Life of John Boyle O'Reilly — Chapter 17

TO THOSE WHO BELIEVE THAT A LOVE FORINNOCENT SPORT, PLAYFUL EXERCISE,AND ENJOYMENT OF NATURE,IS A BLESSING INTENDED NOT ONLY FORTHE YEARS OF BOYHOOD, BUT FORTHE WHOLE LIFE OF A MAN.

Some said, John, print it; others said, Not so;Some said. It might do good; others said. No.

The best exercise for a man, training for a boxing-match, is boxing; the next best is running.The best exercise for a crew, training for a rowing-race, is rowing; the next best is running.The best exercise for a man, training for a swimming-match, is swimming; the next best is running.And so with other contests; running is not only second best, but is absolutely necessary in each, for running excels all exercises for developing "the wind."

He's off for a place rather cold and dampFor a soul so warm to woo;He goes to explore the Dismal Swamp,So weirdly sung by a poet-trampWhen the century was new.

And some sonorous song we soon may hear,Or malarial lines may see,For the Miasmatic Muse may bearSome offspring meet for the laurel's wear,Though derived from the cypress tree.

So the brakes among! Though the way is longAnd no primrose path it be;And what is there wrong in a plaintive songFor the juice of the grateful scuppernongAnd the juniper jamboree?

No rill Heliconian to inspirate.Nor fount of fair Castaly;And the exhalations that exhalateAre not the sort that invigorateOr animate Poesie.

And yet to the fancy that sways supremeThese poetic, aesthetic souls

Here might haply seem Scamander's stream,Or in rhapsodic dream where the waveless gleamAnd my native Simois rolls.

O Pilot! there is a peril dreadWhere the ignis fatuus lured,And the wolf unfed and the copperheadWith the poisonous growth hung over headLike a Damocletian sword!

But bon voyage, and no longer enlargeOn the terrors above defined.We'll rout the band with Prospero's wandAnd banish them (in our mind);With carbolic hand disinfect the landNor leave a germ behind.

So in birchen boat, a bark of his own,On that lake of somber hue.Or on life's broad stream, wherever blown,J. B. is quite able—so lave him alone —To paddle his own canoe.

Yo no quiero, mi vida, con palabrasManifestarle mi ansiedad de amores;Pero deja que expresen lo que siento,Con lenguaje de aromas, esas flores.

Que sus hojas purpureas te revelenDe mis deseos el prof undo arcano;Que rueguen por sonrisas y por besosCual los campos por Uuvia en el verano.

Ah! mi querida, que tu faz trasluzcaEl brillo de una tierna confesion;Da a mis rosassiquiera una esperanza,La esperanza que anhela el corazon.

Llevalas a tu seno, mi querida,Despues que aspires su fragante olor;Bebe en sue caliz mi pasion ardiente,Su aroma es el perfume de mi amor.

Oh! mis rosas decidia, supplicantes,Con lenguaje de aromas, sin alino,Cuantos son los suspiros y las ausiasDe un corazon sediento de carino.

Decidle, rosas, que en mi picho venseLos lindos rasgos de su rostro impresos,Que mis ojos la buscan, y mis labiosEstan pidiendo sus amantes besos.

Patrician, aristocrat, Tory—whatever his age or name.To the people's rights and liberties, a traitor ever the same.The natural crowd is a mob to him, their prayer a vulgar rhyme;The free man's speech is sedition, and the patriot's deed a crime;Whatever the race, the law, the land,—whatever the time or throne,—The Tory is always a traitor to every class but his own.