Ten Books on Architecture - Vitruvius (phonics story books TXT) 📗
- Author: Vitruvius
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married skippers," growled the pilot, as he gave orders to hoist the maintop-sail."
About a month ago, the senior partner of the firm of Byrne & Co. was heard to say, that he had in his employ three sea captains who had each one wooed his wife in broad daylight, in a garden of the city of Matanzas.
Weary, but now no longer girt by foes,
He darkly stood beside that sullen wave,
Watching the sluggish waters, whose repose
Imaged the gloomy shadows in his heart;
Vultures, that, in the greed of appetite,
Still sating blind their passionate delight,
Lose all the wing for flight,
And, brooding deafly o'er the prey they tear,
Hear never the low voice that cries, "depart,
Lest with your surfeit you partake the snare!"
Thus fixed by brooding and rapacious thought,
Stood the dark chieftain by the gloomy stream,
When, suddenly, his ear
A far off murmur caught,
Low, deep, impending, as of trooping winds,
Up from his father's grave,
That ever still some fearful echoes gave,
Such as had lately warned him in his dream,
Of all that he had lost—of all he still might save!
Well knew he of the sacrilege that made
That sacred vault, where thrice two hundred kings
Were in their royal pomp and purple laid,
Refuge for meanest things;—
Well knew he of the horrid midnight rite,
And the foul orgies, and the treacherous spell,
By those dread magians nightly practiced there;
And who the destined victim of their art;—
But, as he feels the sacred amulet
That clips his neck and trembles at his breast—
As once did she who gave it—he hath set
His resolute spirit to its work, and well
His great soul answers to the threatning dread,
Those voices from the mansions of the dead!
Upon the earth, like stone,
He crouched in silence; and his keen ear, prone,
Kissed the cold ground in watchfulness, not fear!
But soon he rose in fright,
For, as the sounds grew near,
He feels the accents never were of earth:
They have a wilder birth
Than in the council of his enemies,
And he, the man, who, having but one life,
Hath risked a thousand in unequal strife,
Now, in the night and silence, sudden finds
A terror, at whose touch his manhood flies.
The blood grows cold and freezes in his veins,
His heart sinks, and upon his lips the breath
Curdles, as if in death!
Vainly he strives in flight,
His trembling knees deny—his strength is gone!
As one who, in the depth of the dark night,
Groping through chambered ruins, lays his hands
On cold and clammy bones, and glutinous brains,
The murdered man's remains—
Thus rooted to the dread spot stood the chief,
When, from the tomb of ages, came the sound,
As of a strong man's grief;
His heart denied its blood—his brain spun round—
He sank upon the ground!
He darkly stood beside that sullen wave,
Watching the sluggish waters, whose repose
Imaged the gloomy shadows in his heart;
Vultures, that, in the greed of appetite,
Still sating blind their passionate delight,
Lose all the wing for flight,
And, brooding deafly o'er the prey they tear,
Hear never the low voice that cries, "depart,
Lest with your surfeit you partake the snare!"
Thus fixed by brooding and rapacious thought,
Stood the dark chieftain by the gloomy stream,
When, suddenly, his ear
A far off murmur caught,
Low, deep, impending, as of trooping winds,
Up from his father's grave,
That ever still some fearful echoes gave,
Such as had lately warned him in his dream,
Of all that he had lost—of all he still might save!
Well knew he of the sacrilege that made
That sacred vault, where thrice two hundred kings
Were in their royal pomp and purple laid,
Refuge for meanest things;—
Well knew he of the horrid midnight rite,
And the foul orgies, and the treacherous spell,
By those dread magians nightly practiced there;
And who the destined victim of their art;—
But, as he feels the sacred amulet
That clips his neck and trembles at his breast—
As once did she who gave it—he hath set
His resolute spirit to its work, and well
His great soul answers to the threatning dread,
Those voices from the mansions of the dead!
Upon the earth, like stone,
He crouched in silence; and his keen ear, prone,
Kissed the cold ground in watchfulness, not fear!
But soon he rose in fright,
For, as the sounds grew near,
He feels the accents never were of earth:
They have a wilder birth
Than in the council of his enemies,
And he, the man, who, having but one life,
Hath risked a thousand in unequal strife,
Now, in the night and silence, sudden finds
A terror, at whose touch his manhood flies.
The blood grows cold and freezes in his veins,
His heart sinks, and upon his lips the breath
Curdles, as if in death!
Vainly he strives in flight,
His trembling knees deny—his strength is gone!
As one who, in the depth of the dark night,
Groping through chambered ruins, lays his hands
On cold and clammy bones, and glutinous brains,
The murdered man's remains—
Thus rooted to the dread spot stood the chief,
When, from the tomb of ages, came the sound,
As of a strong man's grief;
His heart denied its blood—his brain spun round—
He sank upon the ground!
'Twas but an instant to the dust he clung;
The murmurs grew about him like a cloud—
He breathed an atmosphere of spirit-voices,
Most sighing sad, but with a sound between,
As of one born to hope that still rejoices,
In a sweet foreign tongue,
That seemed exulting, starting from its shroud,
To a new rapture for the first time seen!
This better voice, as with a crowning spell,
On the chief's spirit fell;
Up starting from the earth, he cried aloud:
"Ah! thou art there, and well!
I thank thee, thou sweet life, that unto me
Art life no longer—thou hast brought me life,
Such as shall make thy murderers dread the strife.
But for thy ear a gentler speech be mine,
And I will wait until the terrible hour
Hath past, and I may wholly then be thine!
Now am I sworn unto a wilder power,
But none so clear, or precious, sweetest flower,
That ever, when Palenque possessed her tower
And white-robed priesthood, wert of all thy race
Most queenly, and the soul of truth and grace;—
Blossom of beauty, that I could not keep,
And know not to resign—
I would, but cannot weep!
These are not tears, my father, but hot blood
That fills the warrior's eyes;
For every drop that falls, a mighty flood
Our foemen's hearts shall yield us, when the dawn
Begins of that last day
Whose red light ushers in the fatal fray,
Such as shall bring us back old victories,
Or of the empire, evermore withdrawn.
Shall make a realm of silence and of gloom,
Where all may read the doom,
But none shall dream the horrid history!
I do not weep—I do not shrink—I cry
For the fierce strife and vengeance! Taught by thee,
No other thought I see!
My hope is strong within, my limbs are free.
My arms would strike the foe—my feet would fly,
Where now he rides triumphant in his sway—
And though within my soul a sorrow deep
Makes thought a horror haunting memory,
I do not, will not weep!"
The murmurs grew about him like a cloud—
He breathed an atmosphere of spirit-voices,
Most sighing sad, but with a sound between,
As of one born to hope that still rejoices,
In a sweet foreign tongue,
That seemed exulting, starting from its shroud,
To a new rapture for the first time seen!
This better voice, as with a crowning spell,
On the chief's spirit fell;
Up starting from the earth, he cried aloud:
"Ah! thou art there, and well!
I thank thee, thou sweet life, that unto me
Art life no longer—thou hast brought me life,
Such as shall make thy murderers dread the strife.
But for thy ear a gentler speech be mine,
And I will wait until the terrible hour
Hath past, and I may wholly then be thine!
Now am I sworn unto a wilder power,
But none so clear, or precious, sweetest flower,
That ever, when Palenque possessed her tower
And white-robed priesthood, wert of all thy race
Most queenly, and the soul of truth and grace;—
Blossom of beauty, that I could not keep,
And know not to resign—
I would, but cannot weep!
These are not tears, my father, but hot blood
That fills the warrior's eyes;
For every drop that falls, a mighty flood
Our foemen's hearts shall yield us, when the dawn
Begins of that last day
Whose red light ushers in the fatal fray,
Such as shall bring us back old victories,
Or of the empire, evermore withdrawn.
Shall make a realm of silence and of gloom,
Where all may read the doom,
But none shall dream the horrid history!
I do not weep—I do not shrink—I cry
For the fierce strife and vengeance! Taught by thee,
No other thought I see!
My hope is strong within, my limbs are free.
My arms would strike the foe—my feet would fly,
Where now he rides triumphant in his sway—
And though within my soul a sorrow deep
Makes thought a horror haunting memory,
I do not, will not weep!"
Then swore he—and he called the tree whose growth
Of past and solemn centuries made it wear
An ancient, god-like air,
To register his deep and passionate oath.
Hate to the last he swore—a wild revenge,
Such as no chance can change,
Vowed he before those during witnesses,
Rocks, waters and old trees.
And, in that midnight hour,
No sound from nature broke,
No sound save that he spoke,
No sound from spirits hushed and listening nigh!
His was an oath of power—
A prince's pledge for vengeance to his race—
To twice two hundred years of royalty—
That still the unbroken sceptre should have sway,
While yet one subject warrior might obey,
Or one great soul avenge a realm's disgrace!
It was the pledge of vengeance, for long years,
Borne by his trampled people as a dower
Of bitterness and tears;—
Homes rifled, hopes defeated, feelings torn
By a fierce conqueror's scorn;
The national gods o'erthrown—treasure and blood,
Once boundless as the flood,
That 'neath his fixed and unforgiving eye
Crept onward silently;
Scattered and squandered wantonly, by bands,
Leaguered in shame, the scum of foreign lands,
Sent forth to lengthen out their infamy,
With the wild banquet of a pampered mood.
Of past and solemn centuries made it wear
An ancient, god-like air,
To register his deep and passionate oath.
Hate to the last he swore—a wild revenge,
Such as no chance can change,
Vowed he before those during witnesses,
Rocks, waters and old trees.
And, in that midnight hour,
No sound from nature broke,
No sound save that he spoke,
No sound from spirits hushed and listening nigh!
His was an oath of power—
A prince's pledge for vengeance to his race—
To twice two hundred years of royalty—
That still the unbroken sceptre should have sway,
While yet one subject warrior might obey,
Or one great soul avenge a realm's disgrace!
It was the pledge of vengeance, for long years,
Borne by his trampled people as a dower
Of bitterness and tears;—
Homes rifled, hopes defeated, feelings torn
By a fierce conqueror's scorn;
The national gods o'erthrown—treasure and blood,
Once boundless as the flood,
That 'neath his fixed and unforgiving eye
Crept onward silently;
Scattered and squandered wantonly, by bands,
Leaguered in shame, the scum of foreign lands,
Sent forth to lengthen out their infamy,
With the wild banquet of a pampered mood.
Even as he swore, his eye
Grew kindled with a fierce and flaming blight,
Red-lowering like the sky,
When, heralding the tempest in his might,
The muttering clouds march forth and form on high.
With sable banners and grim majesty.
Beneath his frowning brow a shaft of fire,
That told the lurking ire,
Shot ever forth, outflashing through the gloom
It could not well illume,
Making the swarthy cheeks on which it fell
Seem trenched with scarréd lines of hate and hell.
Then heaved his breast with all the deep delight
The warrior finds in promise of the fight,
Who seeks for vengeance in his victory.
For, in the sudden silence in the air,
He knew how gracious was the audience there:
He heard the wings unfolding at the close,
And the soft voice that cheered him once before
Now into utterance rose:
One whispered word,
One parting tone,
And then a fragrant flight of wings was heard
And she was gone, was gone—
Yet was he not alone! not all alone!
Grew kindled with a fierce and flaming blight,
Red-lowering like the sky,
When, heralding the tempest in his might,
The muttering clouds march forth and form on high.
With sable banners and grim majesty.
Beneath his frowning brow a shaft of fire,
That told the lurking ire,
Shot ever forth, outflashing through the gloom
It could not well illume,
Making the swarthy cheeks on which it fell
Seem trenched with scarréd lines of hate and hell.
Then heaved his breast with all the deep delight
The warrior finds in promise of the fight,
Who seeks for vengeance in his victory.
For, in the sudden silence in the air,
He knew how gracious was the audience there:
He heard the wings unfolding at the close,
And the soft voice that cheered him once before
Now into utterance rose:
One whispered word,
One parting tone,
And then a fragrant flight of wings was heard
And she was gone, was gone—
Yet was he not alone! not all alone!
Thus, having sworn—the old and witnessing tree
Bent down, and in his branches registered
Each dark and passionate word;
And on the rocks, trenched in their shapeless sides,
The terrible oath abides;
And the dark waters, muttering to their waves,
Bore to their secret mansions and dim caves
The low of death they heard.
Thus were the dead appeased—the listening dead—
For, as the warrior paused, a cold breath came,
Wrapping with ice his frame,
A cold hand pressing on his heart and head;
Entranced and motionless,
Upon the earth he lies,
While a dread picture of the land's distress
Rose up before his eyes.
First came old Hilluah's shadow, with the ring
About his brow, the sceptre in his hand,
Ensigns of glorious and supreme command,
Proofs of the conqueror, honored in the king.
"Ilenovar! Ilenovar!" he cried:
Vainly the chief replied;—
He strove to rise for homage, but in vain—
The deathlike spell was on him like a chain,
And his clogged tongue, that still he strove to teach,
Denied all answering speech!
The monarch bade him mark
The clotted blood that, dark,
Distained his royal bosom, and that found
Its way, still issuing, from a mortal wound,
Ghastly and gaping wide, upon his throat!
The shadow passed—another took his place,
Of the same royal race;
The noble Yumuri, the only son
Of the old monarch, heir to his high throne,
Cut off by cunning in his youthful pride;
There was the murderer's gash, and the red tide
Still pouring from his side;
And round his neck the mark of bloody hands,
That strangled the brave sufferer while he strove
Against their clashing brands.
Not with unmoistened eyes did the chief note
His noble cousin, precious to his love,
Brother of one more precious to his thought,
With whom and her, three happy hearts in one,
He grew together in their joys and fears—
And not till sundered knew the taste of tears;
Salt, bitter tears, but shed by one alone,
Him the survivor, the avenger—he
Who vainly shades his eyes that still must see!
Long troops came after of his slaughtered race,
Each in his habit, even as he died:
The big sweat trickled down the warrior's face,
Yet could he move no limb, in that deep trance,
Nor turn away his glance!
Bent down, and in his branches registered
Each dark and passionate word;
And on the rocks, trenched in their shapeless sides,
The terrible oath abides;
And the dark waters, muttering to their waves,
Bore to their secret mansions and dim caves
The low of death they heard.
Thus were the dead appeased—the listening dead—
For, as the warrior paused, a cold breath came,
Wrapping with ice his frame,
A cold hand pressing on his heart and head;
Entranced and motionless,
Upon the earth he lies,
While a dread picture of the land's distress
Rose up before his eyes.
First came old Hilluah's shadow, with the ring
About his brow, the sceptre in his hand,
Ensigns of glorious and supreme command,
Proofs of the conqueror, honored in the king.
"Ilenovar! Ilenovar!" he cried:
Vainly the chief replied;—
He strove to rise for homage, but in vain—
The deathlike spell was on him like a chain,
And his clogged tongue, that still he strove to teach,
Denied all answering speech!
The monarch bade him mark
The clotted blood that, dark,
Distained his royal bosom, and that found
Its way, still issuing, from a mortal wound,
Ghastly and gaping wide, upon his throat!
The shadow passed—another took his place,
Of the same royal race;
The noble Yumuri, the only son
Of the old monarch, heir to his high throne,
Cut off by cunning in his youthful pride;
There was the murderer's gash, and the red tide
Still pouring from his side;
And round his neck the mark of bloody hands,
That strangled the brave sufferer while he strove
Against their clashing brands.
Not with unmoistened eyes did the chief note
His noble cousin, precious to his love,
Brother of one more precious to his thought,
With whom and her, three happy hearts in one,
He grew together in their joys and fears—
And not till sundered knew the taste of tears;
Salt, bitter tears, but shed by one alone,
Him the survivor, the avenger—he
Who vainly shades his eyes that still must see!
Long troops came after of his slaughtered race,
Each in his habit, even as he died:
The big sweat trickled down the warrior's face,
Yet could he move no limb, in that deep trance,
Nor turn away his glance!
They melt again to cloud—at last they fade;
He breathes, that sad spectator,—they are gone;
He sighs with sweet relief; but lo! anon,
A deeper spell enfolds him, as a maid,
Graceful as evening light, and with an eye
Intelligent with beauty, like the sky,
And wooing as the shade,
Bends o'er him silently!
With one sweet hand she lifts the streaming hair,
That o'er her shoulders droops so gracefully,
While with the other she directs his gaze,
All desperate with amaze,
Yet with a strange delight, through all his fear!
What sees he there?
Buried within her bosom doth his eye
The deadly steel descry;
The blood stream clotted round it—the sweet life
Shed by the cruel knife!—
The keen blade guided to the pure white breast,
By its own kindred hand, declares the rest!
Smiling upon the
He breathes, that sad spectator,—they are gone;
He sighs with sweet relief; but lo! anon,
A deeper spell enfolds him, as a maid,
Graceful as evening light, and with an eye
Intelligent with beauty, like the sky,
And wooing as the shade,
Bends o'er him silently!
With one sweet hand she lifts the streaming hair,
That o'er her shoulders droops so gracefully,
While with the other she directs his gaze,
All desperate with amaze,
Yet with a strange delight, through all his fear!
What sees he there?
Buried within her bosom doth his eye
The deadly steel descry;
The blood stream clotted round it—the sweet life
Shed by the cruel knife!—
The keen blade guided to the pure white breast,
By its own kindred hand, declares the rest!
Smiling upon the
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