls at the gate.

'Come hither, hither, my little page:

   Why dost thou weep and wail?

Or dost thou dread the billow's rage,

   Or tremble at the gale?

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye,

   Our ship is swift and strong;

Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly

   More merrily along.'

'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,

   I fear not wave nor wind;

Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

   Am sorrowful in mind;

For I have from my father gone, 

   A mother whom I love,

And have no friend, save these alone,

   But thee--and One above.

'My father blessed me fervently,

   Yet did not much complain;

But sorely will my mother sigh

   Till I come back again.' -

'Enough, enough, my little lad!

   Such tears become thine eye;

If I thy guileless bosom had,

   Mine own would not be dry.

'Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,

   Why dost thou look so pale?

Or dost thou dread a French foeman,

   Or shiver at the gale?' -

'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?

   Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;

But thinking on an absent wife

   Will blanch a faithful cheek.

'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,

   Along the bordering lake;

And when they on their father call,

   What answer shall she make?' -

'Enough, enough, my yeoman good,

   Thy grief let none gainsay;

But I, who am of lighter mood,

   Will laugh to flee away.'

For who would trust the seeming sighs

   Of wife or paramour?

Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes

   We late saw streaming o'er.

For pleasures past I do not grieve,

   Nor perils gathering near;

My greatest grief is that I leave

   No thing that claims a tear.  

And now I'm in the world alone,

   Upon the wide, wide sea;

But why should I for others groan,

   When none will sigh for me?

Perchance my dog will whine in vain

   Till fed by stranger hands;

But long ere I come back again

   He'd tear me where he stands.

With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go

   Athwart the foaming brine;

Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,

   So not again to mine.

Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!

   And when you fail my sight,

Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!

   My Native Land--Good Night!

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 3

Listen to:

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 3 (1:59)

by George Gordon, Lord Byron

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

XI.

   His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,

   The laughing dames in whom he did delight,

   Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands,

   Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,

   And long had fed his youthful appetite;

   His goblets brimmed with every costly wine,

   And all that mote to luxury invite,     may, might

   Without a sigh he left to cross the brine,

And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth's central line.    

XII.

   The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew

   As glad to waft him from his native home;

   And fast the white rocks faded from his view,

   And soon were lost in circumambient foam;

   And then, it may be, of his wish to roam

   Repented he, but in his bosom slept

   The silent thought, nor from his lips did come

   One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,

And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.

XIII.

   But when the sun was sinking in the sea,

   He seized his harp, which he at times could string,

   And strike, albeit with untaught melody,

   When deemed he no strange ear was listening:

   And now his fingers o'er it he did fling,

   And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight,

   While flew the vessel on her snowy wing,

   And fleeting shores receded from his sight,

Thus to the elements he poured his last 'Good Night.'

Adieu, adieu! my native shore

   Fades o'er the waters blue;

The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,

   And shrieks the wild sea-mew.      

Yon sun that sets upon the sea

   We follow in his flight;

Farewell awhile to him and thee,

   My Native Land--Good Night!  

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 2

Listen to:

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 2 (2:46)

by George Gordon, Lord Byron

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

VI.

   And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,

   And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;

   'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,

   But pride congealed the drop within his e'e:

   Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,

   And from his native land resolved to go,

   And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;

   With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe,

And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below.

VII.

   The Childe departed from his father's hall;

   It was a vast and venerable pile;

   So old, it seemed only not to fall,

   Yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle.

   Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile!

   Where superstition once had made her den,

   Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;

   And monks might deem their time was come agen,

If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.

VIII.

   Yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthful mood,

   Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,

   As if the memory of some deadly feud

   Or disappointed passion lurked below:

   But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;

   For his was not that open, artless soul

   That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow;

   Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,

Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control.

IX.

   And none did love him:  though to hall and bower

   He gathered revellers from far and near,

   He knew them flatterers of the festal hour;

   The heartless parasites of present cheer.

   Yea, none did love him--not his lemans dear -  

   But pomp and power alone are woman's care,

   And where these are light Eros finds a feere;    

   Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,

And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

X.

   Childe Harold had a mother--not forgot,

   Though parting from that mother he did shun;

   A sister whom he loved, but saw her not

   Before his weary pilgrimage begun:

   If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.

   Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel;

   Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon

   A few dear objects, will in sadness feel

Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 1

Listen to:

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 1 (2:48)

by George Gordon, Lord Byron

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

I.

   Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth,
   Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel's will!
   Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,
   Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:
   Yet there I've wandered by thy vaunted rill;
   Yes! sighed o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine
   Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
   Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine
To grace so plain a tale--this lowly lay of mine.

II.

   Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth,
   Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight;
   But spent his days in riot most uncouth,
   And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
   Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,
   Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;
   Few earthly things found favour in his sight
   Save concubines and carnal companie,
And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.

III.

   Childe Harold was he hight: --but whence his name
   And lineage long, it suits me not to say;
   Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame,
   And had been glorious in another day:
   But one sad losel soils a name for aye,  
   However mighty in the olden time;
   Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay,
   Nor florid prose, nor honeyed lines of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.


IV.

   Childe Harold basked him in the noontide sun,
   Disporting there like any other fly,
   Nor deemed before his little day was done  
   One blast might chill him into misery.
   But long ere scarce a third of his passed by,
   Worse than adversity the Childe befell;    
   He felt the fulness of satiety:
   Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,
Which seemed to him more lone than eremite's sad cell.

V.

   For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,
   Nor made atonement when he did amiss,
   Had sighed to many, though he loved but one,
   And that loved one, alas, could ne'er be his.
   Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss
   Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;
   Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,
   And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste,
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste.

It Is a Beauteous Evening

Listen to:

It Is a Beauteous Evening (:53)

by William Wordsworth

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

    It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
    The holy time is quiet as a Nun
    Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
    Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
    The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the Sea;
    Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
    And doth with his eternal motion make
    A sound like thunder—everlastingly.
    Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
    If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,
    Thy nature is not therefore less divine;
    Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year:
    And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrine,
    God being with thee when we know it not.